Maidenhair

Her hair is an endless river of night, a glossy, star-flecked black. It fills the forest behind her, a record of every step she has ever taken. It snags on branches and tangles in brambles. Birds nest in it. Rivulets break away, flowing into rabbit burrows and fox dens, tributary strands that gradually dwindle. She stands here, one foot lifted, waiting for her hair to grow long enough for her to place it down and raise the other.

I stand before her with my silver shears. Her eyes are wide, brimming with tears.

I wish I knew what to do.

Baptism

A green-skinned woman clung to the wooden post. Overhead, the sign read, "Sycamore Lane."

"You know that's not a real sycamore tree, right?" said Donny.

The dryad turned nut-brown eyes to him. She nodded.

"Don't you gotta live in a tree?"

Another nod.

Donny scratched his head. "So how come you're here?" The dryad turned to look down the street. Donny followed her gaze. "My house is the fourth one down," he said.

"I am the last," said the dryad, not turning around. "The others... did you not wonder at the name of your street? This is our only memorial."