Fairy Stories & Other Tales

 They said a ghost lived in the house. Or a monster. Either the woman was screaming in the night, or a banshee was doing it. The conjecture was accurate, in the sense that if a coin must flip, one can be assured that it will be either heads or tails. Which is to say, the woman screamed most nights from the pain.      In the light of day, she sat by the window, or, on a rare occasion, outside. She drank tea calmly, or sometimes hot water if her pain had lessened her ability to sew for other people. She did not know what caused the pain, only that it was there and that during the day it was more difficult to bear.      When the wizard past through, tipping his hat to the woman as she sat drinking tea, he was unaware. He stayed in the town long enough to hear the screams and tales of ghosts and monsters. He was the kind of person who paid attention, and so put two and two together. He asked the woman if she wanted a spell.   She nodded. The screams s...

 The woman's space was small, but there were flowers. It was the time of year for white flowers, so white flowers there were. Had it been the time of year for red flowers, there would have been those instead. The vase was glass, nothing fancy, but the place was nicer for it. It had been a gift from a passing peddler whose ailment had been remedied. The woman had an egg and a cup of tea. The world, which had been slightly darker on the one side of breakfast, was slightly lighter on the other side.      Then, to work.      Herbs to gather and grind, a garden to weed, vinegars to soak and strain, villagers to tend, stories to tell all the while.      The villagers were happy to have her aid, but happier to have her stories. The stories were easy to have and just as easy to let go, which is why stories spread as gold does not. The tales went far and wide, not like a ripple from a drop in the ocean, but like mass rolling down a hill picking u...

 The breeze blew back the curtain of the main room of the ramshackle old manor that had, such a long time ago, situated itself outside a nearby town. The warm currents circulated, escalating the temperature of an already uncomfortable room. If there was a question as to whether the discomfort arose from the heat or from the policeman standing at it's center or from the two ladies staring at said policemen, this was difficult to determine. What was clear, however, was that the two faces looking up from their cushioned seats into the eyes of the moist police sergeant were not surprised.      'The dragon tore through the town, ma'am,' said policeman was saying.      'I understand that, Sergeant. But all I am saying is that we must take into account the fact that she is an infant. She has not yet learned the power of her wings.' This was explained by one of the two ladies present.      'There was also the burning, miss,' the constable who st...

 A small dragon does not pillage, nor does he raze landscapes, eat virgins, or get up to other shenanigans oft thought to be perpetuated by the larger of the species. In point of fact, small dragons often enjoy small pleasures. One dragon in particular happened to enjoy a rather robust, fragrant cup of tea. He did so, as often the case with perfect pleasures, to the point of routine.       In order to have his ready routine, he specialized in the best of tea leaves, flying across continents to gain the finest of specimens. There were always new varieties to be found, always new perfect cups of tea to enjoy. Always as the sun went down. Always alone.      To supplement his tea drinking, he traded in tea leaves, regularly collecting enough to keep him well-stocked in his own tea and in books. A perfect evening, the small dragon always thought, lay in books an tea. He could think of no finer pleasure. Though, this consideration was put to the test on...