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Category: short-stories

  • The Pumpkin Lord and the Stolen Carrots

    The Pumpkin Lord and the Stolen Carrots

    The Pumpkin Lord gobbles all the carrots of Greenleaf! — illustration by Ber Schein 2025

    Once upon a time, in the cozy little village of Greenleaf, there lived a most terrible, greedy Pumpkin Lord named Grumblegourd. He was the biggest, roundest pumpkin anyone had ever seen, his orange skin ridged like the hills, his scowling face carved deep into his rind. And oh, how he scowled—a permanent, grumpy frown that never, ever turned upside down. He had two tiny, grasping hands, and those hands were always busy snatching and grabbing things that did not belong to him.

    Now, the villagers of Greenleaf were gentlefolk—rabbits and squirrels, hedgehogs and field mice, all living together in harmony. They loved their gardens, where neat rows of plump carrots and crisp lettuces stretched toward the sun. They cherished their tea parties, where teapots whistled merrily and biscuits crunched just right. And they adored their bright blue bicycles, which they pedaled through the cobbled streets, ringing their bells with cheerful trrring-trrrings and waving their paws to their friends.

    Greenleaf was a village of sharing. If one villager’s basket was light, another would fill it with apples. If someone’s roof leaked, the whole village would climb up and patch it together. They took turns telling stories in the town square, where fireflies danced in the lantern light, and even the littlest sprouts, with their twitchy noses and wobbly voices, were always listened to.

    Yes, everything in Greenleaf was just so, warm and wonderful—until Grumblegourd came along.

    But Grumblegourd didn’t like sharing. Not one little bit.

    “I deserve all the carrots,” he grumbled one morning, stomping his stubby feet so hard that a puff of dust rose around him. His tiny hands clenched into fists. “Carrots are the best vegetables! The biggest, the strongest, the most orange! And since I am the biggest, the strongest, and the most orange, they should be mine—all mine!”

    The villagers, of course, would never agree to such nonsense. So Grumblegourd didn’t ask.

    That very night, while the moon lay drowsy behind a blanket of clouds, the gardens of Greenleaf held their breath. The wind stilled. The leaves trembled.

    Then—slither, slither, creep, and crawl.

    From the shadows, they came. Grumblegourd’s crooked-vine minions—wriggling, grasping, slinking things that twisted and coiled through the earth, their sly, leafy voices hissing in the dark:

    “Fake radishes!” one spat, curling around a fence post.

    “Lying lettuce!” sneered another, twisting through the garden gate.

    “Only carrots are true and strong!” they whispered, winding through the rows, wrapping their tendrils tight.

    And finally, a low, rustling chorus:

    “In Grumblegourd’s pockets is where all carrots belong!”

    Like great looming green shadows, the vines slunk into the villagers’ neatly tended gardens. They wriggled under fences, coiled around trellises, and tightened their grip like creeping fingers. The air shivered with their rustling whispers.

    And then—SNAP! TWIST! PULL!

    With a wicked yoink!, they snatched up every last carrot.

    By morning, the village was in an uproar.

    Stew pots bubbled sadly without their tender orange medallions. Baskets sat empty where golden carrots had once been piled high. Tiny rabbits sniffled, their breakfasts ruined. The hedgehogs grumbled into their tea. The mice wrung their little paws.

    “Where have our carrots gone?” the villagers cried.

    And then—just as the morning sun stretched its golden fingers over the rooftops—Grumblegourd waddled into the square.

    He was chewing. Loudly.

    The villagers gasped. A carrot. Right there in his stubby-fingered hands. A plump, bright, stolen carrot.

    “I have protected the carrots,” he declared, his voice thick with crunch-crunch-crunching. “And now they are safe. You should be thanking me.”

    The villagers stared.

    Their whiskers bristled.

    Their tails twitched.

    This was not going to stand.

    “But you stole them!” cried a little rabbit named Tilly, her ears twitching with outrage.

    “Wrong!” bellowed Grumblegourd, puffing up his enormous, round belly. His tiny hands jabbed at the sky. “I won the carrots! Everyone says so.”

    And because the crooked vines that slithered around his feet were enchanted to repeat everything he said, soon half the village started nodding.

    “He won the carrots,” they murmured, blinking uncertainly at each other.

    “Well… they are very orange,” admitted an old hedgehog.

    “And he is very big…” whispered a mouse.

    “And very loud,” added a squirrel, rubbing her ears.

    And that was how Grumblegourd took the carrots without a single bite of truth.

    But Grumblegourd wasn’t done.

    His squinty pumpkin eyes narrowed at the tea parties.

    The villagers loved their tea parties. They sipped chamomile and mint, nibbled on lemon biscuits, and talked about important things—how to keep the village fair, how to share the harvest, how to take care of one another.

    Grumblegourd hated tea parties. People there talked too much.
    They asked too many questions. They noticed things.

    So he spilled every single teapot and smashed all the little tea cups.

    Plop! went the chamomile, splattering across the cobblestones.

    Splat! went the sugar bowls, crashing into the dirt.

    Stomp-stomp-stomp! went Grumblegourd’s feet, kicking chrysanthemums and lavender into the wind.

    “Tea parties are for children!” he roared, his stubby hands waving wildly. “Real villagers drink MUD!”

    Then he grinned, wide and wicked, his jagged pumpkin mouth splitting from cheek to cheek.

    Some of the villagers frowned.

    “But… we like tea,” murmured a squirrel, brushing soggy leaves off her apron.

    Grumblegourd stuffed his ears with carrot tops. “I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” he bellowed, stomping harder.

    Then he went after their bicycles.

    The bicycles were important. They were how the villagers zipped from house to house. How they brought messages. How they checked on their neighbors.

    But Grumblegourd didn’t want neighbors talking. Neighbors might compare notes. Neighbors might remember things. So he popped every tire. He snapped every chain. He ripped every bell right off the handlebars. Then he laughed and danced. And puffed out his chest, declaring himself a genius with no shame.

    “Now no one can go anywhere but my pumpkin patch!” he cackled, his grinning face flickering in the lantern light. “I’m the greatest-most-best-hugest pumpkin of ALL TIME!”

    The villagers stared at the wreckage. Their gardens were raided. Their tea parties were ruined. Their bicycles were broken. And they were tired. So very, very tired. The Pumpkin Lord’s antics were exhausting.

    And as Grumblegourd grinned wide over his mountain of stolen carrots, the villagers of Greenleaf stood in silent, simmering outrage.

    Their gardens were ruined. Their tea was spilled. Their bicycles lay in pieces. And they knew one thing for certain.

    This. Could. Not. Go. On.

    A hush fell over the square.

    But the littlest rabbit, Tilly, wasn’t tired. She saw what the Pumpkin Lord was doing. She remembered. Every stolen carrot. Every shattered teapot. Every broken bicycle. And she was not afraid to say it out loud.

    Tilly hopped onto a tree stump, her tiny paws firm, her ears standing tall. She took a deep breath, puffed out her chest, and shouted so loud the whole village could hear:

    “He took the carrots! He broke the teapots! He wrecked the bicycles! And he’s going to keep taking and breaking until there’s nothing left!”

    The villagers stopped.

    They blinked.

    They looked at the pumpkin-shaped shadow looming over her.

    Grumblegourd’s scowl deepened.

    “THAT’S A LIE!” Grumblegourd howled, puffing up like a thundercloud, his stubby fingers jabbing at the sky. “I WOULD NEVER—”

    But then—CRACK! CRUNCH! His foot landed on a broken bicycle.

    The wheel wobbled. The chain snapped. The villagers gasped.

    Wobble-wobble-wobble—BOOM!

    Grumblegourd toppled. He teetered. He tottered. He rolled. Tumbling down the hill, bouncing and bumping, leaving behind a messy trail of stolen carrots, sugar cubes, and teabags.

    His enormous, round pumpkin body tumbled down the hill, bouncing and bumping, leaving behind a trail of stolen carrots, sugar cubes, and teabags.

    The villagers gasped. They turned to one another. And then—Tilly giggled.

    A tiny, bubbling, unstoppable giggle.

    And then her friends giggled. And then the whole village laughed!

    Laughed so hard their whiskers shook, so loud their tails twitched, so long that even the moon peeked out to see what all the fuss was about.

    Then, without a moment to waste, the villagers rolled up their sleeves.

    They dug their little paws into the earth, planting row after row of fresh green sprouts, tucking them in snug beneath the soil.

    They scrubbed their teapots until they gleamed, polished their cups until they shone, and stacked sugar cubes high in celebration. The air filled with the bright, happy clinking of spoons against saucers.

    They patched up their bicycles with clever paws and careful whiskers, tightening spokes and mending tires, until every wheel spun smooth and swift again. And then—DING-DING! TRRING-TRRING!—they rung their bells together, filling the village with music once more.

