Once upon a time...

There was a village girl.
When she turned twenty-one, she moved to the city. There, instead of being a village girl, she was considered an almost-woman, and given a basket for her birthday. She lifted the lid and looked inside. There was nothing. She was told, "This is for whatever you pick up on your way."

Through the summer days, she learned that 'whatever' didn't really mean 'whatever'. To some people, it meant knitting needles for time with friends. So she started carrying around a respectable pair of needles. To others, it meant schoolbooks for being wise. So she added a schoolbook. New friends told her baskets were for carrying money for pretty clothes, and others said special food should be carried instead. Eventually, though, the girl began to run out of room in her basket. And it got heavy. And it took so long to pull out the correct item for each activity that the girl often got flustered and dropped everything.

One day, the girl was so busy rummaging through her basket to make sure she had everything possible she would need for a day in town... that she took a wrong turning down a road. When she looked up and realised where she was, she almost turned back. But then a bright maple leaf by the roadside caught her eye. It reminded her of the fall back home in the village, and how she and her brother used to throw leaves in the air to make their baby sister smile. Smiling herself, the girl picked up the leaf and put it in her basket. As she did so, she saw some scattered chestnuts a little farther down, which reminded her of harvest days and roasting nuts with her father. She kept walking, and picking up memories from the roadside, until her basket started overflowing. She looked at it, swinging from her hand. Life had been much simpler when all she had were pocket in her aprons. No, she corrected herself. Life had been much simpler when she only carried what she wanted to carry.

She returned home, thoughtfully. Once she was in her small attic room, she emptied out her basket, feeling almost guilty as she did so. She set everything on a shelf, within easy reach. The next day, she only put back in what she knew she needed for that day.

And a bright red maple leaf.

Once upon a time...

There was a little girl who lived by the sea.
Most of her friends lived in a nearby town, in tall houses with big gardens.
But she lived in a small cottage with the beach for her garden and the sea for her neighborhood.

While her friends had riding lessons and music tutors, she spent her afternoons scrambling over the rocky cliffs or digging for mussels that her mother cooked. She did have ballet classes with her friends, but since she was browner and skinnier, she stood out a little at recitals. But all in all, she was content, and life was good.

Except for one thing. She was not allowed to have a pet. She never asked for a pony, like some of her friends, or anything expensive. "Just a little dog, the smallest we can find? Or a cat?" Her parents always said no. Her father was allergic, they reminded her. "What about a bird?" Birds (and their noise) were meant for the sky, she was told, not a cage or a very small house."What about a turtle? Or a fish?" There were plenty of fish in the ocean, they reminded her gently, and turtles too. It wasn't the same, she thought to herself, but what else could she do about it? Being good parents, they tried to make it up to her in other ways, especially with hugs, so she could never go away too upset. "But still," she often thought to herself while outside, "it would be really nice to not be on my own all the time."

One day, when life was especially empty and all her friends were off having fun with their pets, she sat gloomily on her favourite rock. She dangled her feet in the water and whistled to herself, and wished on the water sparkles to some day have a pet. She found that she could squint her eyes and see shapes in the reflections of clouds, and got so caught up in finding a dog, a cat, a bird, a turtle, a fish... that at first she didn't notice something brush her leg. The next time, though, she did, and startled so badly that she almost fell into the water. Quickly pulling up her wet brown legs and tucking them under herself, she inched back enough to be safe from sharks or jellyfish, and peered over the edge. Nothing.

She sat back. Maybe it was just her imagination, or one of the turtles that lived in the area. Her hair was still wet from a swim, and kept swinging in her face, so she pulled it down so she could braid it out of the way while she mused over the situation. This kept her occupied for a moment.

When the little brown girl looked over the edge again, she was suddenly face to face with two very wide eyes. She blinked her own, just to make sure. Chitterchitter, said her visitor curiously. Unsure of the correct response, she chittered back politely and added, "Nice day, isn't it?" The dolphin appeared to nod. After another minute of inspection on both sides, the girl decided more action would be a good next step. "May I join you?" she asked, and slowly swung her lungs back into the water. She'd heard from her fisherman father that dolphins, like most creatures, dislike sudden moves. And from history and biology lessons, the girl knew that dolphins were naturally friendly and inquisitive. Armed with these facts, but still drawing a deep breath, the girl slipped into the sea. "Would you like to join me for a swim?" The dolphin made a smiling face and bobbed. Perhaps, the girl thought, dolphins got lonely too. So off they went, staying close to the shore, just to be on the safe side.

