Cottingley confessions

The little people danced. They had such glamour and grace, lighter than shadows, bluebells clinking as their wings brushed against them. One played a folded blade of grass as a long pipe. Another combed her hair with her fingers, and pinned it back with gooseberry thorns.

I pointed the camera down to catch them, and the way they flickered as they spun in the breeze.

I wouldn’t know if it had worked until the film was developed.

I reached out, pulled them off their wires, and tossed the paper fairies into the stream.

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