    Every year,  from that moment on, when the air turned crisp and the leaves whispered secrets to the wind, they gathered their little sprouts close and told them the tale. They spoke of the night the vines slithered in, creeping through the gardens to steal away the carrots, of how Grumblegourd stomped through their village, upending tea tables and toppling towers of sugar cubes. They told of the terrible smashing and crashing, the wails of broken bicycles and the tears in their tea-stained fur. And they told, too, of how they had stood together, paws firm, hearts brave, and put everything right again.

    And so, with lanterns aglow and mugs of spiced cider in their paws, the little ones listened wide-eyed, tails curled tight, learning well the lesson of Grumblegourd—that a Pumpkin Lord might come once, or even twice, but that together, they would always keep their carrots safe.

    And that is how Greenleaf saved itself.

    And never—not ever, not even once—did they let a Pumpkin Lord steal their carrots, spill their tea, or break their bicycles again.

    The End.

  • Drifts

    The horses had died hours before, their bodies mounded beneath the relentless onslaught of snow. The man’s grim face turned back to the small clearing where his family waited. He saw their forms huddled near a meager fire, the glow barely piercing the veil of the blizzard. His young wife’s eyes, wide and frantic, met his as he approached. The baby’s cries carrying high above the howling wind.

    “We have to keep moving,” he told her, his voice steady, concealing the gnawing fear in his gut. He looked at his son shivering and stamping his feet by the fire, a boy just now stepping into his eleventh winter.

    “You know what to do. Stay here. Keep the fire going. Look after your Mamma and sister. I’ll be back.”

    The boy nodded, his face pale already hollow with hunger. The man’s hand lingered on his son’s small shoulder for a moment. The weight of it a final bit of warmth and courage. Then he was gone, swallowed by the blowing white wilderness.

    His mother’s breath came in ragged gasps, her fear palpable. He knew he had to take charge. He fed the fire, the crackling flames offering a semblance of hope and gathered what branches he could and began constructing a crude  lean-to, his fingers numb and clumsy in the cold.

    “Stay close to the fire, Ma.” She clutched the baby tighter, her eyes darting around suspicious of the growing shadows and small sounds of the forest around them.

    Night came fast. The temperature falling with the sun. The wind shrieked through the pines sending icy daggers of cold breath racing through the brittle trees. The drifts around them froze. The boy worked tirelessly, stacking pine boughs for insulation. He knew the lean-to wouldn’t be enough.  

    He glanced at his mother, rocking the baby who would not be quieted. She herself was crying. Tears streaked her pale cheeks. The boy stopped and watched her. Her color was fading. She rocked the baby girl in her arms, holding her tight to her naked chest beneath chamise, flannel, coat, and blanket. She crooned and whispered to the babe, and the child cried and cried.

    “It’ll be alright, Ma.” 

    The wind howled. Snow fell in flurries. His mother did not respond.

    The fire, now a flickering heartbeat in the darkness, was a greedy friend. The boy broke off dead branches, his hands aching with the effort. His fingers numb, he struggled to open his old folding knife. He fumbled with the cold steel and dropped the tool in the snow. He stared at the small tunnel the knife had punched in the hardening snow. He grimaced and cupped his hands to his mouth, trying to breath what little warmth he had left into them. Then he plunged his right arm into the snow to his shoulder, searching for the gnarled stag scales and cold carbon steel. When he pulled his hand back his fingers had lost all feeling and he had to look to see if he’d recovered the blade.

    He moved to the fire and held his small hands over the timid flames. The meager kindling he’d gathered was nearly gone, and as he squatted in the shifting smoke and swirling snow, he surveyed their surroundings, searching for easy wood, low-hanging branches, and shedding bark. Darkness crept upon their camp like an all-consuming tide. Visibility fell, and the boy knew he’d have to venture far from the fire’s light to secure more fuel.

    “Stay close, Ma,” he repeated, though his mother seemed lost in her fear, her eyes glassy and unfocused. He knew he couldn’t rely on her. It was up to him alone.

    Hours passed, the storm unrelenting. The boy’s mind wandered. The terrible cold was beautiful. Ice and frost and flakes shimmered in the fire’s light and he felt guilty marveling at it all. The wind whistled its buffeting song biting his exposed cheeks and nose and fingers. He made himself move, only pausing by the fire long enough to feel his hands again and then back out into the dark beyond where no comfort was to be found. Endless night shrouded in endless snow, the cold binding them all to inescapable hardness.

    And then the predators came, hungry at the cry of the babe, her wails a beacon in the night. He heard them calling to one another in the darkness, distant at first, like a memory of a dream. The wind carried their eager conversations distorting them across space and time confusing the boy’s efforts to track their threats. 

    The fire consumed the wood as the night consumed the boy. He felt for the old revolver his father had tied hastily to his narrow waist. The weight of it and the power that dwelled there scared him. It was big and heavy, and his hands were not large enough or strong enough to cock the hammer, aim, and fire. 

    The night dragged on, an endless battle against the cold and the predators. The boy’s body ached with exhaustion, but he couldn’t afford to rest. He checked the lean-to, ensured his mother and sister were as sheltered as possible, and fed the fire with everything he could find.

    The storm showed no sign of abating, the wind a constant, icy whip. The boy’s fingers were numb, his face stung from the cold. His thoughts a blur, focused solely on survival.

    He remembered the stories his father told him about their ancestors, homesteaders who had braved the elements, fought off wild animals, and built a life from nothing. They had been women and men and children of iron and oak, their hearts forged by necessity and hope. Was it like this, he wondered, when his grandfather had ventured out upon the vast prairie, a train of vulnerable wagons sheltering families that would not all survive? He watched his mother and baby sister shivering by the fire and thought of his grandmother, wondering what she had endured so her children and grandchildren would be strong.

    He tended the fire, thinking of the warmth of the cabin they’d left behind. The way the hearth blazed with life and cast shadows on the walls, unknowable stories dancing across rough-hewn timber and sod. Somewhere in his mind, his mother’s laughter rang out, happy sounds proud at his tiny sister’s first steps. Exhausted, he caught himself before sleep fully took him, squatting by the fire, his chin lolling on his chest. He stood and shook the snow from his hat, placed it back on his steaming head, and pulled it as low as he could. The wind howled. Snow continued to fall in cascading flurries, and once again, he stomped out into the darkness to scavenge the trees for what low-hanging branches he could reach.

    He returned with another armful of brittle branches, pine boughs, and bits of bark. His mother had fallen asleep. He could see her breath painting a vapor on the cold air, her chest rising and falling, the babe hidden, swaddled close to her heart. He stoked the fire with half of the fuel he’d gathered and let out a weary sigh, a tiny soul standing ragged guard against impossible night. Beyond the fire’s shifting warmth, the wilds called again, close and then far and then closer still. He went to his mother and gently shook her awake.

    “Ma. Ma. Stay awake, Ma. I need to fetch more wood.”

    Her eyes opened, and she looked past him, calling him by his father’s name, and told him she loved him and promised to stay awake. Somewhere a wolf howled and there woke in him the desire to call back. He could see the animal in his mind, feel its bushy fur and the warmth of its breath. He looked down at his mother and his sister and guilt and worry once again pushed him into the vast night. The snowfall seemed less now, and the oppressive sky occasionally let slip moonlight through roiling gradients of heavy clouds. He circled their exposed camp in widening arcs, stamping his mark in the snowpack, urinating and scenting trees and snow as he was able.

    As he worked, he thought of his uncle’s voice, the man’s smile, and the lessons he’d shared. “Hard as it is, we don’t give up. Understand? Sometimes stubborn’s all you got.”

    “Yessir,” he’d said, staring at the hard sun as it dripped into fading purple.

    His sister’s infant cries pierced the night. The boy woke pitched against a tree, sticks and bits of wood scattered at his feet lost in the snow. He salvaged what he could and staggered shaking and trembling back to their fire. He found his mother sobbing quietly beneath the lean-to shivering. She hadn’t moved. The child was quiet. He piled everything he’d gathered onto the fire and squatted again in the soft wet snow that encircled the embers warming himself and trying to feel his hands and feet.

    The night seemed endless, a black void that stretched uncaring and unyielding to a place from which there was no return. Sometime in the early hours he fell asleep. In that coldest time, the storm began to abate, the wind lessening, the snow falling more gently. Broad wet crystals turned to small hard flakes. The fire’s flames died to glowing embers. 

    It was still dark when he woke. Something close and threatening startling him to consciousness, a sound too muted to identify. The hasty lean-to had finally given before the wind. He looked at the sky and the stars stared back, cold and indifferent. He struggled to his feet, stamped the ground, and shoved his hands deep into the warm spaces beneath his arms. Then he looked to his mother and baby sister.