When the sun started sinking lower, the girl knew it was time to start heading for home and helping with dinner. The dolphin would only follow her in so far, before pausing and making unhappy noises. Treading water, she ventured a gentle pat on its rough head. "I'm sorry, but I need to go. I will be back tomorrow after school, though, if you're around?" And then, in a rush, "It would be really, really nice if you're around." The dolphin chittered again in a friendly way, and rubbed up against her hand. "Maybe yes? I'll be looking for you... and thanks." With a final rub, the girl swam toward the shallows. When she climbed out and turned around, there was nothing to be seen but the reflections on the water, and what might have been the flick of a tail.

Her mother and father were tired that night, or they might have asked why their daughter had that particular soft smile on her face and seemed more tired than usual too. She didn't even put up her normal protests at bedtime, when being tucked into her bed in the loft, just kissed them both and snuggled under her quilt.

She spent the next day trying to focus on school and not build her hopes up... though she did allow herself to check a book on dolphins out from the school library. She read it on the way home, rushed through her homework and chores, and then headed out to the rock. No dolphin. She sat there for a while, but just as she was beginning to give up, she felt a familiar nudge against her leg. And this time, she was the first to give the greeting chitter, before jumping in and swimming off in the afternoon sun with her new pet.

The End.

Once upon a time there was a lump of clay in Hungary. It was dug out of the ground, cleared of sticks and stones, and processed till it was pure and smooth, ready for the potter.

At the same time, there was a school class preparing for a field trip to the nearby craftshop. One little boy in particular, with big grey eyes, was excited. His great-grandfather had been a potter in Budapest, and his mother had told stories of the old days, of the pots and vases and bowls he crafted and that she still had. But when the mother tucked her child inside his water slicker that morning before school, and kissed his little face sticking out of the hood, she told him, "No matter what you make, I will love it!" He nodded obediently, but didn't say aloud that he wasn't so sure about that.... Mothers have to like what their children make, but what if he made something really ugly? Who would want to tell stories later about that?

He worried about this through the first few classes, and only ate half his sandwich at lunch. He made a face at a nearby pigeon and informed it sternly that if he wasn't going to eat his food, the pigeon couldn't either. He stuffed the other half inside his lunchbox and stomped off, feeling a little braver. He held on to that thought during the bus ride into town and refused to think about anything else. When he stepped carefully through the rough wooden door of the pottery barn, though, he was too intrigued to remember the lunch or his bravery... there was too much to see. Wheels and stools and shelves and mud everywhere!

He soon learned it was not actually mud... it was clay. Sometimes very wet clay, with extra water, called 'slip' that potters rubbed around their pots or with a sponge... sometimes very dried and flaky clay that had fallen or been rubbed away. Before he knew it, he was sitting on his own small stool at his own spinning wheel and waiting for the pottery instructor to hand him his very own lump of clay to work with. The first girl in the row got hers, and then the second girl, and then a boy, and another girl, and so on... but when the instructor got to him, she paused. By that time, the assistants and other children were busy beginning with their clay, and the air was filled with a whirring noise.

The grey eyed boy looked up curiously at the instructor. She looked down at him a moment thoughtfully, but instead of giving him the lump of clay she held in her hand, she reached past him to a shelf and handed him another instead. He looked at it silently. At first he couldn't tell what the difference was, but then he saw that the colour was a little different. He picked it up and held it closer. It was black. He looked down the row, and saw red, brown, light tan, and everything in between. But no other black. Even the smudges on the wheels and floor (and walls) were the other colours.

When he looked back at the instructor, unsure if he was allowed to ask questions, she just nodded at him reassuringly. "The first lump of clay I was ever given was black, too." Normally he would have had so many questions, even if he kept them in his head. But somehow, her nod and few words made it all better. Content, he turned to the challenge of making something from what sat on his wheel. Soon he was spinning it with the foot pedal, and trying gently to shape the clay with his fingers. Sometimes it leaned too much one way and he had to correct it hastily. Sometimes it collapsed altogether and he had to stop the wheel, squish all the clay together again, and try again. The noise of the other wheels, other students, and the voice of his teacher giving a brief history lesson of pottery all faded away. It was just him and the clay and his wheel, spinning together....

