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Witches and Forests

 Once there was a child born of the forest who did not cry. She did not laugh, either. Nor did she sigh or gurgle or plea or revolt. 

    She merely watched.

    The forest, seeing children pass by who raged and laughed, sometimes one and then the other, and sometimes both at once, grew concerned and gave some thought to this curious child.

    It brought a witch to the child, for it knew witches for what they were: healers, helpers, and smart women who took on the tasks before them and rarely failed.

    The witch took to tending the child, feeding her, clothing her, rocking her to sleep. 

    This witch sang, and when she did, the child smiled. When the witch went out one night to tend an illness, though the forest watched over her, the child cried and when the witch returned, the child laughed.

    The child grew, and raged and laughed, sometimes one and then the other, and sometimes both at once. The witch grew, and sighed and cried and laughed and smiled often. The forest watched all this, and would have smiled often, too, had it lips to do so. But it didn't. And so it sighed. 

    Its breath caught the child's hair. She smiled, and felt safe. 

    Would that the lot of them had witches and forests.

Survival Outcomes for the Curious Bird

The little bird landed in the leaves. It had thought it saw a bit of worm wriggling under. Alas, it was no worm. Only a band made of rubber once used to hold together a newspaper.      The bird made its way a little further. It thought it saw a small nut hidden away. But, no. It was only a plastic knob from a child's toy.      The bird sighed, then flew up and landed on a tree's branch. It saw a glint below, and down it swooped. For, surely, this was reflecting water waiting to be bathed in and drunk. The bird was most distraught to discover that there was nothing there but clear clinging wrap, once tightly fitted around a new, boxed gadget.       Disappointment is a hard thing to bear. Still more the frustration that comes with hunger and thirst. And worse still, the promise that it will all end suddenly and unfulfilled.       But the little bird did not give up. It hoped and flew, curious as ever. So curious that it...
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The Forge

 The forge was bellowing, brutal and cruel. Of course, this was a result of the bellows, without which the forge could not have been anything at all. But perhaps the bellows had done its job too well that day, for the heat pumped out in gusts, growing ever bigger, and let the iron spit.      The ironworker   — the blacksmith  — was usually well accustomed to the workings of his forge. That day was quite different.  That day, he was certain it was not his forge. It was so hot, it could only belong to itself. And it was fuming with a force that more than suggested anger.       The heat, having nowhere to go but out, singed the blacksmith's course brown beard.      He frowned.            The forge needed more iron  — more to soak up the unruly flames.      And more iron still.      Until  all his iron roasted in the swells of heat.   ...
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