once upon a time

there were four little red and gold dragons

one went off to a round faced singing boy, who set it on the piano and composed happy music to charm the world. the dragon learned to sing and chirp and hum along, and had a beautiful extroverted life ahead of him, constant giggles and deep reflections running through the notes like ripples on a pond.

one went off to a bright little boy with numbers and building blocks dancing around his head, and together they built many spaceships and solved many riddles, pausing occasionally to explain to others the fun and rules ( and changing the rules when profitable.)

and one sibling went off to a quiet boy who thought like a ninja and enjoyed green things, and who had been wanting a dragon for quite a while, being of a dragonish talent himself. he taught the dragon how to speak different languages and move invisibly, and they spent a pleasant amount of time doing that in their own good company.

but the fourth dragon got tucked into a hoodie pocket of a thoughtful sort of girl and carried off on all sorts of adventures. sometimes the two went to photo club and learned all about apertures and focus, and sometimes they wrote stories together, with the door shut on the world so they could find a little peace and a better storyline.

and in the end, all the dragons chose exactly right, and while they looked near identical, they each shared unique moments with unique owners and, over the years, shape shifted to look a little more like them in tiny but pleasing ways.

the end

Once upon a time...

There was a sailboat in and out of the harbour, and this one particular docking took so long she started thinking about the barnacles and comforts she found there. In between talking with other boats, teasing the seagulls, and taking extra credit courses on navigation, she hardly heard her captain mention a new eastern voyage. The next few weeks were spent in new maneuvers, loading supplies, and making the most of last hours with her sailing friends. But then one day she woke up to an odd sense of calm over the harbour. She told herself it was because she'd finished her course and the others were still busy with theirs... she took some good draughts of freshwater while it was handy... and still the quiet remained. She finally looked around and realised that everything was ready for the trip... except for her. She had hardly thought about what it would mean, only what it would not mean... less friend boats around, less quiet evenings at rest during the sunset, less mornings of impatience. What the trip would mean, who knew? New horizons and stories, evenings and mornings, boats and seagulls... she would find out soon enough....

Once upon a time...

There was a sleepy dragon. This dragon was so sleepy, it could barely keep its eyes open. But it knew it had to find a warm place to sleep or it would get chilled. Since it was a very small dragon, about the size of your hand, it only needed a small space. The problem was that, since it was so small, it was very easily stepped on or knocked over (once it took a nap in a visitor's purse and got dropped when they stood up to go).

So the very sleepy dragon started ambling through the house in search of a cosy place. It dodged around a counter, almost walked into a chair, and narrowly escaped being hit by a swinging door. Hrrr'ing in annoyance, the dragon finally gave up and began climbing the wall. Digging its little claws in, it went paw by paw up until it reached the ceiling, then climbed onto that. Although the ceiling looked so safe from the busy traffic floor, the dragon realised that there were things to be careful of while up top too. There was a ceiling fan in the living room, and door frames to climb over, and spider webs to avoid. For a moment, it felt a warmth by its feet, and felt hopeful... but then realised there were light bulbs warming a small bit of the ceiling, and there was no place to curl up by them.

So on and on the poor little dragon travelled, though by this time it was so very tired that it kept tripping and almost fell up into the air. But finally, finally, the dragon sensed some warmth nearby and tumbled gratefully onto the top of a cupboard, right next to a delicious hot air vent. Safe from feet and hands, comfy and warm... it was the perfect place for a nap. The dragon sighed contentedly, closed its eyes, and curled up with its tail around cosily till it could rest its head on the tippy point. Then it gave a huge yawn from its tiny mouth and went to sleep in peace.

The end.

Once upon a time...

A baby was born. There were already hints of sea blue eyes and sand yellow hair and sparkly adventures, but for the moment she was simply a beautiful small child.

And the fairies that hung around her cradle on the evening of her first half-birthday discussed what to do with her. "Let's steal her!" suggested one mischievous imp. "She'll take care of our children when she grows up and sing them songs." "I think she should cook for us," said one practical fairy, "and then we'll have more time for magic."
"Take a better look at her," said one fairy, very very quietly. One and then several at a time, the fairies and pixies leaned over her and took a good long look at her. "Oh," they nodded and backed away carefully, "oh."

