Fairy Stories & Other Tales

    The birds twittered in the trees, and Rose could tell they were happy.   They jumped from branch to branch in a joyous little dance that spoke of delight in the day to come, of harvesting little twigs, and scooping up pink, juicy worms, and all the other small things that caused a bird’s feathered body to leap about with pleasure.             How different their morning to the one that she must face, Rose thought to herself.   Her face was downcast, and anyone looking (though there was no one at present) would have thought it was an expression that did not belong on an elfish, rosy cheeked little girl.   The cause of this unfamiliar expression that spread itself as thick as clotted cream across her face was the fact that she had to go to church today.   For it was Sunday morning, and it was the day she had dreaded since coming to visit her grandmother a whole Monday before.             It was not that Rose did not believe in God; she did believe in Him!   She had spoken to Hi

   For so long the trees have been silent.   Their stillness is natural, for nothing has come to wake them up.   But she comes and whispers; their limbs stir, and their long-shut eyes flick awake.             The call is not expected, made of two feet, pressed into land where feet have not been for a very long time.   Planted, as it were, by someone who has almost failed her duty.   She has been a guardian of the forest for an eon.   Perhaps longer; she has lost count.             When her guardianship was still new, she watched, heeding the smallest breath of wind, watching where it went, how long it lasted.   The feel of its dance curling in and about the trees she watched over.   She saw everything, and nothing was as it should not have been.   Centuries, as they do, caused her to grow lazy.   Too often did she go and frolic with the wind’s small spirals, that danced further each day from the forest.   And she all but forgot her charges.   Until the day the wind changed.   S

   'Hey! Hey, I say!   Are you awake?’ It was a small, ringing voice that Emma could have sworn came from somewhere around the tip of her nose.   But that couldn’t be right.   She hadn’t even opened her eyes yet.   She was simply, she thought with blurry thoughts, on the edge of a vivid dream, almost, but not quite, awake. But that did not explain the tickling feeling on the end of her nose. ‘Hey!’ the voice tinkled. Emma’s eyes flew open to a sight that made her blink twice and stare narrowly.   For perched just in front of where her eyes crossed sat a small creature.   A small creature with wings.   Every muscle in Emma’s body froze.   She didn’t even blink. ‘Are you up?   Of course you’re up!   You have to be up.   Your eyes are open.’   As quickly and as fast as the tiny creature with the small tinkling voice spoke, it stopped.   The creature bent forward toward one of Emma’s eyes. Suddenly Emma heard the sound of a tiny hand against skin, and felt its sting.

       I found myself alone in darkness, counting my blessings, for they were all I had to keep me from sinking.               It began on a normal day, in a normal house, on a slightly better than normal couch, where I sat.   Staring out my window—a normal window.   Watching the passers-by.   My nerves were on edge—and yes, this too was normal.   But they—my nerves—walked a fine line between annoyance and longing.   Annoyance at the sounds from the people beneath, spurting and bubbling like a confused faucet.   Longing for whatever the close comradery was that caused them all to communicate freely with one another.             I clutched my notebook fervently to my chest, as though I would somehow become a better writer the closer it came.   And I waited.   For the words to form, for that thing—whatever it was—to catch and light the burning fire that caused words to pour from my pen.   Closing my eyes, I made three wishes—they were all the same.             A cry from underneat