    He found them still and silent, their forms unnaturally stiff beneath the blanket. Bits of branches and pine needles scattered across their lifeless bodies. He stared for a long time at their small singular frozen shape. Two souls now one, forever inseparable, nothing left to give and nothing left to take.

    “Ma…”

    He reached out, touching his mother’s face. Her skin was ice, her tears frozen crystalline paths staining her cheeks. His sister still buried in his mother’s embrace, forever silent.

    Dawn broke, pale and fragile, creeping over the snow-covered landscape. The boy sat beside his family, slowly placing branches from the lean-to on the fire, the cold world around him silent and still.

  • Moonlight Picnic

    In the shadow of a great snow-capped mountain, far far north where the Western Ranges sweep down and spill into Loc Island Sea, where the air feels rich and full of life and the world seems endless and natural, there lived a little black bear and her mother. Her fur was thick and soft, and her eyes shone like polished onyx. She had little round ears and a little round tail and the pads of her paws were still small and not yet tough.

    She was a very curious little bear who loved nothing more than to wander the foothills below those towering peaks, her wee paws leaving delicate prints upon mossy earth. She spent her days exploring the world beyond her mother’s den and rolling snout-over-furry-backside in warm forest meadows or else paddling in the cool creek that bubbled and tumbled nearby. Often she’d chase butterflies and stoat and dragonflies and climb the big straight conifers that sheltered her home. I can tell you, a bear’s life is a simple life and her mother took pride in keeping her cub well-groomed, full bellied, and safe.

    But curious sorts are as likely to find trouble as they are fun, and one evening, as Brother Sun dipped behind the jagged horizon, shadows turning to night, Little Bear found herself alone in a part of the forest she did not recognize. Earlier that afternoon she’d followed an owl who’d hoot hoot hooted swooping between trees, hunting wood mice for its supper amongst the fallen pine needles, ferns, and cones. Little Bear was so intent on following this new friend that she lost her way.

    And when at last she looked about, nothing seemed familiar. The trees grew taller here, their branches twisted like ancient hands reaching for the sky and the air was cooler and dense, and the wind too felt different. It spoke, whispering secrets she could feel but not understand. Little Bear shivered, for she realized she had strayed too far from the warmth and safety of her mother’s side. And as the sunset descended, she felt alone and scared in the creeping, growing shadows.

    Above her, Mother Moon rose, full and bright, casting her silver veil over the world, yawning as she awoke from her slumber. As most folk know, Mother Moon, Starchild of Eriaheim, is ancient and holds much wisdom within the measure of her time. She has seen many creatures lost in the night woods and is known, in her own way, to guide travelers and wanderers alike. 

    But Mother Moon does not speak to everyone. No, her voice is unknown to most, for she reserves her spoken words for those who dwell between the world of the waking and the world of dreams. And so, on this night when she looked down on that dark northern wood and spied our lost Little Bear, Mother Moon called upon her favorite children, those small shimmering mischief makers you and I call pixies.

    Tiny, winged figures stirred in the high boughs, their laughter like the soft chime of glass bells caught in a gentle breeze. They listened, as they always do, to the whispered words of Mother Moon. We cannot say with certainty what she spoke, but perhaps it was something like this: “Little ones of light and laughter, keepers of spark and time, heed my call. Fly through the woods, summon my stewards. For a frightened innocent wanders, lost beneath the stars.” And so, as they are wont to do, the pixies, with mischief in their hearts and light trailing from their wings, darted through the shadowed forest in search of those who could aid the wayward bear.

    Through ancient groves and over mossy glades, the pixies flew, their wings shimmering like stardust beneath Mother Moon’s gaze. They traveled deeper, where the trees whispered in tongues long forgotten, and the earth itself thrummed with the pulse of the first magic. And there, among the oldest of trees, they found the faeries—keepers of the forest’s heart. With gleaming eyes and faces touched by both wonder and care, the faeries listened closely as the pixies relayed Mother Moon’s gentle plea. Curiosity flickered through their delicate features, and concern kindled in their hearts as they prepared to answer the call.

    The faeries, swift as thought, took flight, their wings aglow like trailing comets, weaving light through the dark canopy of night. Among the Little People, some are blessed with wings, shimmering and delicate, while others call upon their loyal companions—wild boars, weasels, great swift squirrels, and twitchy eared rabbits. Together, they galloped and bounded and flew through the tangled thickets, mounts surging beneath them, leaves and brush parting as they raced the stars through forests dark.

    The cold breath of night whispered through the trees as they neared their quarry. There, by the edge of a small, swift-running creek, they found the lost cub. The waters rushed over smooth, ancient stones, its current steady, relentless. Little Bear, trembling with cold and uncertainty, hesitated at the bank, her small paws testing the icy flow, the chill of the stream biting through her fur.

    “Little one,” a faery called, her voice soft as the whispering wind through ancient leaves, “this path is not meant for you. Come with us, to Faery’s Reach, where the night is gentle, and the stars weave their dances in our gardens.”

    Little Bear lifted her gaze, her deep dark eyes catching the glow of the faeries, their light shimmering like distant fireflies. She longed to trust them, to follow these ethereal beings to this place of warmth and wonder. But her heart ached for the familiar safety of her mother’s embrace, the scent of her fur, the steady rhythm of her breath. The forest loomed around her, vast and unknowable, and the cold creek at her feet carried only the promise of chill and uncertainty.

    For a long moment, Little Bear hesitated, caught between the yearning for her mother and the pull of the faeries’ kindness. But the shadows were growing longer, and the unknown stretched far in every direction. At last, she nodded, a soft rumble vibrating from her chest. The faeries, their eyes gleaming with joy, fluttered around her like dancing stars, and with gentle laughter and glowing hearts, they led her away from the creek and into the heart of their enchanted realm.

    What I share now of Faery’s Reach is known well enough by the wise and curious alike. No great debt shall be laid upon you for reading on, but should you seek its deeper mysteries, beware the toll demanded at the gates of immortal crossings. For those who tread lightly may glimpse its wonders, but those who linger may find the cost far dearer than they had reckoned.

    As is known, Faery’s Reach is a realm unlike any other, where the sky is forever caught between dusk and dawn, a place of eternal twilight. The light there is soft and golden, like the last breath of a setting sun, and it bathes the world in a warm, ethereal glow. The very air is thick with magic, carrying the sweet scent of blooming flowers, honeyed herbs, and ancient trees that  hum with their own secrets. It is a fragrance that calms the soul, yet awakens within it a sense of wonder long forgotten by mortals.

    The trees here are not like those of our world; they stand tall and proud, their bark silvered and smooth as river stones, and their leaves shimmer like spun glass, glowing with an inner light that never dims. Each tree has lived a thousand lifetimes, its roots intertwined with the earth’s oldest memories. Their branches reach skyward, not in search of the sun, but in communion with the stars that always hang low in the twilight heavens. Every blade of grass, every fern and flower hums with life and sweet wisdom, as though the land itself sings softly to those who walk its paths.

    In Faery’s Reach, time does not press upon the faeries as it does upon mortal hearts. The little folk here live in a harmony that is both quiet and joyful, a rhythm that flows with the turning of the seasons, even if the seasons do not touch this sacred place. They care for the forest as a mother does her child, tending to each creature, each leaf and root with gentle hands and ancient songs. The very earth teaches them, whispering its truths in the soft rustle of leaves, the murmur of streams, and the quiet sighs of the wind.

    Little People nurture one another as they do the land, sharing in the wisdom of the trees, the laughter of the rivers, and the songs of the birds that weave through the twilight sky. Their lives are a delicate balance of play and purpose, where joy is found in the simplest tasks—tending a garden, weaving a crown of stars, or singing to Mother Moon. Here, there is no toil, no grief, only the endless beauty of a world in perfect balance, a world where the heart is free to dream and the spirit to soar.

    Faery’s Reach is not merely a place; it is a living thing, a sanctuary where light and shadow dance in harmony, and where those who are lost may find themselves once more. Its heart beats with the rhythm of the forest, and every creature, every leaf, moves in tune with its ancient song.

    So it was that when Little Bear arrived, the realm itself seemed to stir in anticipation. Her entrance was heralded with a joy unlike any the twilight realm had seen in ages. As her small paws touched the soft, luminous grass, the faeries gathered round, their wings shimmering like droplets of dew in the first light of dawn. Their laughter filled the air, light and musical, and with every flutter of their wings, the very stars above seemed to twinkle brighter, casting their silver beams down to join in the celebration. It was as though the heavens themselves took notice, leaning close to witness this rare and wonderful event.

