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wishes and grumpy goblin gardens

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A renegade wind stole a few wishes and whooshed them over the land. They bounced over meadows and tumbled through thickets before landing in a garden.

They set about making more wishes right away, much to the bane of the grumpy goblin gardener. He called them weeds and never thought to question why his dearest desires were always being met.

Meanwhile, the wind kept stealing wishes, thwarting goblin gardens, and making all their dreams come true. The goblins didn’t like it, but they all lived grumpily ever after, thanks to the renegade wind.

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the wagon fairies stole

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The fairies stole the wagon from the farmyard under the darkness of a moonless night. Perhaps they intended to return it in the morning, but as soon as they left they forgot where they found it in the first place.

The fairies hitched it to a dragon they hired for the occasion and went careening through the night. They tore down roads, cobblestone, paved, and dirt. When they grew bored of that, they gave the dragon full rein and she pulled them through the sky, scraping the wagon’s axles on the treetops, brushing past mountaintops, and narrowly missing the moon.

The old wagon had never had so much fun in all its life, and though it broke beyond all hope of repair, it didn’t much mind. When the sun rose upon their frolic, the fairies and the dragon abandoned the wagon in the forest and left for home. There the wagon sits still, telling wild tales of the crazy night it flew.

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not so lonely, after all

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When vines run out of room, they start reaching for the sky. It’s said to be lonely up there, but no one ever told a tree as it stretched for the sun, or a bird as it soared in the freedom of almost-endless space. I think, sometimes, these things are said to keep us from the disappointment of falling short of stars when we are reaching for the moon. Or, perhaps, some sinister emotional gravity to keep us weighed down on the ground and not obstructing someone else’s view. But who am I to say, after all, for I am just an owl, waiting for the night to fall to soar up in the sky and dive down for a mouse.

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moments of mermaid madness

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The mermaid didn’t like to admit the moments that made her feel jealous. She lived a carefree, solitary life, swimming in an endless sea. Once or twice a year she might another of her kind, and often that was enough, but of late she found herself wishing for a friend.

The barnacles crusted together in their community upon the rock, dying together as the whelks feasted upon them. Mermaids tended to die alone, their hair matted with seaweed, their bodies adrift on the tide. Even the marauding whelks had companions in their feasting.

Ugh, these dark thoughts. She tried to shake them from her mind. Such things led to mermaid madness and falling in love with two-legged humans who lived in cities or villages, locked up in houses. She shuddered, grateful for the freedom of the sea once more.

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thoughts of the weeping willow

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She liked to relax in the summer, branches slouched down, fingers of leaves catching the breeze and wafting to and fro. Her inspiration came from dusty cobwebs, discarded plastic bags, and the minnows which swam in the lake.

One day she noticed the tadpoles had all grown, the nights felt cooler, and the wildflowers started going to seed. She sighed, thinking autumn such a lot of work, winter too blustery, and spring too busy what with all the budding and the leafing out. She wished she could skip through them all and start with the first day of summer again.

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how the witch beat his writer’s block

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He threw down his pen, disgusted with himself. Everything he wrote today felt so bleak. Where were the goblins, the dragons, the boggarts, and the banshees? Hiding in the folds of tomorrow, he bet.

He had an idea.

Running to the kitchen, he grabbed a moon shell and filled it with water. If he held it just so in the light of the moon, sometimes he could scry the future. Why wait ’til tomorrow when he could get a head start on its writing today?

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the invention of the mushroom

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When dwarves take a break from mining, they like to wander up the mine shafts and peek out at the sunshine. They do not, however, like running into people and being forced into how-do-you-do’s and other such pleasantries. Mentioning the weather is known to make them cry.

It got so bad a dwarf named Elwyn invented a nifty contraption he called the ‘mushroom’. With a mushroom, which is rather like a human periscope, a dwarf could listen for voices and footsteps and take a quick look around before venturing from the mine. This invention changed lives. No more were dwarves locked into meaningless conversations which used up their lunch hour, but they could frolic in the sunshine all the same.

Elwyn was nominated for a Nobel Prize for his contribution to dwarf society. However, the Nobel people considered such dwarves to be make-believe and threw out the nomination. The dwarves are still upset about it.

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the girl who wore a caterpillar cloak

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Her green cloak unfolded behind her like a broken accordion, keeping her true form hidden from view. She made her way through the woods, her basket tucked inside, and her gaze  kept on the ground. He might recognize her if he saw her face, and she knew the path well, after all.

When she arrived, she threw off her hood, triumphant, and stepped inside to greet her grandmother.

“Why, Little Red Riding Hood, you’ve changed your cloak!” Grandma noticed right away.

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the wild, half-fae girl I love

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She will not be so easy to classify, to stuff inside a box and affix with the perfect label. She will resist her taming, and climb all over sensibilities with the wicked mischief of her imagination. She will dream it all and make it happen with the strength of her will. She will fight and question and be a wild thing, dancing her way through silence. And if you ever cross her, she’ll fill your tea with fairy droppings and you’ll never be the wiser.

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the secret recipe of goblins everywhere

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The waters flowed into the pool, refreshing and cool. Within moments it mixed with fairy droppings, the tears of a frustrated dragon, and a drop of diluted ink from the first book ever printed.

“That is the secret recipe we goblins have been guarding these many years, but we’re tired now, and we haven’t got paid in centuries, so there you have it. It’s yours now. Use it wisely,” said a goblin who’d been cooling his feet in the pond. He picked up his satchel and headed off into the shadows with two other goblins.

The bewildered family watched them go, unsure of what to say and wondering what the recipe might be for. It had been an odd vacation thus far.