We have been dying for some time. Some say it is the children, that they do not believe. They say they have forgotten childhood, that they have forgotten how to play in the streets with scrapes on their knees, like we did and do, still. Others blame the clouds of poison that roll across the earth, carried by dark winds across the country. Some blame the metal of the modern world, the iron that is everywhere you turn these days. There is even iron in the air, and we breathe death with each lungful of it. The flying ones among us say the skies are turning gray. They say they can see flames and blue sparks everywhere they go.
The truth is, we do not know why the gates are closing.
The birds speak numbers these days, and chitter air-wave nonsense. Their necks twitch violently from the strain of too much civilization. The squirrels are starved and dress in rags, and the foxes no longer trust us. They once had such beautiful red coats, and now they look like children wearing their parent's clothes.
There are only a handful of us left. Puck began to cough, and cough, and coughed up black slime and dead animals. Then blood. Titania has turned quite mad; she waits by deserted playgrounds for some child to see her, but they run past in pursuit of robots and flying saucers. Oberon tried to blend in, to adapt, but died slowly from it. He spent the last year of his life watching sitcoms, until he was but a grinning skeleton. We stole him from the christian ground, and buried him in the woods where the shadows are darkest.
There are only a handful of us left. And we are all dying.