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The Dryad and the River God

 When the river god emerged from the rapids, his chest barrelled, his arms barrelled, indeed even his face had a certain barrell-esque quality to it, the dryad was not impressed. She had only come for a drink of water. There was no need to cross thick arms, suggestively raise eyebrows, and all in all make an ass of oneself. She sighed, cupped her hands, took her drink, and did her best to ignore the rippling god-man.

    There is, of course, nothing which annoys a god more than being ignored. This is in part because ignorance of a god is a death sentence. The more relatable part, however, is that gods simply don't like it. It makes them feel as if all people want from them is a piece of toast in a dessert that's taken just too long to cross. That's not to say that they don't mind giving a bit of toast, if the pleading is done in the right way. It shows a body is paying attention to them. Gods like to keep a body on their toes. 

    The dryad's feet didn't touch the ground.

    She started to go back to the forest, and was enamored in thoughts of the joys of trees when suddenly a river rock flew by her. Apparently hollering 'Oi!' was outside the river god's wheelhouse. 

    The dryad raised a leafy brow, and then carried on her way. The god roared after her, but river gods can't leave their rivers, and there are only so many stones that aren't favourite. She made it home in peace, her memory of a river only something in the distant past as she danced about the trees.

    One might think the story incomplete. After all, the river god didn't get the girl. One, perhaps, feels unsatisfied without the closure of a happy ending...

    One, perhaps, is not paying attention.

    Things worked out quite perfectly for the dryad. Ignoring river gods does that for a girl. 

Tea and Scones...

 The villain wondered about villainy, as he sat down for tea and scones.      The concept of villainy was straightforward. Wanting revenge, the payout, the power. Always at it with a master plan. Always the stone heart, the uncompromising rigidity, the unyielding course that heroes consistently tried to break. There was certainly an exhausting quality to it, somewhere just above stockbroking and just below motherhood — though some might suggest its all part and parcel (depending on the mother).      But there comes a time, the villain thought, when anyone wants to sit down for tea and scones.       Could one just stop a course of villainy? Settle in? Be one of the masses of normal people? What was one to do with one's brain in such a circumstance? Research? Bah. Perhaps he could try and organize cats, it, like villainy, being a fruitless endeavor. Villainy was fruitless, because in the end, you couldn't take it with you. No matter ...
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If an Eldest Daughter...

 The girl would not slow down. Not for anything.      Yes, she was wearing a red cloak.      Yes, there was the basket draped over her arm.      The hunter tried to chat. The wolf tried to way lay. But the girl would not be stopped.     Not even to be polite.  As she walked on, she shook her head in annoyance. People just did not realize how quickly baked goods went stale.
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And Everyone Forgot All About It

 Once upon a time the world burst into chaos. This is unsurprising, as it happens, for it rarely affects humans (at least of the upper classes).       Only this time, even the very rich felt its fells and shakes. The rivers ran wild and drank up fields. The mountains laughed uproariously and spewed their chortles at great lengths. The vines ran up and down, in thick briars, covering square footage in the same way that a sip of whiskey floods the body. The animals went off their rocker, and it is enough to say that the sheer tonnage of their feces was legion. Which is all to say, everyone felt it. How could they not when even the birds sang their tunes to the beat of drums that came up from the depths of dark places?       The people traveled up to avoid damage. But up, for mass, does not last forever, and chaos cannot sustain perpetuity.      It all settled down. Eventually. When the wind kissed the chaos and told it to hush. ...
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A Witch's Order

 There was once a boy who, at times, tended toward the depths of despair. The tendency made itself known around 4pm on a Wednesday, which was the day and time his father sent him each week with bread for the old witch. The boy was not at his best around old witches.      He had seen that a witch's potion could bring back someone from the brink of death. Too, he had seen what a witch's curse could do. Just last year the blacksmith had been cursed for letting his wife suffer illness without remedy too long. He would get an anvil to the foot, the witch had said. It was no surprise when it happened three weeks later. And just last week, the tailor had turned away a widow who could only pay half. The witch had given him a verbal shake down, and the next day he had sewed himself by both trousers and drawers right into the suit he was making for a lord. His assistant had to cut him loose. What, the boy often wondered, might she do to him?       The boy t...
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