Fairy Stories & Other Tales

 The girl was fickle. All full of desires she didn't want. Plans in which she had no interest. Thoughts that had nothing to do with what she was thinking. And a heart that kept a beat akin to a gallop.      It was enough to make anyone want to move to the middle of a wood alone.      But a hermitage does not a calmer heart make. It does not, necessarily, change the pattern of the mind. It can, however, from time to time, result in magic. The magic of the not-so-carefully contained. The kind of magic that draws attention.      When the sparks flew, and the forest began to flicker with flames, and the inhabitants were smoked out into the open, the girl stilled.       She knew what she wanted, a true plan, clear thoughts.      She didn't want the forest to burn.      So she saved it.      Not so fickle, after all. 

 Once, the rain came down. It was the enchanted forest, so it was enchanted rain. And it made everything it touched gleam vibrant.     Once, the rain came down. It wasn't in the enchanted forest, so it was just ordinary rain. Still, the clean up job wasn't too shabby; things looked... nice.     Once, a child watched the rain come down, and couldn't tell the difference.

 Once upon a time, there was a patch of earth that began to cry. The tears welled until they became a puddle. Then a stream. Then a river.     The river's tears grew.       Until the river was mighty.     And out of it came a woman, with claw marks on her back, from where the river's rocks had dashed her, and bruises round her eyes, from where she had cried in her making. Tears came from her eyes still.     Until she saw the world.     Her tears stopped.     All remained sad, and full of pain, she knew. But the river would cry for her.      A thought came then: there was work to be done.      At that, at last, she smiled.     

 Once there was a girl who wanted to remember. She marked herself from here to there, and back again, until she was covered in marks of a past not to be forgotten.      She had come to the end of her days when she was offered to live them again. Only this time, the offer demanded, she could do no markings.     Thus, she came to the end of her days, again, having refrained from making one single mark upon her person.      She laughed when she got there. The marks were there all the same, invisible yet undeniably scarred up and down the insides of her. Such a bargain, and still she had lived the marvelousness of life twice over.     The third offer came then. A third life. No markings. No rememberings. No scars.     There was no laughter then, for the next moment marked her death.      But the ghosts of her markings... they lasted an age.     

 Once upon a time there was a woman who was simply exhausted by caring.     And so she went to the woods.     She stood there for some time.     Then she went back.     The world had shifted ever so slightly, tilted ever so gently.     Just enough, it seemed, to let the woman care more pointedly and do so more tirelessly.     The woods are kind that way.