Fairy Dust Quotes

“True love is born of experience, not fairy dust.”
― Janette Oke

“She says she glories in being abandoned”
― J. M. Barrie

“It is fairy dust and wanderlust that guide our hands to create what our hearts desire.”
― Gayle Wray

“I carry fairy dust, pack dry herb and drive a broom. If you don't get that you won't get me, so long, it's my journey.”
― DC Allen

“Reluctant to return to the empty rooms of Bluebell Cottage, Olivia ate fish and chips on the harbor wall, dangling her legs over the side just like she used to as a little girl, even though it made her mam anxious.
The breeze nipped at the back of her neck and whipped up a fine sea spray that settled on her hands, leaving sparkling salt crystals as it dried. Fairy dust, she used to call it. She breathed in the fresh air and absorbed the view: tangerine sky and dove-gray sea, ripples on the surface of both, like dragon scales. She savored the sharp tang of vinegar on her tongue, letting her thoughts wander as the sun slowly melted into the sea, turning it to liquid gold.”
― Hazel Gaynor, The Cottingley Secret

“The fairy was flying in loops and swirls around her, shedding fairy dust as she went. Throwing it at Wendy.
Delighted, the human girl raised her arms up to fully experience what was happening. Delicate golden sparkles floated down and kissed her skin. Where they touched, Wendy felt lighter. Tiny pains she hadn't even realized she felt entirely disappeared, and any weariness vanished. She felt rested, energetic, and- airy.”
― Liz Braswell, Straight On Till Morning

“Tinker Bell, meanwhile, was drifting with purpose up to the highest leafy branches of the jungle. Her light glowed warmly off the leaves below, the droplets seeping off their thick veins, the sweet sap running down the trunks of the trees. It made the whole clearing look...
Well, like it was touched by fairies, Wendy thought with a smile.
All her life she had looked for fairies in more mundane places, experiencing a rush of hope and warmth whenever a scene even palely imitated the one before here now. Candles at Christmas, fireflies in the park, flickering lamps in teahouses. The sparkling leaded glass windows of a sweets shop on winter afternoons when dusk came at four. A febrile, glowing crisscross of threads on a rotten log her cousin had once shown her out in the country: fox fire, magical mushrooms.
And here it was, for real! Tinker Bell was performing what appeared to be a slow and majestic dance. First, she moved to specific points in the air around her, perhaps north, south, east, and west, twirling a little at each stop. Then she flew back to the center and made a strange bowing motion, keeping her tiny feet daintily together and putting her arms out gracefully like a swan. As she completed each movement, fairy dust fell from her wings in glittering, languorous trails, hanging in the air just long enough to form shapes. She started the dance over again, faster this time.
And again even faster. Her trail of sparkles almost resolved into a picture, crisscrossed lines constantly flowing slowly down like drips of luminous paint.
Wendy felt a bit like John, overwhelmed with a desire to try to reduce and explain and thereby translate the magic. But she also felt a lot like Michael, with an almost overwhelming urge to break free from her hiding place and see it up close, to feel the sparkles on her nose, to run a hand through the sigils not for the purpose of destruction but form a hapless, joyful desire to be part of it all.”
― Liz Braswell, Straight On Till Morning

“Outside, the valley was hazy with the afternoon sun. Midges shimmered in the sweet-smelling air.
"Ugh," said Frederick, swatting at his face. "Don't care much for midges, I must say. Not quite sure there's any point to them, the blasted things."
"Oh, but there is," Violet said, excitedly. "A point to them, I mean. They're a very important food source for toads and swallows, actually. You could say the whole valley depends on them, in the summer. And I think they're rather pretty---they look a bit like fairy dust, in this light, don't you think?”
― Emilia Hart, Weyward