Fairy Stories & Other Tales

A tall woman with a mannish face bearing a hint of a mustache on the upper lip stormed through the streets like a tiny self-contained hurricane beating against the flow of bodies.             If one more person calls me ‘sir’ I’ll scream, she thought.             Then she took a breath, which was immediately followed by an eye roll.   Pull it together Joanna, she told herself just before she slammed into a tiny old woman whose neck really was far too bent to see her coming.               When the fairy rose from the ground directly in front of her Joanna realized she may have let her thoughts spin wildly out of control.             ‘I can grant you a wish, my dear, if you like…’ the fairy was nonchalantly examining her nails as she spoke to Joanna. ...

The world woke blinking, and found that all was well.   The trees were green and lush, the oceans teaming and cool, the mountains high and steady.   And the people were at peace.             But peace was dull, the people found, and so the trees were felled, the oceans emptied, the mountains set to trembling.   All tumbled and came to ruin until the day when the earth stood still, for upon it lay nothing more than bones.             The world woke again, and all was once more set to rights.   The trees were green, the oceans cool, the mountains high.   And the people were, once more, at peace.   Yet again the people found peace dull.   Down came the trees, up rose the oceans, trembling went the mountains.   And the earth was again barren.             Then came a day when the wo...

There was once a sculptor who found a piece of perfect stone.   At the sight of it he vowed he would turn such a rock into his masterpiece.   It would, of course, take the form of a woman, convey beauty and strength and wonder—it would be the ultimate depiction of humanity, all crafted from his very hands.   It would be his token to accolades, all the world would stare in wonder, and he would be regarded as someone great.             He sat before the stone, the chisel laid down at his side, and concentrated, with an ardor in his mind, on what it was to make such a work.   But no matter how hard nor how long he thought, there was nothing that moved with intensity into his being, no marveling motivation toward greatness, no guiding light of genius filling him with inspiration.             So long did he think on this that his life began to fleck away, ...

The wind blew, rustling the brittle branches, dry from the chill and frigid air that made the world seem dead.               Bleak was the tone of thought, of word, which of practice turns into deeds, and the whole world flipped on end in cruel injustice.                 For all had gone mad.               Only to be saved by the sight of a green shoot, that pushed itself up through the hard-bitten ground, and shocked the grey with blinding whiteness; pure snow.               A small calm begat a small thought, and then a word, and last a deed.                 The world would change.

Once upon a time there lived a woman who had a golden touch.             This was not to say that everything she touched turned to gold—because it didn’t.   Rather, when her forefinger touched a stick, the wood found itself with a golden sheen.   When the back of her hand brushed a blade of grass, it yellowed like fair stalks at the end of summer.   And when her palm rested against the smooth stone of an alabaster statue, it looked as though lit with the light of dawn.             News of her gift traveled far and wide, greatly exaggerating her ability.   It was said, of course, that what she touched turned to gold.             Out came the suitors, knocking eagerly at her door.   Down rushed the nobles, with desperate offerings.   Trippingly trekked the entrepreneurs, keen for an easy v...