When he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, he slowed his wheel done and reluctantly pulled his hand away from last touches to his creation. He had no idea how long it had been since he'd started, and as he stretched he realised he was stiff from sitting so still, so long, and that the room was quiet. He looked up and saw the other students were gone, though he could hear them faintly in the next room. The instructor was standing by him. "It is beautiful." He looked down, and felt that what she said was true. It was beautiful. He was glad she let him carry it to the shelf where it would wait until it was ready for baking.

He waved goodbye politely with the other students, and spent the rest of the day in a happy daze. His mother asked him three times at dinner if he'd had fun at pottery (and gave him two helpings of broccoli when he accidentally said yes to that too). The next day was a blur until the pottery van showed up with the finished pieces. He had been so eager to see his, but suddenly felt almost shy, and hung back. The assistant handed out the pots to the students one by one, and the grey eyed boy gave polite congratulations to all his friends as they showed off theirs. All the while, though, he kept his eyes out for his, and was just starting to get worried when he saw his own special instructor walk up to him with a carefully wrapped package. He opened his hands to take it, but instead she knelt down, jean-covered knees in the dirt, and held it so he could unwrap it himself. He knelt down too, which made her smile, but he could tell from her face that she knew how important this was. Oh so slowly he pulled away the brown paper... and then, there was his bowl. Smooth and black and curvy-- and beautiful. He could see that one side was the tiniest bit slanted, and as he turned it over it looked like a half finger smudge on the bottom, but you could hardly tell.

Over his head he could hear his teacher going on about such an *unusual* colour and how much talent he had and thank you so much for the pottery class the children really enjoyed it.... He supposed she was talking to his instructor, but the instructor looked like she was paying more attention to what he was saying with his hands as he ran his fingers over every centimeter of his bowl. When his teacher finally paused for breath, he finally looked up at the instructor. He realised she had grey eyes too, and smiled at a private thought. Maybe there was a magic to black clay that only grey eyed people could bring out? She nodded at him as if she had heard what he was thinking, all of it, but just to make sure he added, "And thank you. Very much for the grey clay, and helping me make my bowl. I love it."

And so did his mother.

The End.

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

Once upon a time...

There was a pile on pile of charts
A pile on pile of ropes
A pile on pile of canvas

And only one small cabin girl to make sense of it all.
To make it more only, there were very few cabin girls on the seas.
Sea life was too dangerous for fair damsels, promised the men.
Sea life was too shocking for young ladies, admonished the women.

So it was cabin boys who were forced to endured the kicks, bad weather, and foul language.
But it was also the cabin boys who were allowed to run free in the rigging, travel the world, and learn the language of the sea. The girls stayed home and learned their respectively useful trades of seamstress, cook, and washwoman, if they had need of employment at all. Noble families preferred to keep their children safely at home, though after a certain age a young man could go to sea. A young woman, next to never.

So this cabin girl was a double rarity, both in being a girl and in coming from a modestly wealthy family. Her father was a well to do trader from a good family.Her mother, now, came from abroad, and rumour had it, was less than dignified in her former life. Occasional delicious stories of freedom were told to the daughter at bedtime, usually prefaced with an innocuous, "Once upon a time there was a girl..." But from there the stories would diverge into tales of running barefoot down the streets of Marseille, riding riverboats down the Seine, or- gasp- going on small family voyages across to Marocq and other exotic places. Like many good tale weavers, the mother avoided identifying exact names of the characters, preferring 'the once-upon-a-time girl'. There was a certain sparkle in her eye during story time, but she occasionally threw in stories of Northumberland moors and Indian bazaars, so one could never be entirely sure.... The cabin girl's own name was an equally interesting concoction -Marjam Coulée Elsbet Giaconde de la Venta - but she was more affectionately known as Coucou. (How much of that came from the ungainliness of her full name and foreign pronunciations, and how much came from the 'cuckoo, I see you!' her French mother chirped in the monrnings, is unknown.)

