Fairy Stories & Other Tales

 The man was having some thoughts in the middle of a field. Thoughts about love affairs and loss of affairs and loaded questions that were irritatingly good at moving the love bits out of the affairs.     It had been, yet again, an unpleasant, relationally counter-productive, morning.     He heard the noise first. He looked up. Headed toward him just like a rocket barrelling in the wrong direction was.... Well, who it was came to a sudden stop without a single screech directly in front of him.     The reason for this un-screeching phenomenon, like most of its kind, is not very phenomenal at all. A woman on a broom tends to put on breaks of a metaphoric sort — w hich becomes rather obvious once you realize they lack metal.      The man could have sworn he heard a screech.     'You're in my way,' the woman said.     The man tried to respond, but having been previously unfamiliar with broom...

 There's a certain kind of charm. Not the kind that comes from a flashy grin and a personality that wrinkles with wear. No, it's the kind of charm that witches brew up. Of an evening's work. To set on shelves lined with others. A dose of it makes the user better - a rare thing when speaking of doses. But witches like to do things to make people better.     It's not a cure. Never think that a dose of something is a cure. The witches are clear on that matter. Such a charm is not a fix-all by any long means. The kind of thing that can fix a problem all at once and for all is a funeral. But a dose of a charm is a little thing. A sparkle. A shimmer. A little bit of bolstered belief.     Can you believe that there are people who would say no to such a gift? Who wouldn't even do themselves the favor of asking?     They are far too serious, these no-charm people.     And yet, they don't take witches nearly serious enough.  ...

 Everything hurt. The tips of the shoulders. The edges on the neck. The spine. The stomach. The shins.      The funny thing about pain was how it wearied the mind. How it took all the things in a day that may have been nothing, or simple, or wonderful, and contorted them to agony. Pain did little more than transform energy into exhaustion.     Exhaustion, when taken in just the right dose, provokes weeping.     And there, weeping, did the young woman sit. For the right dose of exhaustion that leads to weeping is taken in the amount of hopelessness.     'There, there girl,' said an old woman.     The girl gasped at the sudden aged appearance and tried to steady herself. But, alas, she was too tired. And so, she continued weeping.     'Try something new, girl,' the old woman offered.     The girl looked at her, tried to catch her breath, and when she caught it, she screamed. ...

 'The world's feisty tonight,' said the woman with three chin hairs sprouting from a prize winning mole. She wasn't old. But she'd have no trouble finding age when the lights were out. It will perhaps come as no surprise that she was speaking to herself.     'Ah, not quite as good as being frisky, but feisty, yes, feisty will do us.' She continued her internal dialogue on the outside.     'And yet, frightening could do us better. Yes, frightening could indeed.' You guessed it; still monologuing.     'But it's feisty. We dance when it's feisty.'     'Do we now?'     'Don't try to talk yourself out of it.'     'Oh, alright then.'     You might be thinking that she danced then. You'd be right. But it's not the kind of thing eyes want to see, written down or otherwise. It's enough to know that she liked herself well enough to carry a conversation, noted traditions due to weather pat...

 Once upon a time there was a woman who very much liked the idea of being a witch. It wasn't that she wanted to do something particularly controversial - and given the day that it was, being a witch was quite the controversy. It was that she had a mad cap desire to take her love of scones, cottages, and herbs to the next level.     Put that way, it could well have been understood. But when you're smack in the middle of a controversy, as this woman was, no one gives you the chance to talk about taking things to the next level.     If she had been asked, she would have said that she had always loved scones. Her mum had been something of a scone-enthusiast, which brought about the love at an early age. If she had been asked, she would have said that the first time she saw a cottage, something inside her gave a thump . In a good way. If she had been asked, she would have said that she had been using herbs to heal folk since she had begged the nearby villag...