Fairytales - Blog Posts

Snow White But Vampire [Full Body Design]

Power Outage #89 Snow White But Vampire

Simsala Grimm AU with Emile Picani as Doc and Remy/Sleep as croggy (could be wrong with the names here my memory of the show is not that fresh).

Once upon a time the sides got stuck in a nightmare lured there by the dark sides with what they most desired. 

Team Remile leaps to the rescue but realises they’ve been deceived. The sides they knew and loved nowhere to be found. Dreams and nightmares have existed in different realms each containing their own plane of existence of reality. The Multiverse expanding with each new headcanon, theory, fanfic and plenty of AU’s accompanied by unique and different art styles from Fanders all over the world. 

Now their quest really begins can they get their sides back to their world before Thomas wakes up and forgets them. Emile: Traveling through fairy tales sounds fun right ?

Lets see if my taglist will finally work again also feel free to send them questions in my ask box to progress the story or just get to know more about them.

@thelogicalloganipus @romanpizza @helloprincey @hellomusicalnerdhere @lacteouslesters @lucifer-in-my-head @warnadudenexttime @angstyteenv @airakorainies @gay-space-rain @dorothyannewise @andlipstickboys @bunny222 @creepyfloof @the-queen-of-fandoms @healinghufflepuff @thatsmsmactoyou @futuristicinfluencernerd @delarpix @pailettehazel @aloa2u @lazycb @squirescreen @thecollectorofdarkness @panfilet @lucho-arts @dootdoodley @monstrous-madison @delphox-lover @skip-the-potato @escapedoodland @mangomonkeyboy @thatsweaterchick @twoframesstudios @awesomesilvercat @goldenfoxination @callmetrash1 @ebeanie @tj-the-nonbinary-alien @the-paper-head @pipiana-chan @galaxxibeast @official-alien-pancakes @10cloverfield @fux-nixi @imaginatekate @theaestheticworld @invisible-bunny @blacknwhiteblog @harrisonburg44 @sachikoaiyuki @so-fucking-proud @thatrandomfangirl28 @gigi-is-drawing @skythehooman @thatonelegobrickuhate @turtledog-loves-her-anime @artsy-6321 @crazybutcalm2 @thatonerandomromanian @drbblud

@cremafied @blackholebunny @s-t-s-g @craftymelongirl @jennijam07 @randomslasher @tragicillustrator @infinitesimal-heart @oli-smiles-sometimes @elkius @kingsketchdoodle @themightylotad @angelic-ace @turtley-gay @all-these-things-that-ive-dun @lucho-arts @rayray2425 @shinsyl @akwardly-magical @shyrenthedawndragon @mint-bees @meplushyou @demigosh @moriarrtty @necro-nova @lilis-doodle-dome @internally-screeming @kobaltski @breloomings @peachy-pattoncake @ethanhanbury @romanasanders @purpsart @mimiloverfox @ec-sanderssides @finnlinnaj @jojoztar @swerve-art @2queer2deer @could-always-be-gayer-2@featuredfander @morallogic @fangirltothefullest @novaedream @cattonsanders @notafeeling @parano--vigilant @logically-asexual @colorful-unknown @the-sanders-sides @the-sanders-snides @sidespart @charmingsides @imtoobiforyou @ifitsbritishimprobablyafan @fandergecko @pantton-sandacers @sugarglider9603 @misplaced-my-notes @meyonto @thomassandersownsmysoul @moxieties @ellistruggle @sander-sides-fangirl-with-pma @sanders-sides-fantasy @voidsides @cnv99 @paperghastly @im-basically-logan @caffibun @shesavampirequeen @tiny-mudkip @flatlinesunrelenting @blue-stopsigns @sanders-sides-thuri @aharleigh2 @pumpkinofspace @menaciingly @justisaisfine @notalwaysthevillian @fantasyinsanity @notallpotatoesarefrenchfries @officialwaterfairy @sunshine-in-a-petal @galaxy-warping @toastraccoon @finiteframe3 @quietgamesart @quietlypondering @why-did-the-jax-fall-over  @the-pastel-peach @prettyinaccurate @phhiih @blombla-art @unknownsandersfan @purplepatton @angsty-hoodie @angst-patton @violetvirgil @basementtreasure @nightcatssketchbook @rocithefangirl @lowkeyvirgilobsessed @sanders-trash @deceitful-deception @akuryoudraws

