Mischief Boys In the shadow of Fairy Hill, where the grass grew wild and the air hummed with secrets, a band of older boys roamed, their hearts itching for trouble. The hill loomed over the village, its slopes dotted with strange hollows—tiny, dark peepholes that whispered of the fae. The boys, bold and brash as only youth can be, had heard the tales: Fairy Hill was no place for mortals to meddle. But mischief was their trade, and the lure of the forbidden proved too strong. One dusky evening, with the sky bruising purple, they crept up the hill, snickering and daring one another. “Look through the holes,” one challenged, his grin sharp. “See if the faeries are dancing.” The others laughed, shoving forward, their faces pressed to the earth as they peered into the dark nooks of Fairy Hill. For a moment, they saw nothing but shadow—then a sudden, sharp prick stung their eyes, like thorns of light jabbing from within. They yelped, clutching their faces as blindness seized them, a white haze swallowing the world. Panic took hold, and they stumbled back, feet tangling in the uneven turf. Down they went, tumbling head over heels, arms flailing like chickens shorn of their heads. The hill seemed to laugh—a low, rustling chuckle—as they rolled, bounced, and sprawled at its base, breathless and bruised. When their sight crept back, blurry and slow, they found no trace of blood or barbs, only a lingering sting and the hill’s silent stare. The boys scrambled home, their mischief cured, swearing never to peek at Fairy Hill again. The fae, it seemed, guarded their secrets with pricks of pain and a tumble to remind mortals of their place.