"Yes," said the quiet one. "This is a dangerous one. She has the Story Magic."

The fairies agreed among themselves that stealing a human child with Story Magic would be a very bad idea and a very grave mistake. "But why?" wondered a young pixie who had slipped in behind the older ones. "Why is that so bad? We love stories. She could tell them to our babies, and amuse our children while they spin cobwebs, and spin tales by the campfire. We have Story Magic ourselves. She would fit in."

The older and wiser fairies murmured in disagreement. One wrinkly small lady shook her light green head seriously. "No, that will not do. You see, a human's Story Magic is stronger than ours. Our stories- we bind and weave, colour and glamour, twist and darken and lighten what is there. But human stories have the power to change things, to shift and shape reality into something else." She gestured with a tiny hand to the wide-eyed baby, "this one, we should keep an eye on. She has many stories ahead of her...."

As the sun began to rise, the fairies started to pick up their leafy packs and head back to the woods. The quiet fairy, the one who had warned them against stealing the baby, waited till the others drifted out the foggy window. Then she wafted back to lean over the bed. "Sweet dreams, little one. It is glad I am that you won't be serving our kind. But all the same... you are welcome to visit our world when it pleases you, small Story Spinner."

With that, she blew a dusting of silver powder over the baby, who only smiled and closed her eyes.

Once there was a girl with a dragon necklace.

She was idly playing with it - a small silver pendant on a leather cord - while visiting by a village campfire, tucked in
the jungles of Suriname. As she and her new friends laughed and told stories late into the night, the necklace caught the firelight and twinkled. One of the toddling children, cuddled on the girl's lap, reached up to touch it, and the owner obligingly took it off and dangled it above the sleepy head. "Pretty trinket," agreed one of the young men, white teeth flashing. The village girl sitting next to him gave him a push. "Was that a gift to you from some special friend?" she asked pointedly, pulling on a beaded necklace of her own. "No, no," smiled the outsider, "I just found it in a box of beads and jewelry once, and I liked it." Except for the little one on her lap, still intent on the twisted metal shape, everyone looked a little disappointed.

"No story?" The girl shook her head apologetically. "That's all. It suits me." And so it did, as she sat cross-legged on the ground, in a black tshirt and worn brown cargoes. The toddler lost interest as he drowsed off, and she carefully refastened the cord around her neck. "Although...." she said slowly, and the group shifted curiously. "Yes?" came the question from two or three dusky faces. She looked up absently at the scattered stars. "I do have a small story... I lost this once." The cluster shifted to more comfortable positions in anticipation, some leaning on logs, some against each other, as she traced thoughts from before into a story between the faroff old days and the warm evening there in the rainforest.

"A few years ago, I moved North, taking the dragon with me. I found a cord for it in a market there, and wore it everywhere. And I wore it when I came back to the South to visit. I--" her voice caught a little. "I knew I would move back to the South eventually. And that scared me."

One of the village girls patted her shoulder quietly. "I have never moved," she offered carefully, "but it seems a hard thing." The outsider nodded gratefully. "It is a hard thing, even when it is a good thing. I knew God was with me, and to see my family and friends was special. But it was hard, to think of returning. I spent a lot of evenings at my sister's house, finding comfort." The heads around the circle nodded in understanding. They knew very well the strength of family- life in the culture often centred around it. To be family was to be bound together within and across communities. But the understanding turned to concern as the storyteller from a different land went on.

"It was at her house that that I lost my necklace, the night before I returned North. I missed it around my neck. When I wrote to her, she asked if she should send to me." "There's a good sister for you," came an approving voice. "That she is. But I told her to wait, to hold onto it for me, to give it to me when I returned." The one village girl stopped playing with her beads and made a confused face. "But wasn't it a long while till you came back?"

"Yes... nearly a year..." Raised eyebrows seemed to imply that she must not hold her pendant in high value, to leave it so far away for so long. "There were still days I wished I had it, to be sure. But..." her voice grew soft. "It made me feel better, knowing in some way it was waiting for me at her house. If I believed in magic, I might say it was watching over her, but only God can do that. Instead, it was a small reminder to me that it- and my sister - would be there when I moved to the South again. That I would have them, familiar, and precious to me, when other things might be strange, and unwelcoming."

