Fairy Stories & Other Tales

  It may not come as a surprise to you, dear reader, that the winter witch is getting very old indeed. For years she brought the winter, slow and steady. But as she aged, a spot or two slipped her mind. And now, as ages turn to eons, her forgetting has become a thing of nightmares. For the world that relied on her coldness can depend on her no longer.     But reliance has it's consequences.     Reliance does not offer surprises.     And an old woman - even the oldest of women - can, from time to time, be fully lucid.     Which is when, of course, the snow comes.     Light it falls, and fierce it spins, and heavy it lays on the ground. For all too brief a time. Lucidity never lasts. But, perhaps, like all the fleeting pleasures of this world, it is all the more beautiful for it's shortness.     Sad. But beautiful.

 Once upon a time, there was a wise old witch.     She was very clever, and very old, and very important. In the Enchanted Forest, anyway.     Outside the Enchanted Forest, she was an old woman. People didn't care very much about her, outside the Enchanted Forest. Those other people. They didn't know her.     But inside the forest, the Enchanted folks knew her. Inside the forest, she was fierce.     She healed, she counseled, she potioned and poulsticed. She sat in quiet. She danced in Fae revels. Any magic being in the Enchanted Forest would give their life for that of the wise old witch. And the little girl who was magic enough and imagined enough to make her way to the Enchanted Forest on any given afternoon thought there was no one so wise, nor so old, nor so witch-like, which, of course, is to say that she adored the wise old witch. For there were never such tea parties and potion lessons as those given by the wise ol...

 Once there was a woman. She felt horribly little. And she was. She begged too often to be of use to anyone. Largely, passersby ignored her.       But then, someone took pity on her. Gave her food, a place to sleep. A job.       The little woman went out into the world then. But she worked too hard to be of use to anyone. Largely, her co-workers ignored her.     But then, someone took pity on her. Gave her books, a place to read. An education.     The little woman went to her learning then. But she was too smart to be of use to anyone. Largely, her academic world ignored her.     But then, a witch gave the woman her life to do over again.     Largely, she ignored everyone.     She loved them, though.     It was a fine life.

 Have you heard the story? The one about the old woman who knits the snow?       She's an ethereal sort. But grounded - you can tell by her swollen knuckles; her arthritis is wicked.     Still, the snow comes all the same.     She's a badass like that.     The pattern moves as her needles pearl. It sweeps gently as she knits.      When it covers the ground in one whole, she smiles. She has done her work.     She'll do it again. Until the end of time. When she'll lay her needles upon her lap, rest her hands, and sleep.     A good sleep, for she has done good work.     When time begins again, she'll be little more than a babe.     With all things blank and bright and brand new.      But this will pass.       And then, as is the nature of grace, she'll begin to knit the snow again. She'll lay down her w...