All that said... Coucou was a very lucky girl. By birth, by family and heritage, naturally. Equally, and less conventionally, in tutoring from an early age in languages and geography. "I must make some use of you before you turn to pirating, my lass," her father would chuckle, and her mother would add, "How do you expect to keep up with the lads unless you show yourself capable?" With two languages spoken in the home, plus a scattering of others from various servants and governesses, Coucou was well ahead of her agemates in that regard, and geography came easy when 'The Thousand and One Nights' mingled in one's head along with 'Beowulf'. Mathematics were more troublesome, until one clever tutor brought in equatorial maps and had her calculate longitude and longitude. And visiting sailing mates of her father were more than happy to show the young lady how to shoot the stars with quadrants. Soon she was using a lead line on weekend trips and keeping a miniature logbook in uneven writing....

When her mother received word of an ailing mother in France, what could be more inviting than for the adventuresome three to travel there? And then perhaps back along what the mother, with a smile in the corner of her mouth, called 'the pretty way'? So it was settled, the house packed up for the present and bundles carried onto the sweetest sailing vessel in the harbour, L'hirondelle. "It means 'The Swallow', like the bird," explained Coucou gravely to her small friends, "and if we fly away on it and never return, I shall think of you when I see the stars." Her friends, knowing this was no light promise, nodded back and wished her well. "We know the post is uncertain," said one small demoiselle apologetically, "but do let us know what adventures you have? And the lands you see? We will write back and address our letters to L'Hirondelle, and they will find you." "And they will find me," replied Coucou, touched and grateful. They embraced, and waved her off one fine morning in March. After boarding, she went straightaway to see how much work was for her to do, down in the hold, but returned quickly to the rail to wave. And then, as they pulled away with the tide, she climbed to the next level of rigging, scolding away the tears and forcing her thoughts to the piles and piles to be dealt with. Farther and farther, and she gave up on plans and dry eyes and climbed to the crow's nest.

There would be time enough for life and adventures. Here she could see for miles, and blow kisses to what had been her home, as she stood near the top of her new one.

The End

Once upon a time

There was a princess.
And she was not particularly beautiful, or particularly wise.
She had a decent memory, which helped in studies, but her handwriting was atrocious.
Her tutors despaired of her.
She fell off horses during riding lessons, and was forever hitting trees, not targets, in archery.
Her riding and shooting instructors despaired of her.
She spilled tea while pouring, and occasionally even missed her seat and fell during etiquette.
Her governesses despaired of her.
(Especially when all that could be seen of her was a rumpled heap of giggling, wiggling petticoats.)

But no one could stay annoyed with the princess for very long.
Because she was good tempered, even when scolded.
And it was obvious that she did try, despite her failures.
And all the lower servants adored her, even as they swept up cup after broken cup.
Because she made up for her mishaps by graceful apologies and bribes of sweet things from her pockets.

And after all the failed lessons and patiently shaken heads, she would curtsy and then waltz out of the room.
Carefully, hand over hand on the railing, she would make her way upstairs.
And there she would perch on her papa's knee and listen to him administer importance to the kingdom.

Occasionally, after the last subject bowed out and away from the Royal Presences, the princess would pat her papa's face.
"What do you see out the window?" she would ask.
When she first lisped the question, at age three, no one thought anything of it, because she was too short to see outside.
As the years went on, it became a pet game between the two of them.
"I see the trees bowing to each other before a promenade," the king might say, smiling.
Or "I see the clouds playing at hide-and-go-seek with the sun."
On particularly challenging days of work, the king might growl, "I see a hawk about to devour a pigeon. Take that, insolent wretch!"
(For a king must always be courteous when administering justice to his court, but what he thinks in his private time is his own.)

As the years went farther on into the future, the princess was given a highly embroidered chair of her own, next to his.
(Only hers had cushioned arms so she couldn't fall out, as she was prone to doing.)
The court came to welcome the days when her little head nodded wisely next to her papa's shoulder.
The king grew quicker to mercy, and his justice was administered more thoughtfully, as she nodded approval at his side.
And there were gradually less days of diving hawks, and more of playing clouds and promenading trees.

The End.

Once upon a time...

