Fairy Stories & Other Tales

There was once a rose that bloomed on a vine, twining close around a fence that lay on a major walking thoroughfare. It was a stunning thing, and very much out of season, with a fragrance that could not help but cause all who passed by to smile faintly to themselves. The rose held the kind of beauty that had the power to change a person’s day from bad to good. It was this power that caused those who saw it to delight in its lovely, delicate presence. Though no one spoke of it to one another as they moved past each other on the thoroughfare, there was a secret knowledge shared by all—a community of witnesses made of knowing that there was wonder in the world. One day, however, the first passerby of the morning noticed a shockingly horrific state of affairs: the rose had been cut. No longer did the bloom offer comfort, or sudden small smiles, or changes from bad days to good. As the frowns on the faces of the passersby grew longer, each carried with them their own burden of loss. F...

 I saw a tree as bare as bones,  and sought to make it grow.  But I missed that it was winter there,  inside the tree, within its lair.  For in the world of my own,  it was already summer in tone; thus I missed the wondrous state,  when the tree began to grow of late,  and found a sight of great repose when I turned and saw the tree had rose above the station I had assigned,  finding Winter and Summer close aligned In Spring.

The dark clouds boded ill for the window watcher who had become accustom to the sun. It felt like a slap—a sudden painful shock—and sent her mind down a trail of curious, tumbling thoughts that were not helpful. For they, too, were dark, menacing things.             The rain came down in torrents soon after, and the sky seemed ever darker; a hopeless mass of escapeless presence that pressed hard and long until the light faded altogether, and it was impossible to distinguish clouds from rain from night.             The darkness pressed too hard, perhaps, for as the watcher looked with dreary eyes, a single ray broke through.             And though the sun had gone to bed, and it had long since been night, the beam of moonlight was enough to restore her world to rights.         ...

There was once a young witch who was terribly lonely. She lived in a cottage by the sea, and did her best to make friends with the gulls and the tide pools and the wind. And while she listened close, and was occasionally blessed with a few of their secrets, it was not the same as having another body near to whom one could simply chatter.             She had made the decision a few years before to steep herself in isolation. There was something about the ideal of a witch who lives in a remote fashion that appealed to her sense of prestige—for in all the lore that she had ever read, the most powerful of witches lived alone.             At first, she felt the strength in her decision, and was proud to have made her choice. But then she began to suffer from lack of company—though she made her peace by thinking that she had made a great sacrifice for her art.    ...

 There are the bells. The ones that ring on a string at the beck and pull of a ringer. They sound on the important days, the ones where we are forced to pay attention, sounding loudly like a solute that turns the head with a knowing — for one always knows for whom a bell tolls. But, dear friend, don't let it confuse you with the other ringing sound. The one that echoes through the trees and at the back of your mind. For the bells, they are not to be confused with chimes.      Perhaps, the chimes, they are more important. They are the ones that tinkle at the meeting of an old friend, at a laugh, at the gentle fall of twilight. They sound softly, easily missed. It matters, for if you miss their sound, you miss the beating of your own heart.      And then there are the subtlest of them all. The kind that are only heard with a straining ear and a desperate soul. The chimes that call you to fairyland.     Do they matter, these last ...