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An Egg & a Cup of Tea

 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 up bits as it goes. 

    While the stories went, the woman stayed, and started each day with an egg and a cup of tea. Then she did her herbs and aid, weeding and telling. When she died, the egg and the tea died with her, the herbs and the aid were taking on by someone else. 

    But the stories, they lived. 

    Which, in a metaphysical sense, is all comfort. 

A Procedural, to Wit: Dragons

 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...
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Solace

 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...
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A Fight Against Madness

A witch sat in her arm chair. On the table alongside sat a pot of raspberry tea, a plate of lemon scones, and a jar of clotted cream. There was also a knife.      Why, wondered the witch, is the world mad?      Do you have an armchair? she asked the world.      Do you have tea and scones and cream?      Do you have a bed at night? Books? Children or quiet (one or the other will do)? A friend? Two friends?      Why are you so mad, little world?      The sky turned pink gold out the window. The witch ate her scone, cut with the knife and smeared with the cream, and drank her tea, creamless. She forgot about the mad world.       A knock came at the door. Croup. Another knock. Wart. Another knock. Birth pains, and too soon.      The witch didn't think about the world then, either.      She fell asleep, worn and weary, too tired to think about it again t...
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The Shadow

 It was all hard, all struggle, to see past the shadow. Shadow was everywhere, and the girl knew better than to be friends with it. She knew that she must be friends with light, with its bright, cheerful glaring, illuminating all the things.      All the things.      The roses and distractions and dust.      Yet, bowers are made of shadow, distractions are better unlighted, and dust... well, it is better hid in some shadows than in others...      Shadow, then, it had to be acknowledged, had some fine points. Very fine, too often ignored points. It was another one of those things that people said without thinking, the girl realized. She had been realizing an awful lot of these kinds of things lately. It made her life easier, and harder. Better harder, though, than believing untrue things.      Yes, the girl thought, shadow might make a grand friend.       After all, the girl added to herse...
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