There were two crickets

They chirped
(but different songs.)
They watched the sky
(but different corners)

They walked on tiptoes over grass stalks
And occasionally, because they were so busy watching the sky, or chirping, they bumped into eachother.
So it was occasionally a very awkward moment.

But eventually they found a good place to bump into each other
Right above a bed of downy cloverheads
So they could fall right through the grass stalks
And end up watching the stars or other insects fly by
Together

The End

Cricket chirp with a tall grass friend
You're perched too high
Bend down a little lower
Sway a little closer
Share your heart
Make us last
Don't spill the time...

Have a drop of dew
To wet your throat
Can we sing for a bit
Like other times
Soak up the rays
While we soak up us
Call our thoughts out
By and bye...

Once upon a time

There was a very lot of sand
and a very little dune
A sturdy desert man
and a timid little moon

And he pitched a tent
Where the water grew
And the trees came up
And the stars shone through

Though the tent didn't move
As the sand rolled away
And the dune shifted place
As the man paused his stay

He said the dunes may shift so slow
There comes a time to track them down
He said all waters ebb and flow
The time will come to pack and go

Some nights are meant for riding out
The days will come to pull up stakes
The road asks if you're strong enough
Your ready heart is what it takes

Once upon a time...

There was a little house with a sea-view balconey.
Two dragons lived in that house, a red and a blue.
Garnie (whose full name was Garnet) and Saphie (whose full name was Sapphire) were very happy there.
But one day, the sea started calling...
And Saphie started spending more time at the balcony rail.
Or looking out the window.
Or wandering near the river.

Garnie would come out sometimes and put a wing around Saphie's shoulder.
"What are you thinking?" Garnie would ask.
"Mmm..." Saphie might answer absently.

Eventually, the sea called too strong.
Saphie started packing bags.
Garnie would have said something, but the wind had started calling too.
And while it wasn't quite time for Garnie to pack, it would be soon.

When the packing was done, and fond goodbyes were said, Saphie headed to the sea.
Garnie stayed at home, and leaned on the balcony rail alone.
It would soon be time to pack more bags and find the wind roads.

But every so often, the breeze would blow seagulls towards the little house.
And they would call little messages to Garnie from Saphie.
And Garnie would call messages back.
And it was almost the same as having the two friends leaning on the rail again.

The End.

Once upon a time...

There was a heron,
who had three baby herons.
And she and the daddy heron taught them to fly and fish and stand on one leg
Everything a young heron needed to know
And the triplets looked just as normal as the other heron children.

But these three young herons had special parents
With a secret talent.
The parents could speak other languages
So they passed this on to their young ones
And while the little herons grumbled about having to learn different words
(Especially when their friends only had lessons in one language)
This language thing because very useful when they became older

Eventually, as all young herons do, these three grew up and moved away from home
But insteading of building respective nests down the road, up the river, and across the marsh...

One flew to Holland, where herons call, "Goedemorgen!" in the mornings.
And one flew to Poland, where herons greet eachother with, "Dzien dobry!" at noon.
And one flew to France, where herons croon, "Bonne nuit!" at night.

When family reunions happened, every 3 and a half years
(in good heron tradition, of course)
The triplet herons showed up at the family home in greece
And, over the years, brought their own little families of herons
Who enjoyed flying and splashing with the other cousins
As all the grownup herons went around and pecked eachother politely on either cheek in greeting.

But when night came, all the foreign herons tucked in close with their own families
And spoke in their own languages when they said good night.

The end

Once upon a time...

There was a red dragon
Who went on an adventure with a blue dragon and a golden dinosaur

And at first all was well-
they frolicked on the trails,
enjoyed a picnic on the clifftop,
and soaked up a beautiful sunny day in God's nature.
What more could a dragon wish for?

But then.
They saw a dark hole in a cliff wall
Did they dare enter?
"It will be fun," said one.
"We should at least try," said another.
"I have a torch," said the third.

So in they went,
to the sound of eerily dripping water
and their own careful footsteps.

And they took one turn to the right.
And another to the left.
And found empty rooms with old bunks where soldiers had likely slept.
And a pipe up the ceiling where either air or escapes could be had.
And then they reached the end

And came back, still cautiously,
because they had read all the right books and knew that goblins run very softly...
and they knew that some caves have walls that open up.
So one walked in front with the torch
And one walked in the middle to watch the side walls
While one kept a good eye out backward.

