Fairy Stories & Other Tales

How often did he hate it when the wind came in unceasing torrents, beating against his withering chest?   There did not need to be an answer, or rather, there was no need to go beyond the question, for the answer was always the same: every time.   It was like being pummeled relentlessly, but against an enemy too large to receive a return blow.   And it took what little sanity winter left him with and turned it raw.             But he could not hide from it, could not cower.   This was winter, and even at its end, the ever forming, ever blowing storm could not prevent him from doing his duty of winding about the depths of weather—not when its alternative was despair.             And yet, he woke each morning to the galing winds, to the howl that had yet to cease in the months since they had first began, and to the pit of anger in his belly.   It did not matter that there was a choice in his comings and goings.   That he had decided what his calling might be.   Or had he?   For h

Once upon a time there was a king who sat on a wooden throne and whispered to the birds that came to crowd and circle round his head.   He was not a usual kind of king, like those who ruled with boundaries and whose subjects were the people who lived within.   He was the Forest King.   And his wooden throne was made from a live tree who desired to grow her shape into a chair to fit him.   And when he whispered to the birds, he was speaking to his advisors who flew about the forest as his eyes and ears.             He did not stay on the throne long or often, for his birds could come to him wherever he was.   Thus, he could roam the forest himself, and in this way he remained close to those he served.             So it was that one day while he walked about his forest he happened upon a small meadow where two centaurs stood ready to engage in what promised to be an epic battle.   Hate bled from their eyes.   Anger seethed from their mouths in breaths and curses.   And deadly sword

Willow trees can scarcely help the fact that they cast the illusion of being dryads.   That said, dryads scarcely look like willow trees, so there you are.   But I cannot help but see a willow tree and think of dryads.   Though perhaps that is only a trick that memory plays.             The substance of dryads is not the leaves of a willow tree, or any tree, but rather flower petals.   Cream white in color, the petals can be large or small—it all depends on the coverage they desire in a given night.   For night is when they come forth from their trees and frolic in the woods.   To feast in a moonlit stream is the height of a dryad’s joy, and when they tire, they sink into their trees to be one with them until their next parting.               It’s a curious thing, dryads being made of blossoms, for many of the trees from which a dryad springs do not produce flowers in a traditional sense.   And yet, that is what they are made of.   I am rambling, but time has that affect on one b

Rain poured down in sheets as Robin looked out the window, mourning the loss of a day spent playing outside the house.   Her grandfather demanded quiet, you see, and that meant that a day spent indoors was a day spent in the doldrums of humdrummery, as far as Robin was concerned—quite frankly as far as most people would be concerned, given that the only books in the house were of politics and economics of which there were only charts and figures with no real pictures.             And on a day where there was no school to attend, no friends close to the ancient estate in which she was cooped, and, of course, not a peep to be made, Robin found herself in a state of the melancholy blues. If anyone who had any experience with the curious and unusual had been around, they would have noticed that there was a tingling in the air.   They would have felt that something had tilted, and that everything was not quite ordinary.   And they would have known that something magical was about to ha