She touched her dragon necklace as it lay comfortably in the hollow of her collarbones. "And now I wear it here, where a small child can play with it, and where I can share my stories with you, my friends."

Once upon a time

There was a Welsh vacation, up in the high hills, for a girl and some hiking teammates. They all enjoyed the sunshine, and walked through the mist, and tramped over the hills, and camped by the rivers.

But for this one girl, there seemed to always be tickles round the corner of her memory, especially in the mist.
When she walked the trails up Cadair Idris, she wondered who had walked there before her, and what tribes had slept in the fields where she and her team slept each night.

Once she saw a heron perching on a bank, lazily watching her and her friends as they walked a path where the old railroad used to trace the land's curve. There were seagulls at Barmouth, playing tag in the sunlight as she warmed toes in the hot sun with the others. Their group, tracking small bits of peat moss and mountain grass over the cobblestone streets, had walked into a small store and bought fish and chips, from a row of nondescript buildings that gradually stretched into prettier Victorian homes up the coast.

They carried on from there, reluctantly stuffing sandy feet back into hiking boots and pulling their heavy packs back on. They camped, and marched, and rock climbed; they joined with other groups, split off again. They forded streams, spent nights under the stars, hid faces from the rain that dogged their way and stripped off outer layers when the sun welcomed them into new mornings and roads. And eventually they circled back to where it all began, on the hills overlooking the Avon Dyfi, or River Dyfi. They dropped their packs for the last time at Aberdovey, up above the Outward Bound Training School, and the girl wondered at all the ground they'd covered. When she held the grimy map, she traced the way they'd gone all around the northern part of the country, and all the big places marked, and all the small memories unmarked. Llyn Cau, a turquoise surprise of a lake, where one teammate had twisted an ankle. An anonymous bog valley where they'd pitched tents on the softest moss imagineable, and played cards all one morning while a storm blew around and slower teams tried to catch up. The mountainside where they'd paused to eat, and to look out across the sea as far as they could through the curious mist. The roads that passed equally calmly through little houses with laundry outside, to fern forests where any moment a harping bard or wolf might casually cross the path.

She folded up the map. Maybe she'd be back in Wales some day. Maybe not. But the memories don't go away so easily, and they find their way into other places and stories in sweet odd ways, magical Cymru....

once upon a time there was a pear tree by a pond
in the fall it dropped its leaves one by one
and while it cried for its loss
the dragonflies came to play tag
and the mother sparrows taught their babies to dart in between
and the pixies used the heaps to build houses in
and when the winter came, the mice borrowed fireflies and had council rings under the sheltering leaf piles
and the worms wore long sleepy smiles at all the delicious earthy food the leaves would turn into
and the baby leaf buds grew quietly and comforted the pear tree and reassured it that
there would always be more, there would always be life
the caterpillars rustled and nodded peacefully in their cocoons and promised to teach the new leaves all there was to know about flying when the time came
and the drowsy owls thought that everyone complained too much all the time and should just enjoy life while it was there.
in the end, they were all right
the end

"We have always been D__ville people," was the quote from one of the more established families in the area, as I interviewed the visitors of the small but gracious seaside community.

Miss A__ stared eloquently across the water and rested her dainty gloves on her ivory parasol handle as i interviewed her
"We have been coming here, oh, since I can remember," she continued, a hint of a nostalgia in her voice
She then nodded back at the tasteful cottage, adding, "And Maman and Papa long before that."

I found out, while interviewing with the lovely demoiselle of the house, that the A___ Family is accustomed to spending their Thanksgiving holidays at the seaside, among other occasions. They currently reside in the bustling town of M____, a fact Miss A___ has little to comment on beyond a rue shrug.
"It is the employment there, what can I say?"
One is hardly surprised at her opinion, however gently expressed- M___ is hardly the social capital of the world, or even of the area. Small wonder, then, that she and her family make the arduous carriage ride to their haven at D___ville as often as feasible.

When I mention this, she gives a small laugh.
"Arduous? Heavens, no. There are so many quaint inns along the road, and the restaurants..." -she kisses her fingers in the French fashion, reminding me that, of course, she has toured Europe and even parts of the Pacific.