That way they made it out safely.
And, after congratulating themselves on being so very brave and clever, they continued on more adventures.

The End

Once upon a time...

There was a koala who could not tell time.
His father taught him to track the sun across the sky.
His mother taught him to look at the star patterns.
His uncles taught him to follow the rhythms of the forest as the animals woke and slept.
His aunts taught him to look for food and water when fresh and cool, and to sleep during the heat.

But still he could not tell time.

So one day, he snuck into a backpack of a nearby Australian...
And flew to Malaysia.
He hoped to learn time there, but his claws had a dificult time with the mobile phones.
So he and his Australian flew to Rome.
But the Italian concept of time was unlike anything he'd ever seen.
So he and his Australian rode a bus to Vienna.
But, while 'Austria' and 'Australia' may look similar, the language and punctuality confused his brain.
So he and his Australian took a train to the Czech Republic.
And there, the koala was happy.
Because there were clocks everywhere - big ones on churches, medium ones on walls, and little ones in shops.
And the koala was so happy, and so content, that he snuck out of the Australian's backpack.
He made his way into a restaurant, and climbed up in the rafters.
There he was above the food and surrounded by a city of clocks.
And he became famous, and fat, and even more contented in all of that.
So they named the restaurant after him.

And while some say this is just a legend, that very place is still there to this day.

Once upon a time...

There was a money lender, in a far off land.

And there was a certain woman on his list, high on his list of debtors.
She had no money left to pay him after her husband died, so he began to think of what he could salvage from the situation
"Aha," he thought, "she has two sons!"
"I shall take them for slaves and gain it all back!"

The woman, well aware of his plans, went to the Wise Man.
The Wise Man, also known as the Miracle Worker, listened as she cried out her story
"How can i help you?" he asked. "What do you have in your house?"

She thought this an odd question, but answered truthfully,
"Nothing there at all."
He waited....
Then she remembered!
"I do have a little oil..."
The Wonder Worker smiled, and told her what to do.

The creditor's wife soon heard a knocking at her door.
It was the widow.
"May I borrow some of your jars, please?"
Knowing that God blesses those who are generous to the poor, the creditor's wife agreed, as did the other neighbors.
Surprised as they were at the odd request from a penniless woman, they were soon even more surprised!
Because the widow soon and somehow had oil jars upon oil jars upon oil jars full to sell!
And word soon went round, how the Wonder Worker had worked yet another miracle.
This time, how he had used God's power to multiply the oil into enough to sell, pay the debts, and live on.
And while some were surprised that nothing more dramatic had happened (such as a resurrection of the dead husband, surely the most practical solution and well within the Wise Man's abilities)... or a rich kinsman redeemer appearing to marry the woman...
The story of the widow and the oil became one of the most treasured tales of the village
How one woman, who had almost nothing, gained more; how when she was at her emptiest, she was suddenly filled from the hand of God.
It quietly gave hope to others, who felt empty inside.
Perhaps the same God who cared for one poor widow would care for their dryness as well.

The end

Once upon a time
There were three camels
And when they were young, they had no names
Besides "Baby White" "Baby Black" and "Baby Brown"

But as they grew into adolescents this was more troublesome
Because proper camels should have proper names
So their Bedouin owner sat in his tent and tried different names aloud
"Wise one" "Strong one" "Fair one"
He would shake his head dismally each time.
Occasionally his wife would call suggestions as she bent over the hearth
"Bright eyes? Starry one? Path Seeker?"
He would only shake his head again and lament the fate of the poor nameless camels, and the shame that would bring to his tent.

But one day, a traveller visited the nomad village
As was courteous, he greeted them in peace and asked if he might stay and trade stories for a time
Since storytellers were highly thought of, he was immediately welcomed to the chief's tent, fed the finest foods, and invited to stay as long as he wished.
Each night that week, he told a different story, or perhaps two or three

And one night, while the poor owner of the camels was squatting with the men by the campfire, the storyteller told a tale of three men, serving in the court of a king
The king was fierce and mighty, and demanded much respect from his people
(The men nodded - this was only right)
And one feast day, the people gathered, and much music was played
(The women, listening from within the tents, murmured approvingly- what was a feast with no fine foods and accompaniment?)

