Fairy Stories & Other Tales

Once upon a time, when the Earth was lonely, a man named Rust made his way to the top of a mountain to shout.             It was a yearly ritual, and, as I said, the Earth was lonely, so there were few passers-by as he made his way threw winnowing valleys and up steep, curved paths.   The journey itself was a hard slog, and though there might have been meaning in it, Rust didn’t pay much attention.   For him, there was grandeur at the top of the mountain.   And, more than that, there were the valleys, which were beautiful, but made ever more exciting because when he shouted, they shouted back.             When first Rust took to shouting atop the mountains, the Earth shook slightly.   And all that the valleys did to shout back was merely echo the bellows that Rust issued.   The Earth, it must be said, was at first confused by the cacophony of sounds...

This is the story of a hand.  A small hand.  A hand that had the habit of slipping in and out of other hands.               At the beginning of our tale, this small hand would take to gripping tightly to the fingers of the hands of giants.  The need to grip such sizable fingers with ferocious tenacity was born of trembling that tremored about the hand whenever the world grew dark or dangerous or unfamiliar.                Slowly over time the fierce squeeze of the hand lessened as the fingers of giants seemed to shrink in tandem to the world growing steadily into a knowable presence.  Only the occasion of great sudden startles and sharp stark shocks caused the hand to squeeze other, more familiar hands.  And other slips, the pressings of palm to palm, were born of equal wonder at the sheer delight of warmth and gentle ridges ...

Once upon a time, a lamp was lit at the top of a tall mountain.   No one saw the lighter; it was as though the flame appeared magically.   And on this day, under the cover of light, a host of glowing bodies came and covered all the earth.   Thus it was that no one noticed when the flame went out.