@panic-at-the-everywhere-lol @chatterghosts @jewelsafecorner @demonlucy-chan @sinningbutwithstyle @sandy-sides @thought-u-said-dragon-queen @reba-andthesides @menacefh @simplypatton @pipapatton @agayfairy @pastel-patton123 @rose-gold-roman @lollingtothemax @smedenn @altruistic-skittles @peachy-pattoncake @minnie-monnie @melchann @goodjobmiranda @sidespart @never-logical @luarpice @strangerthings-and-phan  @thatsthat24@sparkedawg @allthemetalsoftherainbow @kirsten-the-freak @the-darkness-art @aliferous-ly   @pattson @jughead-is-canonically-aroace @saphirestrike @redundant-statements-for-400  @proudhufflepuffgeek @birdybabybird @quinintheclouds   @yourpalmogar @all-my-fandoms-are-killing-me @dementeddracon  @thatgaydemigodnerd @sanderdrabbles  @countessmissyshort @anxiousravenclaw @creativenostalgiastuff  @koalaaquabear @deep-ocean-blues  @heythereprincey @devastate-my-space  @inalandofmythandtimeofmagic @ffsas-side-account @urtrashthemes  @the-incedible-sulk  @savingshae @somepostontheinternet @grey-lysander @reba-andthesides @rose-gold-romantic @thatonenerdtm  @septifanderplier  @dementeddracon

@confinesofpersonalknowledge

@trashfireiplier

@asterias-confused-writings

@save-dirk-gently

@lacandra

@emphoenixcat

@thenerdycube

@walking-encyclopedia

@trashypansexual

@saphirestrike

@memesanddreamsinc

@catsandrandomness

@vulnerablevirgil

@too-precious-to-process

@radioactivebread

@crofters-jam

@faacethefacts

@nightly-illustrator

@robanilla-writes

@thestoryoftaylor

@voices-and-stardust

@countessmissyshort

@aikogumi

@theworldismysupernova

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@ruuworld

@romanssippycup

@aph-romania-appreciation

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@hi-disappointed-im-daughter