And then - the storyteller threw his hands up to the sky - a huge statue was revealed, shining and golden!
(The children, playing around the fire, gasped excitedly)
And the storyteller explained dramatically that as the vast sea of people bowed, as commanded, to worship the statue and their king...
Three men remained standing!
The entire village, listening to the story, fell into stunned silence.
"What audacity!" "What dishonour to their families and to the king!" "Surely he would have them killed or thrown out for defying his power!"

The storyteller swept his gaze around the tents
"The three men," he said slowly, "were called to the king's presence."
" O king," the three said, "we do not need to defend ourselves before you."
(The villagers rolled their eyes and clicked their tongues. "Foolish men, to not plead for mercy or at least a quick death.")
But the storyteller continued in a measured voice,"if we are killed, the God we serve is able to save us, and he will rescue us from your hand, O king."
Quiet murmurs. This was a new idea. That Allah would step into fate and change it for the sake of three rebels... this would need discussed by the elders.
"But even if He does not, we want you to know, O king, that we will not serve your gods or worship the image of gold you have set up."
The storyteller was silent, and let that sink in
Again, a new concept. It would need due attention.
And the village was intent on giving it due attention, silently and not so silently, when a small hand tugged at the storyteller's robes.
"And then what? Then what?" came a child's voice clearly over the crackle of the flames.
The storyteller, lit by the bonfire's light, looked gravely at the small one
(The child's mother put her hand over her mouth and waited)
"Then, my child...
Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego were thrown into a FIRE."
The children gasped.
The mothers swished their skirts nervously.
The fathers pulled their beards and tried to look unconcerned.

Suddenly, oddly, the storyteller smiled
"The king," he continued, "looked into the fire and gasped too!
For there, walking around unharmed, were the three men!"

The storyteller paused to let the hum die down.
"And with those fearless three was one more, a shining one, who appeared as a son of the gods.
The king cried out, 'Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, servants of the Most High God, come out! Come here!'
And they stepped out.
Unharmed.
Untouched by the smoke, even.
The king saw what a fool he had been.
To set himself up against God and God's followers.
He decreed that his entire kingdom should worship the one true God,
Saying, 'For no other god can save in this way!' "

The storyteller bowed his head, and indicated that his story was at an end
The villagers had much to think about that night.
And for many nights after, as long as the storyteller stayed, and then after that.
For many of them became followers of the one true God, and storytellers to their own people as well

And the camel owner...

Well, he had names for his three camels *and* a story to tell to those who recorded the camel pedigrees.

Once upon a time

There was a dinosaur
Who lived under a bridge on a table with other interesting items
But he was a lonely dinosaur
And he used to watch the humans go by sadly,
wishing he belonged to a little girl or boy who would love and hug him.

One day, a girl walked by
But stopped to look at him with bright curious eyes
She wasn't a little girl tho
Or even a medium girl
She was a big girl
Practically a grownup
But she had young eyes
And he liked the way she smiled at him
He liked even more the way she walked up and tapped his head softly.
He let himself hope - just for half a moment.
He hoped that she was little girl enough inside to buy him.

But she didn't buy him
Just smiled one more time and walked away
And he tried not to let it matter too much
But then!
A few days later
Another girl walked right up to him
She was also a big girl
Who also had young eyes
Which he found very curious
Two girls like that in one week!
But this girl (he held his dinosaurish breath) held out money
The vendor took it

Then the girl picked him up in her warm hands
Took him home in her bookbag
And when she pulled him, out, blinking, he saw a comfy room in a quick glance
Before he landed, upside down and sideways, in another pair of warm hands
When he was turned right side up
And lifted gently up to another face
He was surprised
And delighted

Because he was looking at the young eyes of the first girl
And suddenly he was squished carefully into a hug
As the girls hugged too
Then he heard a voice saying, "You told me you saw a dinosaur... so i got it for you."
In that way, the lonely dinosaur found a home with *two* girls who loved him.
And they lived happily ever after.

(And one day, another small not-quite-dinosaurish friend came to live with them, but that is another story...)