Fairy Stories & Other Tales

            When the wind blows gently through the trees, and the air smells almost sweet, that is when the burden shifts in beating hearts and becomes almost impossible to bear.   That is when a tingle moves through any living creature, and all of them, they know.   They know that she is coming.             She comes swooping, but in silence.   Soft, but biting.   And when she strikes, all stop in her wake.   For how could anything move against such a one?  And they fear her.  All fear her, for it seems that where she visits, there sorrow, pain, fear lie.   But that is not so.   A fault of poor causality.   She is not cruel.             She ambles, but it is not a slow movement.   She swaggers, but it is not careful.   She starts small and hunched, but carries a full burden. She is ready to shed it lightly.   And to carry away with her what she needs.   Crone-like, but not a single fragile bone, she cannot stop her work until the time comes for her rest.   But that is dependent

            From the dust of the stars to the frosted covering over every surface, all glittered in the candle light, which, of its own, sparkled too.   And in the glow, the light, sharp, refracted in points, turned the world almost to magic.               A lovely scene.   Too lovely for the faerie burdened to improve upon the beauty of the cold night.   But that was his task.   To look and see and add a hint, just a hint, of something that could make it all other .             He had thought to use the trees, their bare branches, to cover them in golden dust.   But in the light from a flickering lamppost, the frost turned the trees to gold itself.   Next, he thought to take the ground and cast an enchantment of diamonds upon it.   But the cold had dipped the road as far as eyes could see in brilliant, icy jewels.   Then, he thought he could cast an ethereal gleam to make the world seem Fae.   But this night had not only stars, but a soft moon as well, and so the world gleamed i

            A star, twinkling bright and far away, said to the Moon one night, ‘What is that planet like?   The one by you?   For I am far away and cannot see down into it, though it has been on my mind of late and I wish to know.’             ‘That planet?’ the Moon turned her face away for a moment and considered how best to answer.   ‘I cannot lie, the outlook appears bleak.   It is filled with dirt and smoke.   Wars are carried out from one side of it to the other.   Hate and greed fill hearts, and efficiency takes place of beauty.   The blues and greens, so rich and bright from this distance, begin to fade.   And soon it seems that it will all fade, fade, fade away, until it is no more.’             ‘Oh!’ exclaimed the star, and a groan of sadness fell from her burning lips.   A grimace shuddered the twinkling body so that for a moment space was a little less bright.   ‘Why, Moon, do you stay by its side?   How horrible it must be for you to observe such a broken place.’  

            There was once a woman who had been badly used.   She was not young, nor had she enough years to be called old—though she had the face for it.   And as if life couldn’t keep from being cruel, she discovered that she was about to die.             Her time left was very short; there was a week left of it, at most.   And there was something about this surety of death that made her do something she had never before had the luxury to do: it made her stop and think.   Such little time… And what to do with it?   She had enough money for a month of living, and what had before felt like nothing more than scraping by felt suddenly like a small fortune.             The longer she thought the more her brain spun.   There were many small things she could buy, even a big thing.   Some things to enjoy in her last week of living.   But what was the use in that?   There was one thing, however, that she had once loved.   One skill that had not been dulled, though it had been a long tim