She looked down and saw that while she hadn’t been watching she had sunk into the mud up to her knees and was stuck. Her little wings fluttered but they weren’t strong enough for lift off. The thin membranes had grown weak with disuse and the brilliant orange color had faded to a dull yellow. She looked up to the sky and the bright light of the sun shown down on her but somehow it didn’t quite reach her.
So she stayed there in the mud, not sure what to do. It wasn’t completely unpleasant but she was often sad especially when she thought of the days when she would flutter and dance with the other fairies.
And when night feel she would lay her head on her hands and sleep. Often times dreams would come, frantic dreams, gathering and running and never able to be able to escape and she would wake up drenched in sweat. But she still didn’t move from the place she was at. What if she stepped out of the mud and found she couldn’t stand on her own two feet anymore. What if without her strong wings, the wind blew her over. If she died where she stood at least she would be home. Home was important. If you were home, you were safe from the world.
So she stayed where she was at and slowly became rigid and weak and the joy drained from her down into the mud and she became grey in color and although there were those who tried to reach her, she no longer saw them.