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For a Price

 The Pied Piper calls the girls and boys. Boys and girls it calls them. But when they grow up, if they get the chance, it's rare that a man heeds the piper's call.

    Still, it can happen.

    But, for that, a man must listen. A rare thing indeed. Not to say anything against men. Only to say that there's less for them if they take the time to sit quietly. Only their soul. And that isn't valued as much, says the index. 

    But the Fae, though, they will pay a premium for a soul. They will buy it for a lifetime of riches, for a wealth of perfection, for a time's gain. In the end, though, they'll have the soul — and there's a guarantee out from the beset bounties that you'll want it back. And pay anything to get it.

    Women don't sell their souls much. Men don't either — mostly because they don't know of anyone who will pay a price. But the ones that know of it, their souls are long gone. And it's the bounties' job to bring it back.

    Which she'll do. For a price.

    People will pay it, too. Men and women. The soul's worth that much. It's worth more than death, they say. Any body knows this, though.

    Makes you wonder what the index is doing, measuring all that stuff that that isn't quite worth more than death.

    Makes you wonder what an index is, anyway.

    And what it's price is.

    And what price it'll pay, in the end.

The Good of Tears

 Once, there was a woman who did not cry. The world was harsh and cruel, and her life was as expected in such a place. What good would tears do her? But then came a kindness. Overwhelmed, the woman cried. The tears did her good. What good, she didn't know. But they were there, and she cried them. And that was how it was.
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A Mortal Song of Sorrow

 Once upon a time, an elf took what was rightly his. He knew this, because he had suffered; an elf is not used to suffering, especially not at the hands of mortals. Though immortal memory fades in and out of a day and a year, there are those who remember deep sorrow because it is so rare. Too, there are those immortals who remember vengeance.      In revenge for his sadness, the elf took the mortal's peace. He took their power. He took their wonder and their joy. When the mortals could take the weight of powerlessness and war and always knowing without content no longer, they traded him people to appease his wrath, which he took with wicked grins. Mortals are wont to sell out their own. He put these traded mortals who impossible tasks, relishing their twisted, everlasting frustrations, though his need for vengeance never abated.      The mortals could no longer look at their faces in mirrors. Or in glass. Or in ponds, streams, lakes. Yet, they got on w...
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A Philosophy of Witches (or Wisdom)

She was a witch, as good as you,  and yes, my dear, it was something she knew. She made the wind laugh, she kicked up storms, running all ragged, in glorious form.  Filled with desire, not want, but need, and carrying it like a selfless creed, she transferred it lightly, all in one go, to the folks who were desperate to conquer the blows. She came down and witnessed the frost, the greed, hearing the heartbreaking calls in long screeds  But the people, they only remembered her son As though she were nothing, forgotten, gone. But this is not so, let's not forget the offering, the bargain, the deal, the bet that tempers the longing abates the slogging for all those who are, of course the tall, of course the small, and all the rest, that fond 'all...' She's there, you can feel her on this day of days she was there  when the manger held the child  who saves.  
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A Saint

There's a woman who sits alone in the woods. Well, I say alone...      There are, of course, all kinds of creatures. Mostly sleeping. Some out for something to chew.       Winter, obviously.      And the woman is cold.      But she is having an enjoyable conversation. With the wood. She talks to it. It talks back. She is learning a host of things, which makes it worth the cold.      It takes some time for the wood to say all the things it needs to say.      Then the woman walks home.      She lights a fire. She brews tea. She sits in her armchair. And thinks for awhile. About the wood. And the wood's problems. About her own.       She picks up a book.      The pages brush her fingers as her mind narrows, expands, rests.      The woman goes to sleep with a smile .       The next day, she thinks about the wood. ...
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