Fairy Stories & Other Tales

There was once a sculptor who found a piece of perfect stone.   At the sight of it he vowed he would turn such a rock into his masterpiece.   It would, of course, take the form of a woman, convey beauty and strength and wonder—it would be the ultimate depiction of humanity, all crafted from his very hands.   It would be his token to accolades, all the world would stare in wonder, and he would be regarded as someone great.             He sat before the stone, the chisel laid down at his side, and concentrated, with an ardor in his mind, on what it was to make such a work.   But no matter how hard nor how long he thought, there was nothing that moved with intensity into his being, no marveling motivation toward greatness, no guiding light of genius filling him with inspiration.             So long did he think on this that his life began to fleck away, in as much as the stone before him did not.   And so he told himself that he must settle to his work and trust that in the midst

The wind blew, rustling the brittle branches, dry from the chill and frigid air that made the world seem dead.               Bleak was the tone of thought, of word, which of practice turns into deeds, and the whole world flipped on end in cruel injustice.                 For all had gone mad.               Only to be saved by the sight of a green shoot, that pushed itself up through the hard-bitten ground, and shocked the grey with blinding whiteness; pure snow.               A small calm begat a small thought, and then a word, and last a deed.                 The world would change.

Once upon a time there lived a woman who had a golden touch.             This was not to say that everything she touched turned to gold—because it didn’t.   Rather, when her forefinger touched a stick, the wood found itself with a golden sheen.   When the back of her hand brushed a blade of grass, it yellowed like fair stalks at the end of summer.   And when her palm rested against the smooth stone of an alabaster statue, it looked as though lit with the light of dawn.             News of her gift traveled far and wide, greatly exaggerating her ability.   It was said, of course, that what she touched turned to gold.             Out came the suitors, knocking eagerly at her door.   Down rushed the nobles, with desperate offerings.   Trippingly trekked the entrepreneurs, keen for an easy venture.             And all were, quite naturally, disappointed.             Save one.   A tiny orphan boy had heard tales of wonders, and when he peaked through the woman’s windowpanes, her

There was once a tear of sorrow that traveled far and wide, through all the pain that ever was.             And at the end, when it had tasted all sadness, it went to its rest having born witness to wonders.             For sorrow only comes to those who have loved and longed.

A desk sat in the corner of a room, empty.   A man stood behind it.   He had done so for a long time.   And when he wasn’t standing behind the desk, he was pacing.             The desk had not always sat empty.   It had begun with a holiday, no more than a day of rest.   A single day out from behind the leveled wood; a blissful time of company and laughter and joy and feasting.   But one day turned into two, and so on.             Day followed day, and the man glanced, then looked, then stared at the desk and the chair that went with it and the pen and ink and paper that rested on its smooth surface—and trembled.             Perhaps, he thought as his mind began to turn, his gift had gone.   Perhaps he was no good from the beginning.   Perhaps to work on a dream was to waste his life, to bash at no more than wishful fantasy.   Perhaps now was the time to take himself in hand.   Master himself.   Seek out other employment; useful work—it was not pandering to scoffers if the scof