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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 the day the villagers heckled the village witch.

    His apartments on the upper floor of a town house, the dragon could see the attack from the attic window that looked down into the town square. There were shouts and spits. Fists were raised. Small rocks were thrown. And larger ones held in palms. At which point the dragon flew out of the window and placed himself in front of the witch. Enough now, his body said. One by one the villagers left. Until all that was left to do was invite the witch inside.

    He made her a perfect cup of tea, having nothing to do with convention. It was what he knew how best to do, and so he did it.

    'This,' she said with a raised brow after a single sip, 'Is indeed a perfect cup of tea.'

    'Yes,' he said, for he had no pretensions; he knew what he had made.

     The witch nodded. 'And what a thing it would be with a piece of perfect shortbread. I, myself, make a perfect shortbread.'

    The dragon was skeptical of this, the witch could tell.

    'I shall only be a moment,' the witch said.

    Before the dragon could worry about her out in the village, she had returned. Witch's magic, he knew, though it was a thing to witness a body there and back again without many breaths in between.

    The dragon ate the shortbread. He sipped his tea. His own brow raised. The witch was not wrong.  

    He sighed, as did the witch, content in their solace, as they did every day in the days after. In that way, the witch was less troubled by the frequent undulations of her position, and the dragon learned of a finer pleasure: perfect tea and perfect shortbread in company.

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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Cake, Cake, Cake

 Cake. It was all the woman could think about. She thought about making cake, buying a cake, buying a slice of cake.       But what kind of cake?      Part of her wished she lived in a world with less kinds of cake, options being double-edged swords. Which was nonsense. Cake, she thought, was all about texture, taste, allure —and the fact that there were all kinds of cake.      When she said she wanted 'cake' what she meant was equally a metaphysical reality and actual cake in the mouth. But to decide to have actual cake, and which one, was to punch metaphysical reality in the nose. Cake on the plate will never be cake in the mind. It was a fact she accepted.      Still, she'd like to eat some cake.      So she did.      And then she didn't think about it anymore. 
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A Queen Retires

 The old queen retired. It wasn't the done thing. But it was long past time. She had paid her dues.      Except, had she?     She had eaten well, slept well (at least, she had had a bed to sleep in), been clothed...      She had worked. Oh, yes, she had worked. And now she was tired.       She was retired for three months before she had begun to think again. Perhaps she had not paid any dues, not really. Perhaps no one ever did.  There was, of course, no going back. But there had to be something.      She set out from her smaller quarters, down to the witch's cottage just where the outskirts of the city met the forest. There, she met the witch, rolled up her sleeves, and got to work.      In the end, the work felt the same. But she slept much better. 
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