Fairy Stories & Other Tales

 There is only one way to meet a witch.      You must come along at a normal gate - dragging feet will not impress, and speed will only cause her raise a brow.      Make visible enough pride to look intelligent, enough to recognize her value (read: won't burn her). But there should be nothing haughty in the mix. Humility is key. A humble stead recognizes skill; skill that can only be found in a witch.      Do not come ill. Send someone else. A witch does not need to catch cold.      Bring a part of the best of what you have. If you have nothing, all the better.      Do not look frightened. But be a little afraid.      And never ask her to tell your fortune. It will be accurate and you won't like it.       To sum up: hold your head high and keep it bowed, with a confident gait and palms outstretched, and ready you are to meet a witch. 

 When the river god emerged from the rapids, his chest barrelled, his arms barrelled, indeed even his face had a certain barrell-esque quality to it, the dryad was not impressed. She had only come for a drink of water. There was no need to cross thick arms, suggestively raise eyebrows, and all in all make an ass of oneself. She sighed, cupped her hands, took her drink, and did her best to ignore the rippling god-man.      There is, of course, nothing which annoys a god more than being ignored. This is in part because ignorance of a god is a death sentence. The more relatable part, however, is that gods simply don't like it. It makes them feel as if all people want from them is a piece of toast in a dessert that's taken just too long to cross. That's not to say that they don't mind giving a bit of toast, if the pleading is done in the right way. It shows a body is paying attention to them. Gods like to keep a body on their toes.       The dryad's f...

 The villain wondered about villainy, as he sat down for tea and scones.      The concept of villainy was straightforward. Wanting revenge, the payout, the power. Always at it with a master plan. Always the stone heart, the uncompromising rigidity, the unyielding course that heroes consistently tried to break. There was certainly an exhausting quality to it, somewhere just above stockbroking and just below motherhood — though some might suggest its all part and parcel (depending on the mother).      But there comes a time, the villain thought, when anyone wants to sit down for tea and scones.       Could one just stop a course of villainy? Settle in? Be one of the masses of normal people? What was one to do with one's brain in such a circumstance? Research? Bah. Perhaps he could try and organize cats, it, like villainy, being a fruitless endeavor. Villainy was fruitless, because in the end, you couldn't take it with you. No matter ...

 The girl would not slow down. Not for anything.      Yes, she was wearing a red cloak.      Yes, there was the basket draped over her arm.      The hunter tried to chat. The wolf tried to way lay. But the girl would not be stopped.     Not even to be polite.  As she walked on, she shook her head in annoyance. People just did not realize how quickly baked goods went stale.