    The faeries, in their excitement, danced in great spirals, round and round, their bright forms weaving patterns in the air like the threads of some ancient tapestry. The ground beneath them seemed to sway and hum with life, the trees leaned in to watch, their leaves shimmering in approval. Even the rivers in Faery’s Reach sang a little louder that night, their waters laughing softly as they tumbled over smooth stones. The air sparkled with a magic so pure it made Little Bear’s heart swell, though she could not quite understand it, only that she felt safe, loved, and home.

    A plump, red-bearded fellow with a twinkle of ancient wisdom in his eyes stood tall—well, as tall as his knee-high boots would allow—his broad-brimmed hat tilted just so, casting shadows over his sun-worn face. With a proud puff from his well-worn briar pipe, he bellowed across the clearing, “Hey-o! Rimi! More pies and biscuits! And bring us a fresh water, quick now! The biggest trough you can manage, ya wee miserly mess tin!”

    From behind an impossibly large toadstool, Rimi, a rosy-cheeked cook, popped his head out. He was dressed in a light blue smock, his coarse hempen apron stained with the efforts of the day. His cheeks, red from the heat of the oven, puffed up as he hollered back, “Oh now calm yerself, Gimblet! Pies a’plenty, and the mead’s flowin’ like the creek in spring. Why don’t ye puff that pipe and let me do me cookin’!”

    Gimblet, unfazed, pointed his pipe stem toward Little Bear, who sat nearby with wide, curious eyes. “Pies enough, ye say? Not likely, Master Quick Spoon. Look at the size of this one here, eh? Just a cub, but near bigger’n the lot of us. And when was the last time ye saw a bear sippin’ on ole dizzy juice? No time fer dilly-dallyin’! We’ve got a guest now—make lively in that kitchen of yers!”

    Rimi let out a huff, his flour-covered hands slapping against his apron, sending a great white cloud and bits of dough into the air. With a grumble, he stepped out from behind the massive toadstool and squinted at Little Bear through eyes that were always searching for mischief. “Bear, ye say? Well, I’ll be! Fur, paws, claws and all! Pies you’ll have, lil’ one, don’t ye worry. And water’s comin’, fresh and cold as the mountain’s kiss.” 

    And with that, he disappeared once again behind the towering mushroom, his mutterings soon drowned out by the loud clattering of pots, pans, and the unmistakable sound of bubbling stew. 

    Little Bear’s nose twitched as the warm, comforting smells of the faery feast wrapped around her. Gimblet winked at her from across the clearing, tapping his pipe thoughtfully as the air buzzed with excitement, the faeries flitting about, their wings shimmering in the twilight, all eagerly awaiting the meal to come. Above, the stars twinkled down on Faery’s Reach, casting their soft glow over a world where creatures great and small gathered as equals, bound by magic and merriment.

    And then, as if summoned by the stars themselves, the feast appeared—grander than anything Little Bear had ever seen or even dreamed. The faeries, with their nimble hands, helped Rimi craft pies brimming with the juiciest blueberries, their deep violet juices bubbling up through golden crusts. Honeycombs, toasted to perfection, dripped with golden sweetness, their aroma filling the air with warmth and comfort. Sparkling goblets of dewberry nectar, chilled by the wind sprites, glittered on trays beside mounds of sugar-dusted thistle cakes. And the watermelon berry jelly—oh, that fragrant spread! So sweet, so delicate, it made Little Bear’s whiskers quiver with delight as her nose twitched in eager anticipation.

    Every dish was a marvel, each bite a burst of flavor that carried with it the very essence of Faery’s Reach—the sweetness of the earth, the brightness of the stars, and the warmth of the twilight that bathed everything in its soft, golden glow. The faeries flitted about, offering Little Bear more and more of their finest creations, their laughter like bells on the wind as they watched her eyes widen with wonder at each new taste.

    The celebration carried on, the faeries dancing, singing songs so old that even the trees hummed along, their roots stirring gently in the earth. Fireflies twirled in the air, adding their soft, pulsing light to the merriment, and the faeries’ songs grew louder, their voices weaving together in a melody so beautiful it seemed to lift the very sky. The stars above shimmered and blinked, as if keeping time with the faery music, casting their gleam upon the gathering below.

    And in the heart of it all was Little Bear, her belly full, her heart light, surrounded by the Little People who danced and sang in her honor. She was no longer lost, no longer frightened. Here, in this magical twilight world, she had found her place among those who loved and cherished all creatures, great and small. The night grew long, but in Faery’s Reach, time had no hold. 

    As the night deepened, Faery’s Reach seemed to glow even more softly under the eternal twilight, a golden haze that wrapped around every tree and creature. Little Bear, having eaten her fill of pies and biscuits and honeyed treats, felt her small belly grow round and warm and content. She stretched her paws, feeling the pleasant weight of a feast well enjoyed, her fur ruffled by the gentle breeze that carried the scent of sweet herbs and smoke from the faeries’ fires.

    A young Hob, clad in a fine green sweater that shimmered in the twilight, approached Little Bear with a mischievous grin. He offered her his pipe, the sweet-smelling smoke curling in lazy tendrils toward the sky. But before she could sniff it, Mister Gimblet was there in a flash, his brow furrowed as he waved the hob away with a firm hand. 

    “Ah, none of that now, Hob Tainer! Bears smoke about as much as trees do, and it’s thrice as bad for ’em too. Off with you—fetch a fiddle and weave us a proper lullaby.”

    Tainer, unbothered, bowed deeply, holding his pipe across his chest like a squire saluting a lord. With a wink and a hop, he skipped off into the shadows, calling over his shoulder, “Two shakes and I’ll be back, quick as you please!”

    As the hob disappeared into the deepening dusk, Gimblet stuck his own pipe back between his teeth, muttering with a half-smile, “Two shakes or three, makes no difference here, now does it?”

    The faeries, with their endless energy, continued to dance and sing, their tiny feet tapping rhythms that made the earth beneath them thump. They whirled in graceful circles, their wings shimmering with light that flickered and shifted like fireflies caught in moonbeams. Their laughter was light and musical, twinkling in the air and mixing with the crackle of the small campfires that dotted the glade. Above them, the smoke from their pipes spiraled lazily, sweet and fragrant with the scent of the forest’s finest weeds, drifting up to join the twilight haze that danced among the stars.

    Their songs were full of ancient magic, tunes older than the stones beneath their feet, sung in a language of leaves and wind, of river and sky. Their melodies floated around the glade, twining through the trees like a whispering breeze, and as they danced, the ground seemed to pulse in time with their movements. The very earth was alive with the joy of their celebration, the trees swaying slightly, their leaves rustling, for they too were humming along to the merry tunes.

    Little Bear, nestled close to one of the campfires, felt her eyelids grow heavy. The warmth of the flames wrapped around her like a soft, comforting blanket, while the sweet-smelling smoke from the faery pipes lulled her senses into a dreamlike haze. She could feel the rhythmic pulse of the faeries’ dancing feet through the ground, the gentle thrum of their music in the air, and it made her feel safe, cocooned in the magical energy of Faery’s Reach.

    Her small paws stretched out, her soft fur catching the golden light as she began to settle. The songs swirled around her, carrying her mind to the edges of sleep, where dreams began to mingle with reality. In the distance, she could hear the bubbling of the cool creek, the rustle of leaves, the soft murmuring of Little Folk sharing stories by their fires. Somewhere in the twilight, a night bird called, its song like a lullaby, weaving through the laughter and the music.

    Little Bear’s eyes fluttered, the last of the feast still warm in her belly, and she snuggled into the soft grass beneath her, her nose twitching at the scent of nearby flowers. The faeries’ voices seemed to grow softer now, more distant, as though they were part of her dreams. The light from their campfires flickered in her drowsy vision, golden and red, casting gentle shadows that danced along the ground, blurring the whole glade into a living dream.

    And as she drifted deeper into sleep, Little Bear felt utterly at peace. Here, in this magical twilight realm, surrounded by the laughter of the Little People and the warmth of the earth, she was safe. Faeries watched over her, their song now a soft hum, like the rustling of leaves in a distant wind, and as the last of her thoughts slipped into the world of dreams, she knew that she was home. The night stretched on, timeless and endless, and in Faery’s Reach, Little Bear slept, cradled by the magic of the faery folk, her heart as full as her belly.

    And like all fine parties this one too came to an end. It was at the very height of this jubilant celebration, when the faery songs reached their highest notes and the earth itself  swayed in time with their joy, that Ainuaiah, the Lady of the Forest and Mother to all Faeries, returned to Faery’s Reach. Her arrival was not sudden but was felt long before she appeared. The air grew warmer, thick with the scent of wildflowers in full bloom, and a gentle whisper of ancient boughs filled the glade. The faeries paused in their dancing, their laughter fading into expectant silence, for they knew well the presence that approached.

