Fairy Stories & Other Tales

Once upon a time an old woman lived by herself in a castle made of glass.   Each pane was beautifully crafted, and she could gaze out at an ever-flowering garden or stare at her reflection for as long as she desired.   The castle was enchanted so that each day it filled freshly new with flowers and with the finest foods, each a delicacy to the woman’s taste.   Her wardrobe was curtailed to the latest, most flattering of fashions, her walls strung with intricate tapestries and detailed paintings suited to her preference, and for furnishings, only those pieces of the rarest woods and delightful craftsmanship could be seen.   There was no thing that went untasted, or undiscovered; no jewel unseen nor unworn; no fabric unfelt.   An enchantment of all extravagances against which there was no parallel.             There in the glass castle, she lived alone, having been tempted in her youth by the wonders of th...

The warm glow of light beckoned, and Laura moved toward it softly.   She moved toward most things that way, he noticed.   And that was why he let the flames lick the sides of the steel that framed the fireplace.   It was a privilege to make such small decision decisions, he thought not for the first time.               He could see the tension seep out of her body, the immensity of weeks of frustration slip slowly away, as she sank into the cushioned sofa.   That, too, he had orchestrated, for he had learned that even the small act of sitting carried with it different needs—sometimes a hard chair for intense thought, mild cushion for discussion, and a place of sinking depth for comfort.             It was all he could do to keep from saying something soothing, something to take away the ache that was written on her face.   But he had to be car...

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 d...

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 spr...

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. ...