by Sarah Fallon


She picks a dandelion. She creates a crescent slit in its fleshy stem with the nail of her forefinger. She slots it onto the stem of the last. She calls it a daisy chain though it contains no daisies. She’s not even sure what a daisy is. The yard is too full of dandelions. Are daisies also yellow? Do they show if you like butter when held beneath your chin?

She creates another slit and joins the ends of the chain together and puts it on her head. She is a princess now. She looks around at the dandelions she didn’t pick. The one’s she didn’t sacrifice to her glory. They are her subjects. She names them, pointing to each as she goes. Lucy Dandelion. Mia Dandelion. Clementine Dandelion, no that’s too long. Amy Dandelion. She issues commands to her newly named subjects but grows bored when they don’t comply, only stare blank yellow faces back at her. She pinches the neck of one that looks particularly stubborn with her nails. Its head topples into the grass. It still stares, so do the others. Accusing petals of sunshine on the overgrown lawn. She walks away so she cannot see them anymore. She walks to the house, removing her wreath and hanging it on a tree branch on her way.

She does not feel like being a princess anymore.




Sarah Fallon is a fiction writer and essayist from Australia. She’s lived all over the east coast but currently resides on a farm in North Victoria. Her short stories have been published in SQ Mag, Phantasmagoria Magazine and The Writing Junction. She likes dogs, 80’s fantasy films and choc chip brownies. You can find out more at or on Twitter @SarahRHFallon.