    From the shadows of the forest, Ainuaiah emerged, and with her came the forest’s breath itself. Her steps were soft but sure, and as she walked, the ground beneath her feet awakened, flowers blooming in her path, their petals wide and bright with dew. Her arrival was heralded by a great host of her kin—the smallest and swiftest among them, the pixies, flitted around her in whirls of sparkling light, their wings trailing streaks of silver and gold through the twilight air. Hobs and sprites followed in her wake, sturdy and light-footed, their laughter bubbling like fresh water, while giant bumble bees, their coats thick and furry, buzzed lazily, their great wings shimmering as they hovered near her shoulders. Butterflies, delicate and vibrant, danced on the cool night breeze, their wings carrying the sweet scent of golden pollen that shimmered in the air around Ainuaiah like dust caught in a sunbeam.

    An ancient child of the first magics. Ainuaiah is a vision of grace and power, a being woven from the very fabric of the forest itself. Her skin, the color of oak bark after the rain, gleamed softly in the eternal twilight, and her eyes, deep and ancient, held within them the memory of every tree and stone, of every creature and season that had ever passed through her woods. Her hair, dark as the richest soil and braided with strands of ivy and morning glory, cascaded down her back, and from her shoulders hung a cloak of living leaves that rustled softly with every step she took. Each leaf glowed faintly with its own light, and when she moved, they shimmered as though the very stars had descended to walk with her.

    The faeries, who had moments before been lost in their revelry, now bowed their heads in reverence as Ainuaiah drew near. Her presence commanding yet tender, her power undeniable but gentle. She is the Mother of All Faeries, the keeper of their ancient magic, and her love for her children is as boundless as the forest itself. As she approached the heart of the glade, where Little Bear lay sleeping amidst the embers of the faeries’ fires, a soft smile touched her lips, and her eyes glowed with warmth and affection.

    The forest sighed in her presence, the trees bending slightly bowing to their Lady. Even the stars above twinkled brighter, eager to bear witness to her return. The air was thick with the humming life, the pulse of the earth itself quickening with her every step. The faeries around her, their eyes bright with awe, began to sing once more, their voices soft and reverent, as they sang a song of welcome for their Mother.

    Ainuaiah raised her hands, her fingers long and slender, and the very air rippled in response. The butterflies that danced in her wake settled onto her outstretched arms, their wings fluttering in unison as they landed, creating a living tapestry of color. The giant bumble bees circled around her head, their low buzz like a lullaby, while the pixies, with their eternal mischief and light, continued to dart through the air, their giggles filling the space with joy.

    Ainuaiah found Little Bear nestled deep among the faeries, her small form rising and falling with soft snores, blissfully unaware of the revelry unfolding around her. She gazed upon Little Bear, now curled up in peaceful contented slumber. Ainuaiah knelt beside her, her movements as fluid as the wind, and gently placed her hand upon the bear child’s furry head. Her touch was as light as a feather, but with it came the weight of her love, a blessing from the very heart of the forest. Little Bear stirred, her ears twitching slightly, but she did not wake, only snuggled deeper into the soft grass, her dreams filled with the warmth and safety of Faery’s Reach.

    The faeries, ever delicate and merry, danced lightly near the cub, their tiny feet tracing spirals in the dew-kissed grass as their laughter mingled with the crackling of the embers. Their joy was boundless, and yet, in the midst of their frolic, Ainuaiah’s presence stilled the air. A warm, knowing smile touched her lips as she beheld the sight, her eyes shimmering with both pride and gentle reproach. She moved forward, her feet silent upon the earth, her steps leaving blooming flowers in her wake. 

    With a voice as soft as rustling trees, Ainuaiah chided her faery children, though her tone was more of fondness than scorn. “Dear children,” she whispered, her words weaving through the night like a lullaby carried on the breeze, “how could you let this little one sleep so far from her home? Her place is not here in Faery’s Reach, not yet. There is a mother somewhere in the woods, her heart heavy with worry, waiting for her child’s return.”

    Gimblet stood, straightened his coat and presented himself. Standing tall, or as tall as he could muster, in the presence of Ainuaiah. His broad hat was clutched nervously in his hands, his red beard bristling as he tried to steady himself before the Lady of the Forest. Around him, the faeries kept quiet, their wings folded neatly, and even the mischievous pixies hovered silently, watching the exchange with wide, curious eyes.

    Ainuaiah’s gaze, though gentle, held the weight of ages. Her eyes shimmered with an ancient wisdom that made even the most rambunctious of faeries tremble. She stood before him, radiant as the twilight itself, the very air around her pulsing with life. 

    “Well then, Mister Gimblet, Master of Hobs,” she said, her voice soft yet resonant, “perhaps you can explain why my forest is filled with such merriment and why this little one”—she gestured to the now-sleeping Little Bear nestled by the campfire—“is so far from home?”

    Gimblet cleared his throat, fumbling with his pipe before stuffing it into his coat pocket. “Ahem, well, y’see, m’lady,” he began, his words stumbling over themselves, “it was… it was all in good spirits, truly! A simple feast, nothin’ more. The wee bear here—well, we fetched her from yon woods, lost as a leaf in a storm, poor thing. And, well, we faeries—yer faeries, m’lady—did what we do best, eh?”

    The gathered faeries and Little People all nodded their heads emphatically punctuating the air with muffled “Aye’s” and “Indeed, yes’s” and other affirmations. 

    Ainuaiah arched an elegant brow, surveying the merry host, her expression unreadable. “And what is it, exactly, that you do best, Gimblet?”

    “Ah, that’d be celebratin’, m’lady!” he said with a nervous chuckle, his hands flailing for emphasis. “There’s not a creature in these woods that can dance, sing, or fill a belly quite like us. So we, uh, thought it best to welcome her with a feast—pies and biscuits, honeycomb, a bit of mead… mostly spring water— y’know… just to make the poor cub feel at ease.”

    “And did it not occur to you, dear Gimblet,” Ainuaiah said, her voice as soft as a leaf brushing the forest floor, “that this little one’s mother might be searching for her, heart heavy with worry?”

    Gimblet shifted his weight from foot to foot, tugging at his beard. “Ah, well… aye, we considered that, m’lady, but we thought—just for a wee bit, mind—that she deserved a taste of Faery’s Reach. It’s a rare thing, after all, to have such a guest! And, well, we didn’t mean no harm. Just a few songs, a little dance, some sweet pies.” He paused, glancing nervously at the Lady. “For the young ones.”

    Ainuaiah’s lips curled into the slightest of smiles, a glimmer of amusement lighting her ancient eyes. “You have a gift for merriment, Gimblet,” she said, “and for all your mischief, your heart is kind. But even the brightest of celebrations must have their place and time. Remember balance, like the turning of the seasons, is the soul of this forest.”

    Gimblet bowed his head, his shoulders sagging in relief. “Aye, m’lady, balance it is. We meant no disrespect, just a bit o’ light to chase away the creeping shadows.”

    Ainuaiah stepped forward, her presence calming the air around them. She placed a hand gently on Gimblet’s shoulder, her touch as soft as the morning mist. “I know, dear Gimblet. But now it is time to return this little one to her rightful place, her mother waits.”

    Gimblet nodded quickly, his cheeks flushing red beneath his beard. “Of course, m’lady. No more delays… we’ll gather the others and we’ll take her back. As sure as the stars shine, we’ll see her safe to her mother.”

    Ainuaiah smiled, a light as soft as moon glow filling her eyes. “No, dear Gimblet,” she said, “This task belongs to me.”

    The faeries, sensing the gravity of Ainuaiah’s words, bowed their heads, their wings folding neatly against their backs. Even the mischief-making pixies, who had spent the evening weaving light and laughter into the air, remained still. 

    “She has wandered far,” Ainuaiah continued, her voice soothing and firm. “But the forest knows its children and the paths of the wild are written in the wind. I will return her to her mother, who searches even as we speak.” She glanced down at Gimblet, her smile warm and knowing. “You have done enough tonight, dear one. Rest now, and let the forest’s magic do what it must.”

    Gimblet, wide-eyed and grateful, nodded quickly. “Aye, m’lady. We’ll await your return, then. Safe travels to ye both.” And then he laid his small weathered hand on Little Bear’s sleeping head and whispered. “Safe home lil’ cub. You’ve friends when you need them.”

    With a sweep of her hand, as fluid and graceful as the wind, Ainuaiah bent low and gathered Little Bear into her arms. The cub stirred slightly, her small paws curling, but she did not wake, only nestled deeper into Ainuaiah’s embrace. The Mother of All Faeries cradled the small bear tenderly against her breast, her touch as light as the softest moss, and  Little Bear sighed, as though even in sleep, she felt the comforting presence of the forest’s most beloved guardian.