"Why the restaurants?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
Her skill in the kitchen is a well kept secret, but any who are privileged to know and visit her may be delighted with the creations that issue forth. Small wonder, then, that she mentioned the restaurants as bright spots, but just as smoothly avoids any revealing comments. "I simply enjoy sampling the food wherever I am, you know, plus the pauses along the road give my dear Jacques a chance to stretch his paws, don't they my darling?" (This last was addressed to her diminutive terrier, though to refer to him as a dog seemed almost insulting in light of her obvious appreciation of his intellectual and even personable qualities.)

Before I could ask any more questions, I heard a voice from inside their summer home calling the Mademoiselle by name.
She turned to me with an enchanting smile.
"It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, albeit during an interview, and I do hope you found what you were wanting?"
I assured her that I had, in abundance, and that the pleasure was mutual.
With that, she dropped a small curtsey, as I walked off into the sunset, literally, musing over the conversation and my notes.

A holiday in D___ville indeed....

The End

Once upon a time....

There was a small wolf who fell out of bed.

Well, to be precise, he didn't fall out of bed. His name was Wolfling, and he grew tired of sleeping nicely next to the little boy who owned him, and that was where the trouble all started.

Rule Number One of the Code of Stuffed Animals stated that, "The first duty of each Stuffed Animal is to make his or her Child happy. Sections A, B, and C detailed how this could be accomplished during Playtime, Sadtime, and Sleeptime, respectively.

While Rule Number One could be hard, especially during long travel days and teary times at home, Rule Number Two was no easier. "Only let Children, not Grownups, know you are alive." Children, now, were different, as everyone knew, but Grownups could be dangerous.

Rule Number Three was the last and best of the rules. "Watch over your Child." Naturally, this was close to the other two rules, because making someone happy is a good way of taking care of them, and being an innocent stuffed animal gave you more time with your Child.

Now, when Wolfling fell off, he felt very sorry to have possibly broken Rule 3, because how can you watch over your Child when under the bed? As Wolfling lay under the bed and felt like a horrible Stuffed Animal, he heard the beginnings of a noise. And this noise went on and on, and eventually his small furry ears recognised it for a storm outside. And before long, he heard another noise, one he recognised. A Child whimpering. And it was his own Child up on the bed, afraid of the storm, and alone. Wolfling felt worse and worse.

But just then, one more noise started. The bed above him was creaking. And in another minute, he was pushed aside as something else crawled underneath the bed slats with him. Something brushed him to the side, then touched him again more carefully. Wolfling smiled, because he recognised that hand.

It only took two seconds for the hand to recognise Wolfling's furry self too, and only one more before he was tucked up *very* tightly next to his child. The storm went on outside, but under the bed was warm and safe. And they both sighed contentedly. And went back to sleep.

The End

Once upon a time...

There was a traveling bard, who made it back to his old home city. He remembered it as a city of music, and stories, and when he returned, he found it much the same, but himself changed. Surrounded by so many, so many people, he was glad that he still was himself enough to speak out, share what he had. And so he did.

But before long, he realised that he only ever shared part of what he held inside himself. He told stories upon stories - but not all the stories. There were some he felt too uncertain to be shared, like newborns. He sang songs upon songs, yet neglected to mention the ones he had himself written. He told himself in time he would sing those too, that they were yet too raw, too unpolished. What was truer, he realised, in quiet moments in his attic room, was that he felt himself too raw, too unpolished. Who was he to offer his own work, with such an array of stories and songs from other more experienced bards?

One day, though, he was feeling ill from the crowds and clamour, however friendly, and escaped to the countryside. He sat under a tree, wishing for some wisdom to fall from above, and he paced a field, hoping some answers would spring up under his feet. He would gladly suffer bruises and tumbles as long as they took him in the right direction....

Finally, tired, and no closer to an answer than before, he trudged back to the city. Hoping against hope, he kept his ears open, and eyes expectant. Still nothing. Yet when he reached the square, and saw the friendly nods of the merchants and heard welcoming cries from the urchins on the street, he found that he had found his peace. For as long as he was there, he was there, to sing and story and serve. Beyond that, he could not ask for so much more. And he need not force openness from himself, but neither need he hide in his attic and fine-tune what was in his heart into an age past living. Thus he climbed his stairs with a lighter heart and dusty boots, a new story already forming in his mind, a story of himself....

