Fairy Stories & Other Tales

  The autumn comes quickly, like a sharp, short shock that stuns the leaves into their colors.      This is what comes about when the fairies are riled. For, of course, the turning of such things can only come from the fairies’ breath upon each leaf. This time, they do it with a vengeance. And this time, it is a statement—this stark turning of the season.      It is the lack of care, the lack of kindness, the lack of grace that causes the fairies their grief. Destruction plays its hand, with several more up its sleeve. Stewards turn their back on craft and wonder. The fairies are not used to such rebellion. It is against their natures as much as it is against the nature of the world itself. The fairies, they do not take to it kindly.      It is we who bear witness to the chaos of their frustration; their cold, abrupt obliteration.      And we are not alone.      Leaves know...

On a foggy day in the upper reaches of a house, a book tipped off the edge of a shelf. When shaky, unsuspecting hands picked up the book, it fell open to a page on which were written three words:             ‘wonder’             ‘magic’             ‘love’     The quivering hands looked to the book’s cover, where a title gleamed in antique gold font. It read:             ‘life’        Trembling fingers flipped through the pages, curious as to the rest of their contents. But no other words, save three, could be found.     It seemed nothing else needed to be said on the subject.     And as the hands folded the book to place it back on the shelf, they had found their ease.

  Rain streamed from the sky as though a sky god were pouring water out of bathtubs. The earth was drenched, sodden, soaking like a sponge that has yet to be wrung. And an old woman sat at her hearth, feet stretched out to the fire, basking in the glow of orange and gold flickering warmth. No one was coming today, she knew, and the thought was a welcome one, for she had gathered and picked, crushed and mixed herbs all week long for the aches, pains, and ailments of a needy village. So, when a knock came at the door, it was with a groan and several creaks that the old woman opened it.             Standing before her was a small boy, sopping wet and carrying a jar.             ‘What do we have here?’ the woman asked, trying to put some cheer into her voice.             The boy remained silent, and seemed to think ...

  Once upon a time a bird flew to the top of a tree and began to teach herself a new song. It was one of love and kindness, an ode to the beauty of a world at peace.             But the words stuck in her throat.             Hour after hour she tried to sing her song, a gorgeous melody of joy and laughter that welled up in her mind’s eye, but no matter how hard she tried to offer the tune, it caught in a stunted way over and over, until she began to choke.             Recognizing the futility of continuing in such a way, she rested awhile, and then slowly allowed a melody to take its own shape.             At first it startled the bird to hear the sounds of mourning that emerged. Sorrow followed, delicately shaped by weighted sadness. As the notes began to b...

  A man stood at a crossroads.             One way was crooked and filled with dark and thick growing things. Twisted trees—aged and knotted—thorny shrubs, and winding vines filled either side of the path so heavily that the higher growth of leaves and branches met and intertwined. Cloaked and menacing figures trod that way, their faces covered, their hands gnarled. Strange creatures with red eyes would dart this way and that, from one side of the path to the other, never visible long enough to do any more than make a scratching sound that raised the hairs on the man’s arms. And from a long way down the path the sound of weeping and sharp gnashing drifted on a swift, stunted wind.             The other way was straight and simple. A dusty trail that kicked up slightly as people in normal clothes traveled with their neat bags slung over their shoulders. These took normal...