    Ainuaiah turned her gaze to the sky, Mother Moon hanging full and silver above, casting a luminous glow over the entire scene. Without a word, her wings unfurled, gossamer thin but strong as the oldest oaks, shimmering like spun starlight. As the faeries watched in reverence, Ainuaiah lifted into the air, her movements effortless and serene, with Little Bear secure in her arms.

    She soared into the night, her wings catching the moonlight, casting an ethereal glow over the forest below. The trees leaned toward her as she flew, their branches swaying gently in her wake, and the stars above twinkled brighter, offering their distant blessings to her journey.

    Through the cool night air she flew, high above the ancient woods, over streams that shimmered like silver threads, and across valleys where the mist curled like forgotten dreams. Little Bear remained nestled in her arms, her soft snores the only sound that accompanied Ainuaiah’s flight. All around them, the world seemed to quiet, as though it, too, respected the sacred task at hand.

    Far below, deep within the shadowed embrace of the forest, Little Bear’s mother wandered, her heart aching with worry, her every step slow and hesitant. She called out into the night, her voice hoarse from hours of searching, but no answer came. Her fear, a palpable thing, a weight that clung to her like the mist that nipped at her paws. She paused by a creek, its waters cold and swift, her ears straining for any sound that might bring hope.

    It was then that Ainuaiah descended, her wings slowing as she approached, her form alighting upon the earth as gently as a falling leaf. The faery queen’s eyes, deep with the wisdom of the ages, softened as she beheld Little Bear’s mother, her sorrow evident in every line of her weary form. Mother Bear looked up, her breath catching as she saw Ainuaiah standing before her, the figure of her child cradled safely in the faery’s arms.

    With a wordless smile, Ainuaiah stepped forward and placed Little Bear at her mother’s feet, and with a gentle touch, she pressed her hand to the cub’s chest. A soft light flared beneath her fingers, leaving behind a blaze of fur as brilliant as Mother Moon herself. The mark a blessing, a promise that Little Bear, and all her kin, would be loved and protected by the faery folk for all time.

    Mother Bear nuzzled her cub, the weight of her worry lifting as she felt the warmth of Ainuaiah’s gift. Little Bear, still half asleep, opened her eyes to see the Faery Mother smiling down at her, and in that moment, she knew she was safe.

    Ainuaiah, watching the reunion, smiled once more before turning back toward the sky. Her wings unfurled again, and with one final, graceful motion, she rose into the air, her presence dissolving into glimmering moonlight. She whispered her goodbyes, her voice lingering in the air like the last note of a song. And as she disappeared into the distance, the wind carried with it her soft, gentle whisper, a blessing for both mother and child:

    “Our forest watches over you and our stars will ever guide your way home.”

    Calm night returned and the moonlit forest was alive with the sounds of its creatures, the natural wilds humming with the quiet joy of a world set right. And beneath the great snow-capped mountains, in the safety of her mother’s embrace, Little Bear slept soundly, forever blessed by faery folk.

    And in the heart of Faery’s Reach, where twilight’s glow lingered eternal, Master Gimblet, Quick Spoon Rimi, and all the Little Folk danced on beneath shimmering starlight. Their laughter, sweet and melodic, wove itself through the cool night air, mingling with the soft music of the trees and the gentle hum of the earth. Light of heart and free of care, they whirl and spin, their feet tracing patterns upon the dew-kissed grass, for they know, as surely as the stars above, that the forest and all its creatures are safe, held in the timeless embrace of love.

  • Old Hand

    Old Hand

    Tom Allister rode up the winding trail that led to his father’s mountain ranch. The day had been long, and the sun was beginning its slow descent, slipping away into that unknowable world beyond the horizon. A sky heavy with the weight of coming rain hung overhead, pressing down like the ache of unspoken words.

    The horse beneath him, a weathered bay with a white blaze down its face, moved slowly, matching her rider’s own weariness. Dust rose in small clouds with each hoof fall, settling on Tom’s worn boots and the frayed hem of his trousers. The ranch came into view, a scatter of short, squat buildings next to a rough collection of corrals perched on the edge of a crumbling mesa. It looked smaller than he remembered, like time had taken its toll. Time is only ever hard.

    The house, once painted white, was now a peeling skeleton, its windows dark and hollow. The barn sagging like an old man too weak to carry the weight of his years. Tom dismounted slowly, his bones aching in protest. He patted his horse’s neck, murmuring softly to her and then led her to an empty corral. He wasn’t sure if anyone would greet him. No one did.

    His father, Elias, had lived on this ranch long before Tom had learned to walk and had remained as long as Tom had been gone. There had been words.

    Standing at the edge of the porch, Tom hesitated, staring at the peeling paint. It looked frail now, like everything else. There had been a time when this place had seemed invincible, just like his father. Tom once imagined he’d never set foot here again, that he’d die somewhere out there in the wild country or in some nameless town. But now, standing on the familiar wood, he wasn’t sure which he feared more—returning, or never returning.

    Inside, the house was stale,  the air tinged with the scent of decay and dust. The only light came from the last rays of the setting sun, slanting through grimy windows. Tom walked through the rooms, his boots loud and hollow on the wooden floors. He found his father in the bedroom, lying on a narrow cot, his breath coming in shallow pulls.

    Elias McAllister lay gaunt and still, his skin thin and cracked like paper too long in the sun, stretched tight over bones that seemed too brittle to hold him together. His eyes, once bright, now dimmed and cloudy, turned toward Tom. A flicker of recognition passed through them. He tried to smile but it twisted into a dry cough that rattled through him, leaving gasping silence in its wake.

    “Tommy.”

    “Pa.”

    Tom moved to the bedside, standing awkwardly, unsure of what to do. The room seemed to press in around him, filled with the weight of all the things they hadn’t said. A wry smile played across the old man’s cracked lips.

    “You come to see me off?”

    “Reckon so.”

    Tom looked around the room, tasting the familiar dust, ancient and unchanged. “You still sip’n tequila?”

    The old man jerked his withered thumb over his shoulder. “Ever damn day I’m breath’n.”

    “Alright then.”

    Tom pulled a chair close and sat, the wood creaking under his weight. For a long moment, they sat in silence, the room filling with the heavy quiet of two men who had spent their lives saying little.

    Elias broke the stillness first. “I’m not afraid to die, Tommy. But I reckon you are.”

    Tom looked away, the truth of his father’s words cutting deeper than any knife. He had spent his life running from death, from the memories of war and loss that haunted his dreams. He’d buried friends, seen too many good men die in places that didn’t matter. Now, at the edge of his own years, the fear had grown into a shadow that followed him everywhere.

    “Die’n ain’t the easy part,” Tom said quietly. 

    Elias nodded, understanding in his eyes. “We all got our burdens, son. We just carry ‘em different.”

    The night settled around them, the house creaking and shifting as if remembering its own past. Tom brought water and what little food he had, coaxing his father to eat. It was a meager meal, but it filled the space between them.

    In the hours that came, Tom started to talk, words spilling slow and rough, like a creek finding its way through stone. He spoke of the roads he’d taken, the horses and cattle, of the friends buried in far-off places, and all the wild country that had passed beneath him. Elias listened, his eyes steady, not saying a word, offering no judgment. Just the quiet comfort of knowing, and what little there was in that.

    He remembered the fights, the day he rode off for good. Over something small, something that didn’t matter now but had torn them apart all the same. A wound they’d both carried, never spoken of, never healed.

    In the early hours, Elias slipped into sleep, his breath thin and broken. Tom stayed there, watching, feeling the weight of all the years and what they’d left behind, regrets heavy on his shoulders. He’d never said goodbye before, never made peace with the man who had first shaped him.

    The next day, Tom set to work around the ranch, tending to the few animals still there, fixing what was left to fix. The work settled him, the rhythm of it pulling him back to simpler times. He checked on Elias through the day and watched  him slip further away with each passing hour.

    On the third day, Elias woke in the early dawn, his eyes clear and bright for the first time since Tom had arrived. He reached out, his hand trembling, and Tom took it, holding it gently.

    “Tommy,” Elias said, his voice stronger than it had been in days. He smiled, patted Tom’s hand. “I’m glad yer home, son.”

    The words hit Tom like a blow, the emotion welling up inside him, choking him. He had waited a lifetime to hear them, and now, at the end, they were almost too much to bear.

    “Rest easy, Pa,” he managed to say, his voice breaking.

    Elias nodded, his grip tightening briefly before his hand fell away. He closed his eyes, a peaceful smile on his lips, and took one last, shuddering breath. Tom watched as the life slipped from his father’s body, feeling the finality of it settle over him like a heavy blanket.

