Once upon a time

There was a Fairy with dark hair and light eyes... and she lived in a small palace by the sea and watched over three small children for a King and Queen. Since she was a naming Fairy, she named them Princess, Kabouter, and Petite. The Queen was fond of moment-catching in her magic mirror, and the fairy would hold the children or coax them with food so they would sit still for the mirror. One day the Queen had the Fairy sit still as well, and hold Petite. Princess came to sit too, and Kabouter, and soon there were smiles and cheek-kisses all around.

But eventually the Fairy moved away. There were other palaces to visit, and other Fairy roles to be had. Some of the roles involved more small children, sometimes just one or two dear ones, sometimes a dozen or so at a time. As she grew older (for even fairies get older) her roles extended to magic mirrors of her own, and soon she had so many moment-captures of smiles and children and cheek-kisses that it was hard to remember them all.

But sometimes she would go back and look at the moment captures of her first small children that she ever watched over, and think sadly that if she met them now, they wouldn't even recognise her. But perhaps, the Fairy would think to herself, perhaps if she had enough time, they could be friends again, and there would be more smiles to capture. And, though she did grow older, so did the friends her age... which often meant there would be more small children to love, and to capture moments with.

The End

Once upon a time there was a pack of dragons

Some were older, some were younger.
Some were fat and some were thin.
Some were huge and some were tiny.
But they all lived in the same house together.
And at night, when their owner went to bed...

They all came flying or hopping or jumping to see eachother.

Sometimes they met in the kitchen.
The red fire dragons blew flame,
and the other dragons roasted marshmallows.

Sometimes they met on the balconey.
The water dragons collected raindrops and fill up plant pots. Then they all went swimming together.

Sometimes they just all curled up on the couch and told stories. And that was when the air dragons had the most fun, because they went on adventures all the time. Some had wandered the city with their owner, and some had even been to foreign countries.

But no matter what they did all night, the dragons knew that every morning they had to be back in their places.

So they went flying back to the windowsills. Or hopped back up onto the cupboards and bookshelves. Or tucked themselves into corners of the room

Every morning, there they sat, just as they were before, only with twinkles in their eyes.

And if you look closely, some of them still have wet tails, or marshmallows in their teeth.

The End.

Once upon a time

There was a busy bee
Who ran out of busyness
And out of reasons to buzz at all, really.

While the other bees had never found it quite so necessary to buzz and be busy all the time
They found this this lack of buzzing during busyness slightly worrying
And made sure to come hover nearby and make sure the bee was okay
Sometimes they gave little buzzes to remind her how it was done
Just in case she'd forgotten.

Sometimes they just hovered there 'accidentally' in case she felt like climbing off the flowerheads to bother them like usual.
Tho, of course, they would never have *said* that she bothered them.
Being very patient and undemanding bees, and friends of the same sort.
Any bothering that was felt, they smiled, was felt more on her side.
And if it didn't bother them, why should it bother her, if she was bothered that she was bothering them?
(Being a slightly oversensitive bee, she sometimes was bothered by this, but it was not important.)

So she and they didn't bother about it too much in general.
And it was generally assumed that it would all be okay in the end.

The End.

Once upon a time...


There was a Dairy Farmer.
And this dairy farmer was not like other dairy farmers.
He was special.
He did not raise nice flocks of Bleets.
He did not own nice herds of Moohs.
He did not, actually, own any sort of milk giving creature at all.

Some people got very upset at this after driving to his farm, and demanded he change his sign. It was a very long drive, actually, 5 miggles down a dirt road with spooky trees that made scary munching noises. (The visitors hunched inside their Vrumes and tried to hurry through the shadows to the farmhouse ahead.)

The farmer always heard them out patiently.
After the grumpy non-customers finished waving their hands around and stomping on his non-Mooh-eaten grass, he would hold up his hand.

Then he would make a curious munching sound with his mouth. The visitors always looked at him like he was crazy, at this point (with the exception of small children, who totally understood and began looking around eagerly. If the visitors had brought their Yapps, they normally began yapping as they jumped around.)

The farmer would repeat his call. Suddenly, the woods would echo with the same call, and giant creatures that oddly resembled leggy caterpillars would come strolling down the lane, leaving the road in bright sunshine. (This was usually a great shock to any secondary arrivals of visitors. Most farmers, dairy or not, did not own changing roads.)

The farmer (and the certain small children) would fondly smile and reach up their hands as the huge green and fluffy creatures bent down, making their customary NOMNOMNOM noises. (At this point, delicate females among the visitors were known to faint, and nondelicate males were known to turn an interesting shade of creamy white.)

And the farmer would turn innocently back to the visitors with a smile and say, "Now, what were you wanting to see my farm of Dairs for?"

The End.

Once upon a time

There was a soldier.
He had served his time, done his duty, fought honourably.
And now he was leaving.
He was formally saluted, congratulated, and then sent home with his pay.
Some comrades-in-arms walked with him a ways, then parted for their homes.
Other soldiers and captains stayed. There was still a battle to fight.
But he was not needed.
He wasn't sure how he felt about that.
He did know that his feelings were not of crucial importance, though, so he stood tall and carried on, deciding to think things through later.
Maybe, he mused, there would be warmer weather in the south.
He could picture the friendly mountains of his home, so unlike the snowy cliffs he was surrounded by. He thought of the graceful cypress trees that sheltered his house, and the grapevines that wound cheerfully around their arbour. He would sit and rest, he thought. Rest a long time. Perhaps in the gentler winter he would find the purpose that had eluded him this long service....

He told himself dispassionately that peace was not everything. As everyone knew, the army gave one purpose. Aimless lives suddenly found meaning in the discipline and daily harshness of life. Whether or not one personally believed in conquest of the natives, expansion of the empire, etc., was irrelevent - one simply had to obey, defend one's comrades, and survive. If not glorious, life was at least simple.

Returning to civilian life, now.... He shook his head absently. That would be complicated. What does one say to old friends who may be friends no more? To small (and older) boys who think the life of a soldier is the most glorious adventure ever? To housewives and village maidens who are either attracted or repulsed by the blood and sweat of the wars? Would it even be possible, as he half hoped, to prop his feet on a wooden bench, watch the sea, and forget all he'd seen and done?

He looked ruefully at his boots as he kept his methodical tramp along the muddy roads. The dirt stains might wash out. What about the blood, or the memory of it? What about invisible memories of quiet, frozen tears on nights in the desolate Alps? There were also, he added fairly, memories of fields of wildflowers he and his men had marched through. And a rare day of rest by a fresh mountain stream with odd fish that nibbled cheerfully at his bare toes. Tense, sandy marches on beaches by midnight to escape barbarian arrows and hide tracks under the tide. It would be easier to burn the boots than the memories. He wasn't sure he wanted to lose either.


He kept trudging. There would be many more miles ahead for thinking. All that he knew was that a small, sunny house was waiting for him, with embraces from relatives. It would be good to spend time with them, share meals and stories again. Perhaps letters to and from his comrades, wherever they might also have arrived. Maybe in time he would learn to blend his old life and his recent life, on his way to a new life....

The End