The Weary Woman and the Fairies

 Once upon a time there was a woman who was weary of the world.

     There were any number of reasons why she felt this way, and all of them amounted to a mad desire to spend the night in a glade in the center of a wood under a full moon on a crisp and bitterly cold autumn night. It was, perhaps, the chill that bit into her swirling mind filled with anxious musings that set it to other things. For suddenly her thoughts left her at the sight of frost creeping upon the ground onto blades of grass and up trees, the infinitely tiny bits of glassy ice caught in the moonlight.

     Indeed, the moon was shining fully when she saw them. Cautiously they darted from behind leaves and branches, trunks and roots. And then came one shining, his gossamer wings glowing with a light all his own. His hand extended, he bowed to the air. Another moment, and a second a fairy came and joined him, her delicate crown upon her hand as she placed her hand in his.

     That is when they began to dance.

    Slowly they circled about the air, a partnered movement of grace unlike any in the mortal realm. And after a breath that seemed to know infinity, the air was filled with the glowing luster of small immortals dancing in the night all about the clearing. 

    And about the woman, who had stifled back a gasp, and then gazed in wonder. Her heart felt light as her eyes filled, and then her feet began to wander. A music made only of elemental things filled her soul. And in the next breath of cold, chill air, she caught the breeze, and...

     ...that is all we know, for she has never been heard of since.

Autumn Leaves

The autumn comes quickly, like a sharp, short shock that stuns the leaves into their colors. This is what comes about when the fairies are riled. For, of course, the turning of such things can only come from the fairies’ breath upon each leaf. This time, they do it with a vengeance. And this time, it is a statement—this stark turning of the season.It is the lack of care, the lack of kindness, the lack of grace that causes the fairies their grief. Destruction plays its hand, with several more up its sleeve. Stewards turn their back on craft and wonder. The fairies are not used to such rebellion. It is against their natures as much as it is against the nature of the world itself. The fairies, they do not take to it kindly. It is we who bear witness to the chaos of their frustration; their cold, abrupt obliteration.And we are not alone.Leaves know, too; they know that chaos blows on the winds. They feel the fairies breathe their harsh breath on the backs of their being. And for a moment …

A Tale of Three Apples

Once upon a time there was a tree that had upon its branches three apples. One was red, another green, and the last was golden.     When the time came for the apples to be plucked, three cloaked figures approached the tree, each selecting for themselves the one that they desired most. The first selected the red, in hopes that it's shiny, vibrant skin would grant long life. The second selected the green, in hopes that its tart newness would grant adventure. And the third selected the golden, in hopes that its warmth would provide a contented state.     Indeed, when the first hooded figure threw back its hood, a gnarled, warted woman revealed herself. Crunching into the gleaming red apple, the woman waited, then began to change. Suddenly, where the old bent beldam had once been standing, in her place stood a girl with hair as black as night, and lips as red as the apple she had just eaten. Feeling the strength and vigor of youth coursing through her veins, the girl looked and saw t…

The Words

The Little Boy and His Learning