Fairy Stories & Other Tales

The mist flooded the wood purposefully.   It was time to offer the forest a gift: to feed—to soak through the rot and decay that lay on the forest floor.             The forest would thank the mist in time. But the floor gave way.   Down the mist spiraled in mad descent until it found itself before a swirl of stone.             A labyrinth.             ‘Come find the words of patterned three,’ came a voice, as if it floated fast upon the wind, whispering in the ear of the mist in taunting tones.             In desperate fear, the mist sought something warm, a bit of heat upon which it might rise.   But none could be found.             ‘Come find the words of patterned three,’ came the voice again upon the wind.             The mist turned round and round, seeking a means of escape.   But all it found was stone.             ‘Come find the words of patterned three,’ the voice said a third time.             And so the mist entered the maze of stone.             The l

A shower of dust fell atop Leah’s head as she pulled down the old album, half hidden away on the top shelf of the attic bookcase.             What made her reach for it, she didn’t know—it was as if something feral had possessed her.   Something that had nothing to do with the darkness that had come to settle about her and turn her world grey.             Not waiting for a moment, even to sit in the old wooden rocker behind her, she opened the book.   The painting that greeted her sung into the very essence of her being.   It was a wild garden, riotous with colors.   In it sat a small stone bench, and among the boughs of a full-leafed willow tree, a creek with white peaks seemed to dance along.             How wonderful it would be, she thought, to be within a painting, this painting; no longer to suffer from the grip of the dreary, musty, old world.             And that was when Leah fell, fast and deep, between the covers of the album.             The light struck her fir

Did you feel your heart begin to rise?             Or that sudden urge to fly upon the wind?             To twist yourself about so fast, that you could see the whole world spinning?             And did you see a darting something out of the corner of your eye just a moment ago?   A fairy, or perhaps a sprite, flinging dust about her or around him, by the glittery, sparkling handful?             That is the mark, the sign, the fate of fairy dust.             But fear not!             Oh no, this is nothing dreadful.             You have only been sprinkled with hope and lightness and possibility.             If you feel the urge to do anything fanciful, be it dance around a field, or the moon, best give in; there is no turning back anyway.             For you have been kissed.

At the top of a great tree lies a nest.   Nestled within it is a city.   Within that city is a wizard.             And he is to be much feared.             Why is that, you ask?             The story goes like this:             Once upon a time, the wizard was an old man.   For he was born old, and when the time comes for him to leave his mortal coil, he will be so young he will look all but newly birthed.   But to be born old before all others is to carry a mighty weight—and that is the feeling of orneriness.             To put it another way, the wizard became annoyed quite easily.             But because he had yet to gain his reputation, no one knew.             Along came an unsuspecting boy, who discovered that the wizard had magical powers.   Eager to learn from one so ancient, the boy asked all his questions, one tumbling after the other all at once.             Needless to say, the wizard turned the boy into a newt.             Not many days followed before