Once upon a time...

There was a misplaced dragon.

He had been minding his own business, comfortable on a store shelf with other dragons like his shiny self, when suddenly he was picked up, purchased, and popped in a bag. When he was pulled out, he found himself surrounded by big, intimidating dragons on a bookshelf. On one side a fat purple Grorkle was waiting impatiently and flicking fire between his teeth. Two double-headed blues looked at him curiously from all angles. And various others examined him head to toe and made indistinguishable comments through the sound of their wings and teeth and clawed feet. The poor new dragon was rather frightened.

But, being rather spunky, as most small dragons are, he bristled his spiky wingtips, arched his back, and showed his own teeth. He might be half their size, but if they attacked, he would give them scars to remember him by. He rattled the last of his scales, pointed his ears, and was about to make his first move when, suddenly, he heard approving laughter over his head. Looking up, he saw a graceful red dragon hover, then land. Once down, she bowed her head politely, and, more than a little surprised, the small dragon bowed back. "Greetings," she said in melodious tones. "I am Garnet, or Garnie, for short. And these are the rest of the dragon-band. Forgive them, they are very curious and not very mannered. But we welcome you all the same."

And with that, she gently touched his nose with hers in salutation, and the other dragons followed suit, even down to the swaggering grey one. As they went through introductions, the small dragon relaxed. While he had expected to be handled and dropped by some child, after purchase, he was hardly about to say no to new friends of his own kind.This looked to be a very good year...

The End

Once upon a time...

There was a Greek lizard. It lived on a bright white balcony, not too far from the coast, and spent its days climbing the stucco walls of the house or soaking up the sun. Sometimes other lizards scurried across the warm pavement from nearby houses, and they would sit companionably on the flat rooftops and watch the world below. In the evenings, the bugs came out along with the stars, so the lizards would pick out the different constellations during dinner. They had to be careful of the bats that came swooping through the night, but beyond that, life was sweet, and very contented.

As the years went on, the lizard grew old, and soon spent less time wandering and more time relaxing. It spent the mornings sleeping under the geraniums on the balcony, and the afternoons sitting with friends. And each evening was one more hello to night and goodbye to day. Since one rarely knows which lizard is which, and how old they grow, no one thinks of endings and goodbyes. Instead, the lizards could be said to live on and on like the stars, and watch over the little Greek houses.

The End

Once upon a time...

There was a fat baby.
A very fat baby.
A very very fat baby.

He was so fat that he had wrinkles inside the wrinkles on his arms, and folds on top of the folds on his legs. But he was so cute and so cheerful that no one even thought to suggest he go on a diet or do something about his appearance. He eventually, naturally, got older, and while he did slim down a little, there were no compliments or psychological transition in his relationships. Instead, total strangers continued to coo silly things to him and once the stewardesses on the airplane whisked him away from his mother so they could enjoy playing with him, and possibly even show the pilot. The mother, who was a little surprised, was still a calm sort of person who knew that her small person would be returned by the end of the flight. And so he was, covered in lipstick kisses and with what looked like chocolate smears on his mouth. As everyone knows, babies should not eat too much chocolate, but he was getting to an almost older age when it was safe. In any case, he suffered no permanent damage from the chocolate (or the kisses or temporary kidnapping) and carried on quite happily with life. On that particular trip, indeed, there were photos taken of him with any number of beautiful women, who left their respective kiss marks and/or affectionate pinches on his cheeks.

When he got old enough to grow out of the baby fat, he was informed that, rather than being unique in his adorable obesity, his sister had also charmed strangers and endured sweet affliction (and chocolate). Both children, indeed, were to be congratulated that they do not to this day bear permanent stretch or red marks on their well-used cheeks. Both continue to frequent airplanes, but there have been no bribes or temporary kidnappings reported. And while neither sibling has yet found a spouse and married, the world surely awaits with anticipation the day when more fat cheerful babies appear to lighten mundane life and attract the adoration of the masses.

The End

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.