    He sat there for a long time, holding his father’s hand, letting grief and relief and shame wash over him. When he finally stood, he felt a strange sense of calm, a quiet acceptance that he had not known before.

    Tom buried his father on the hillside overlooking the ranch, under a solitary pine that stood like a sentinel against the sky. He marked the grave with a simple wooden cross, a tribute to a hard life lived with quiet dignity.

    In the days that followed, Tom found himself lingering at the ranch, unable to leave. The old ghosts that had haunted him seemed to fade, replaced by a sense of purpose. He worked the land, repaired the buildings, and slowly, the ranch began to take on new life.

    Neighbors, a sparse scattering of ranchers and farmers, came by to pay their respects. They brought food and what supplies they could spare, offering silent support. Tom accepted their kindness, finding solace in the small community. It felt good to be remembered and he laughed with them when they shared stories about Elias and thanked them each for their generosity.

    One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Tom sat on the porch, a cup of coffee in his hand. The sky blazed with colors, the beauty of the land filling him with a quiet peace. He thought of his father, of the hard lessons and the love that had been buried under years of silence. A faint memory of violence flickered in his mind—he heard the screams, smelled the smoke but then it was gone.  Distant now, a specter fading into the past.

    As the stars began to appear, Tom leaned back in his chair, the cool night air washing over him. He closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of the night. The land was still here. He was still here. For the first time, the gathering darkness felt like peace.

    And in the quiet of the desert night, the old cowboy cried.

  • The Girl Who Caught a World

    The sisters walked through their small town, the sun climbing its familiar path, casting first rays on the fresh earth that covered their father’s grave. It was a day too bright for mourning, the kind that made sorrow feel out of place. The morning grass was still slick with dew and the birds filled the living air with bright morning songs, chirp, chirp, chirping their howdy do’s and halloos.

    Celeste led the way, her hand firm around Emily’s, as if she could anchor them both against the tide of everything that had changed. Thirteen and already she’d been handed too much too soon. She walked with her back straight, her eyes steady, as if posture alone would keep her world from tumbling to peaces. Her little sister, Emily, a mighty eight years old, gripped her fishing rod in her left hand with the intensity of someone too young to put a name to her pain but old enough to be swallowed by it. She held on to her big sister’s hand like it was the one thing keeping her from floating away, her small fingers gripping tight with the kind of determination that refused to let the tears have their way.

    They made for the river and it greeted them with its familiar murmur, a comforting sound that seeped into the spaces between their thoughts. The river knew, Emily thought, of course it did. The water flowed on, unhurried, as if it might carry their grief along its course, smoothing the edges but never really letting it go. They found a spot beyond the stand of conifers where the river bent wide and slow, settling on the gravel bank with lines cast. The world moved on, indifferent to their weight and the silence closing in around them.

    “Do you think Daddy’s happy now?” Emily’s voice barely a whisper above the river’s running waters.

    Celeste sighed, searching for words that could make sense of something she didn’t fully understand. “I don’t know. I guess he’s at peace,” she said, her own voice soft and far away. “He’s not hurting anymore, I think— Maybe he’s watching us.” She added, “Smiling ‘cause we’re here, doing what he loved.”

    Emily thought about that, her little brow furrowed like she was trying to wrangle something too big for her small hands. “So…he’s like a fish that got away?”

    Celeste smiled a sad kind of smile. “Maybe. Sure. Like a big, shiny fish that slipped back into the water. We can’t see him but he’s out there. Swimming and jumping like he’s supposed to.”

    Emily thought that felt right and they sat in silence for awhile, the sun dipping low, painting the world in colors that couldn’t match their mood, but that’s just how it was. Sometimes it’s like that. Sometimes the fish don’t bite but you stay and you keep fishing because there’s nowhere else to go. Nowhere else to be.

    Clouds drifted overhead for a long while and the girls sat next to one another quietly jigging their lines in the river. Then suddenly, Emily’s rod jerked and bent hard, arcing into the water. It happened so fast she almost lost her grip and nearly pitched head long into the river. She yelped, excitement and fear lighting up her face. “Celeste! I got one! I got one! It’s a big sucker!”

    Celeste was up in an instant, moving before she had time to think. “Whoa Emmy! Remember, work it slow! Slow and easy—don’t jerk to hard! Go real slow!”

    The water roiled, the line taut as Emily fought against something that felt too big, too strong. It was almost as if the river itself was alive, almost like it was resisting, like it had a mind of its own, refusing to give up whatever Emily had snagged. 

    “Help me Celeste! I don’t think I can do it!”

    “Hold on! It’s okay. We’ll do it together.”

    They pulled together, their small hands clenched tight around the rod, Celeste wrapped herself around Emily, hugging her tight and they worked the pole together, straining with everything they had. Slowly, one turn of the reel at a time, the line crept closer. 

    Emily could barely contain herself, “Oh wow! It is a big one! How big is it?”

    Celeste laughed, “I don’t know but if you don’t hang on we’re gonna lose it!”

    And then, as they pulled the big one from the gray murky water, the river and clouds and birds and sky all faded away. The world seemed to stop, leaving just Emily and Celeste straining against the weight of Emily’s bent fishing rod, staring agape in disbelief at the miracle dangling at the end of her line.

    It wasn’t a fish, no sir, not by a long shot. What Emily had snagged on her line was something straight out of a fairy-tale fever dream. The kind you might have when you stay up too late eating watermelon on a hot summer day. There dangled a sphere, big as a beach ball, all alive and kicking with colors that had no business being in this world—deep blues like the ocean at midnight, reds burning hotter than a sun spot, and purples and greens swirling together like they were trying to sing secrets about the universe itself, all mottled  and wrapped in whites and grays and blacks upon blacks upon deep deep blacks.

    “Oh wow.” Emily said softly, much impressed.

    The girls stared, wide-eyed, as the orb, dripping with water, began to float just above the river, casting light that washed the world away. As the orb rose up, suspended in mid-air, the weight on Emily’s fishing pole suddenly released and the girls stumbled backward. If Celeste hadn’t caught them they would’ve ended up on their backsides for sure.

    “What is it?” Emily whispered, her voice trembling, caught in that nervous exciting place between fear and awe.

    “I don’t know,” Celeste breathed, her own voice lost in the wonder of it all. “But it’s beautiful…”

    The sphere pulsed and a gentle hum resonated deep in their chests. They could feel it, as if the orb was was alive and understood them. It was happy then sad then scared then it loved them then it hurt, hurt like they did, deep down, so far inside it felt like the hurt would never leave.

    “Celeste I’m scared.”

    “So am I.”

    Slowly the orb began to rotate and spin.  Shifting again, this time revealing within it a beautiful world of mountains, forests, oceans, and cities that glittered like bedtime story book dreams.

    “It’s beautiful…” Emily’s voice was soft, hesitant. “Can we go there?”

    “Maybe. I don’t know.”

    “Let’s do it,” Emily said, her voice steady, full of the determination that had been building inside her heart since the day they’d lost their father. “We can go together. Let’s do it.”

    Celeste looked down into her little sister’s bright watery eyes and said the only thing she could. 

    “Okay. Let’s do it.”

    The sphere pulsed with a light that swelled up like it had a mind of its own, pulling them in closer, whispering secrets they couldn’t resist. They reached out, their fingers just grazing its surface, and in that instant, their world and ours came apart at the seams, exploding in a burst of blinding brilliance that left nothing the same as it was before.

    A thunder clap later and the riverbank fell silent, just the soft murmur of water lapping at the river bank and the wind threading through nearby trees. A raven took flight heading towards the sleepy sun. And two fishing rods lay forgotten in the grass, the only trace anyone had ever been there.

    But elsewhere, beyond the grasp of sorrow and grief and greed, Celeste and Emily stood side by side, hand in hand, gazing out at a  spectacular horizon that promised more than they’d ever dared to dream.

  • From Snow

    From Snow

    I had heard tales of the First Giants, myths whispered in smokey fire-lit halls and murmured beneath breath on long winter nights. But no tale, no song nor legend could have prepared me for the moment I first laid eyes upon one. It was somewhere in the Western Ranges, a fortnight south of Fistfire, where the jagged peaks stand like broken teeth against an endless gray sky. I was scouting an overland route to the high plains of the Northern Drift, mapping the treacherous passes where no roads dared carve their way.

    Understand now, that the high mountains are a forgotten place. Untamed and wild, they rise like the bones of the world itself, towering against the sky where few dare to tread. A vast cathedral of snow-locked peaks and shadowed valleys, a place where time moves slow, and the wind carries secrets older than men. No king seeks to rule here, for the land is sovereign unto itself, bound by laws not written by mortals but whispered in the howling storms and shifting snowdrifts. Even the Old Emperor, in his fickle wisdom, turns a blind eye to that place, for his banners and armies would find no purchase on those craggy heights, where frost grips rock and talus like a jealous lover.

