Oakhaven Fairys

 The annual Bloom & Blossom Festival in the quaint village of Oakhaven was usually a delightful affair, all floral crowns, artisanal cheeses, and the sweet scent of elderflower wine. This year, however, something felt…off. It started subtly. A rogue glitter bomb that left Brenda from accounting looking like a disoriented disco ball. Then, the suspiciously sharp thorns on the "friendly" fairy wings sold at the craft stalls.

Old Man Fitzwilliam, who’d sworn he saw a pixie steal his dentures last year, just scoffed. "Fairies," he’d grumbled, "they're more trouble than they're worth, I tell ya." Little did he know, he was about to be proven spectacularly right.

The sun began to dip, casting long, ethereal shadows, and the air hummed with an unfamiliar tension. Suddenly, a shriek ripped through the air – not one of delight, but pure, unadulterated terror. It was followed by another, and then a chorus, each one more horrifying than the last.

The "fairy" entertainment, a group of local teens dressed in iridescent costumes, had been frolicking in the meadow. Now, they were running, their expressions contorted in fear, pursued by… actual fairies. But these weren't the cute, benevolent sprites of children's books. These were tiny, incandescent terrors, their wings buzzing like angry wasps, their eyes glowing with malevolent glee.

One particularly portly fairy, no bigger than a teacup, dive-bombed poor Mildred, who was mid-bite into a sourdough roll. Mildred let out a gurgle as the fairy, with surprising strength, yanked her entire loaf from her hands, then proceeded to pelt her with miniature, rock-hard berries that left welts.

Chaos erupted. The once-charming fairy lights strung between trees began to flicker wildly, then, with a deafening POP, exploded in showers of sparks, showering the terrified festival-goers with tiny, incandescent shrapnel. The air filled with high-pitched cackles and the sickening sound of tiny, sharp objects whizzing past ears.

Brenda, still sparkling from her earlier glitter incident, found herself cornered by a swarm of what appeared to be pixies armed with miniature, sharpened twigs. They moved with terrifying speed, jabbing and poking, until Brenda resembled a human pincushion, her cries muffled by the incessant buzzing of their wings.

The most horrifying attack, however, was reserved for Reginald, the village’s notoriously pompous mayor. He’d been holding forth on the importance of community spirit when a single, majestic fairy, its wings shimmering with an unnerving iridescence, landed squarely on his bald pate. Before Reginald could even register the indignity, the fairy, with a flick of its impossibly small wrist, unsheathed a tiny, razor-sharp blade.

What followed was less a battle, and more a meticulously precise, if utterly grotesque, haircut. Reginald screamed, not in pain, but in sheer horror as locks of his precious, carefully coiffed hair – and a disconcerting amount of scalp – were shorn away, floating gently to the ground like morbid confetti. The fairy, its task complete, saluted with its miniature blade, a mischievous glint in its eye, before zipping off to wreak more havoc.

As the villagers fled in a panicked stampede, leaving behind a trail of abandoned artisanal cheeses and a distinct scent of fear, Old Man Fitzwilliam watched from his porch, a triumphant, if slightly unhinged, grin spreading across his face.

"Told ya," he mumbled to himself, "more trouble than they're worth." He then paused, scratching his chin. "Though, I gotta admit, that was a pretty good haircut on Reginald. Probably the best he's ever had."