    It is an alpine wilderness of thin air and tempestuous weather, where the skies boil with dark clouds, and the breath of the gods stirs the mountain’s wrath. Here, no man makes his home, for the land is a mercurial host, offering no solace to weary travelers. The winds scream through jagged passes, twisting and swirling ripe with ancient spirits lost in the storms, and the snow falls in thick, heavy curtains obscuring all but the nearest step.

    Even the eagles, those lords of the sky, shun these peaks, their sharp eyes turned elsewhere, for there is little life to sustain them. The game is scarce, and the creatures that do live here are strange and elusive, pale things that move like shadows across the ice, their tracks vanishing and secret. It is a place where silence reigns, save for the groaning of glaciers and the crack of ice splitting ‘neath unseen weight. The air itself is thin and it bites at your lungs, making each breath a struggle, as if the very mountains themselves resent the presence of intruders.

    And yet, there is a majesty in that forgotten place, a terrible beauty that can only be known by those who venture beyond the realms of the known world. The peaks stand eternal, draped in their icy cloaks, watching over the earth with a cold, indifferent gaze. They are timeless, these mountains, unbowed by the passage of years or the rise and fall of empires. Here, where even the stars seem distant and faint, one can feel the weight of eternity pressing down, the sense that these high places ignore the world of men and will remain long after we and our cousins have perished.

    The high mountains are a place of ghosts and legends, where ancient spirits are said to dwell, trapped in the frost, waiting for the day when the world grows cold enough to free them. Travelers speak of hearing strange whispers on the wind, voices carried down from the peaks, but no one knows who—or what—calls from those frozen heights. Perhaps it is the mountains themselves, old and restless, whispering their secrets to those foolish enough to listen. Or perhaps it is simply the wind, mocking those who believe they can conquer a place that belongs to none.

    A torn fragment from an old map of the Northern Continent.

    A torn fragment from an old map of the Northern Continent.

    I had heard these tales before, yarns spun with pipe and pint in hand. But standing now in the shadow of the Western Ranges, I found the truth far colder and more unforgiving than any watchman’s midnight tale. It had been snowing for three days, relentless and unyielding. The snow fell in heavy, suffocating drifts, each flake a cold whisper, piling upon itself until the world was nothing but a white, silent tomb. My companions, sensible folk of the lowlands, had turned back long before, their spirits worn thin by the relentless cold. I alone pressed forward, stubborn as the mountains themselves, my breath a fog before me, my body wrapped in furs that did little to ward off the gnawing bite of the wind. 

    The storm had swallowed the world whole—sky and earth melded into a single seamless void. Yet as I trudged forward, sinking into the snow to my knees with every step, a strange stillness fell over the land. The wind ceased its howling torment, and in its absence, the silence pressed down upon me like a chapel’s weight. It was then that I saw him.

    Through the veil of snow and shadow, a figure began to take form—towering, tremendous, ancient. At first, I thought it a trick of the light, the snow playing cruel games with my weary eyes. But no, the shape grew clearer, solid and imposing against the swirling storm. He stood at the edge of a frozen ridge, a sentinel of the old world, his immense form carved from the very ice itself. His shoulders rose like the cliffs that guard the Northern Drift, his limbs thick as ancient pines, and his skin—if one could call it that—was pale, almost translucent, as though the cold itself had sculpted him from glacier and frost.

    His breath came in slow, thunderous clouds, rolling from his mouth like smoke from the volcanic fires above Pyretown, and his eyes—gods, his eyes—twin shards of sapphire, glinting with a cold, hard distant light. They gazed out over the vast, frozen expanse, as though seeing far beyond our world, into realms where winter forever reigned. There was a stillness to him, a heaviness in the air around him, as if the very mountain held its breath in his presence.

    For a moment, I stood frozen, not by the cold, but the sheer awe of the sight before me. A First Giant, a being from a time long forgotten, before the first men had crossed the Sola Sea to wage their conquests. A massive creature of legend, Eriaheim’s most beloved child, whose very existence defied the warmth of my life and light. And I tell you now, I could feel the ancient power radiating from him, his cold sinking deeper into my bones as though the air itself had turned stone.

    I dared not move, dared not breathe, for fear any motion might shatter the fragile silence that bound us. The storm seemed to pause in reverence, and the world became still, as though time itself had stopped to bear witness.

    Then, without warning, his great head turned. Slowly, deliberately, his gaze fell upon me, and I felt the weight of centuries in those eyes. They were not unkind, but neither were they forgiving. Eyes of winter—cold, indifferent, eternal. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat a hammer blow against the quiet. The air between us seemed to thin, and in that moment, I felt so very small, insignificant, a fleeting breath of warmth in a world of endless cold.

    As he spoke, his voice was like glaciers grinding against rock, the deep rumble of ancient ice shifting beneath groaning earth. “Lo!—a wind doth blow…” His words rolled out like the storm itself, carried on the wind that had moments before howled through the crags and peaks. They were not meant for me, I knew that much. I am no fool. No mortal ear was meant to hear the thoughts of such a being. And yet, they echoed in the emptiness between us.

    His words twisted through the air, woven with the very essence of winter’s breath. I could not move, could not tear my eyes from him, as the Giant spoke of winds that raged from west to east, of icy fingers that tendered frozen branches and of a life long wearied by relentless cold. His lament was carried not in sorrow, but in resignation—an acceptance of a fate bound to mountain and wind, where even Brother Sun’s warmth could not reach.

    As he continued, I felt the earth beneath me tremble, as though it, too, listened to his ancient song. The roots of the mountain groaned, crumbling sugared snow whispered across the frozen drifts, and the cold seemed to press tighter around me, as if urging me to listen, to understand.

    “And still I feel a frozen stone… having moved past spring’s season, wretched winter close behind… always chasing.” The words chilled me to my core, not from fear, but from the weight of the truth they carried. Here was a being trapped in an endless cycle, a creature who had watched the world thaw and freeze time and time again, and yet he alone remains, long after familiar life has expired and all else has moved on.

    I did not speak, I dared not, for what words could I offer? What warmth could I provide to one who had known time’s embrace as he?

    So I listened, cautious but curious, the very air shivering, as he continued. This tremendous creature, more monolith than man, seemed to me, to carry the weight of ages upon his broad shoulders.

    “West now east… icy fingers tender frozen branches.” He gestured with a hand the size of a tree trunk, his fingers splayed wide as if to show me the very winds that heeded his call. His words hung in the air, the cold wind wrapping itself around each syllable, whispering them back to me in a voice not unlike his own.

    “Tendered brightly flame and fire,” he sang, and I watched as his massive hand traced the empty sky. “Their blaze unannounced thaws—This crucial heat makes hot our blood, defrost my weary life’s cold syrup.”

    He paused then, and for a moment I saw something strange in those frozen eyes. A longing, perhaps, for warmth, for the life and fire he could never fully grasp. His words, though powerful, trembled more fiercely, a crack forming in glacial ice.

    “And still,” he rumbled, “I feel a frozen stone—having moved past spring’s season, wretched winter close behind, whose frosts forever follow.” He bowed his great head, his breath misting in front of him, and I could see the cold that had taken root in his soul, a frost that no flame nor ember could hope to melt.

    The wind stirred again, high above, whipping clouds into dark shapes that swirled and twisted like mages working some secret spell. He lifted his gaze, his voice growing sharp with bitterness. “And what a peculiar wind up-high still blowing, west then east, makes secret the clouds these cruel occult apprentices. Part! Let sing your golden priest!”

    His voice rose, commanding, yet it was tinged with resignation, as though he knew the sun’s light would never answer him. The sun had fled this land long ago, leaving aching cold in its wake.

    “But I resign… bitter and tepid,” he whispered, his voice softening. “And would repent my careless conception, had I the heat.”

    There it was—the very heart of his sorrow, laid bare before me, and I am not ashamed to admit my heart ached for this Great Giant, immense and ancient, bound to the cold bones of the world, shouldering the weight of his creation like a yoke no age could lift. A being tied to a time long gone, a relic of frost and stone who yearned for a warmth he could never know. His words, though mighty, drifted into the wind like scattered flurries, lost to the sky, fading with the faint sigh of a dying flame.

    I stood there, silent witness to his sorrow, watching as the storm renewed swallowing him whole, and then he disappeared back into the snows from which he’d appeared—

    I am Kofi Trachamon, a free ranger and scout by trade, and at times, a sword for those whose coin too often out weighs my honor. I hail from the Northern Continent, where the winds still whisper forgotten things, where man must survive by wit and mettle. And this—this is my tale, as I have lived it.