@pandagirl0730

@thats-so-crash

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@theworldismysupernova

@alextheodd

@erlenmeyertrashofsandersides

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@thepusheenqueen

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@pieces-of-annedrew

@the-prince-and-the-emo

@shadow-walker-1201

@micha-song-loveheart

@ocotopushugs

@deep-ocean-blues

@emovirgil

@emotional-mess-in-distress

@emovirgil-sanders

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@depressed-alone

@urtrashthemes

@bluebellie01

@panicatthephanfic

@fireflightyt

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@siriuswhiskers

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@sanders-sides-thuri

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@virgil-is-verge

@jesusonafrickinboat

@migraine-marathon

@tree4life25

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@thomas-must-get-sleep

@osnapitzbc

@evilmuffin

@louisthewarlock

@candiukas

@just-another-transblog

@skylagamingv2

@mercythemermaids-blog

@devastate-my-space

@purplesatankittycat

@yourhappypappypatton

@thesilentbluesparrow

@kirsten-the-freak

@storytellerofuntoldlegends

@potterlover394

@madelynna

@incredible-introvert

@koalaaquabear

@sanders-fam-ily

@hissesssss

@theshipqueenarrives

@virgilisaneternalmood

@jughead-is-canonically-aroace

@sugarblob0

@logically-sided

@pearls-of-patton

@v-blue-writer

@minshinxx

@the-optimism-of-the-ostriches

@rptheturk

@shygirl4991

@baileystarsketches

@emokittenlikesgore

@cripplingchips

@heythereprincey

@icbatocomeupwithausername

@allaboutme70-blog

@space-d0ubt

@captain-loki-xavier

@logan-exe

@starry-eyed-haiku-dreamer

@digitally-analog

@datonerougecookeh

@starlightlogan

@katatles-the-fish

@funsizedgremlin

@thegirlwiththedragonheart

@moonlightinwater

@thecrimsoncodex

@cinderlunarcyborg

@kickthenavi

@pansexual-cat

@sarcasticanxiety

@didsomeonesayyoutube122

@nottodaylogic

@fanatic564

@jaybingu

@lepardlover

@cashmeredragon

@all-these-trees-stealing-mah-o2

@on-lock-like-attica

@the-lonely-angel

@proudhufflepuffgeek

@idiotauthor

@ts-sideblog

@jade-dragon226-fan

@literaturegoesasfreight

@confinesofpersonalknowledge

@sanderssides-deathangel

@too-random-for-me

@karmicmayhem

@hghrules

@theanxietyofbeinganxious

@ace-of-hufflepuffs

@ace-v-p-d

@ive-given-up-on-it

@violetmcl

@muontsy2

@microsoft-nerd

@hoodie-bros

@ashbash-the-trashcash

@milomeepit

@angeliclogan

@lockolocka

@makemeaplant

@blazeimagines101

@thegreyacefromspace

@ffsas-side-account

@sides-of-a-sunset

@unknownsandersfan

@the-feels-are-coming

@k9cat

@toujours-fidele

@angered-turtle

@nyxwordsmith

@gamerzylo

@nymphaedoratonks

@aliferous-ly

@221biotchplease

@minamishipsit

:) 

@anastasialestina

@my-dark-anxious-son

@deathbyvenusftw

@lucifer-just-needs-a-hug

@cinquefoilelove

@a-blog-just-for-sanders

@roman-is-a-gay

@anxie-teaa

@prplzorua

@lanasimanenkova

– 

@mollycassmith

@ruuworld

@mollycassmith

@dudlebuggs

@pinkeasteregg

@sanders-family-sims

@musicsavedmefromdeath

@emokittenlikesgore

@siriuswhiskers

@fricksonsticks

@trashypansexual

@notveryglittery

@artistictaurean

@theanxietyofbeinganxious

@osnapitzbc

@today-only-happens-once

@thegirlwiththedragonheart

@baileystarsketches

@ocotopushugs

@darude-slamstorm

@do-rey-me

@sarcasticly-aarogant-blog

@fireflightyt

@juvenile-changeling

@ace-of-hufflepuffs

@constantly-sobbing

@curlyq-art

@awika-kate

@leesacrakon

@weirdsthenewnormal

@all-favorable-blog

@just-fic-me-up

@residentanchor

@well-love-has-failed-me

@mis-sinful

@madly-handsome

@upt0wnsquirr3l

@pattoncakes

@pattoncakesvirgil

@pattoncaketheprecious

@patton-cake-and-crofters

@pattonpattoff

@pattons-constellations

@roman-sanders-protection-squad

english fairytale illustrations by ukrainian artist vladyslav yerko

I finally get to post a preview for my piece for @inkedfairytales

I got assigned to 1001 Nights and even though they encouraged us to think about of the box, I admit you've got to squint to recognize mine. I came up with a post-cannon type thing. It involves a hut in the desert, a mute character, a really tall jinn and human sacrifices. (I had to cycle through 5 ideas before settling, everybody else's ideas are so good!)

This zine was so fun to be apart of and filled with so many fantastic pieces! I'm so hyped to see how everything turns out!

 Extract:

“It’s not a good story to tell, little mouse.”

Almost as if to apologize, Ra picked up the book again and started reading. Ra had a way of forming words, his voice deep and mellow, blending with the turn of the page. Ebbing and flowing, the story drifted around him like dragging notes. Ra looked over the top of the cover as he read.

“I was a king once,” Ra didn’t say it like it was a story. He said it like a memory, bittersweet on the tongue. “They used to come to me. I’ve helped raise a city out of the sand. I’ve known the feeling of bringing armies victory. I’ve known the maddening years of darkness, waiting, seconds turning to centuries in darkness.”

Thoughts melted away as a familiar warmth settled over him, radiating from Ra like the afternoon sun. It felt like smoke coiled in his mind, slowed down and sluggish. Bo’s eyelids raised and lowered. He watched with dull entrancement as the colored shadows cast by the hanging lanterns first glittered and spun then morphed and arched into dancing figures that twirled and skipped across their walls, moving in tandem with Ra’s story. Bo’s eyes sagged then fogged. In the state in between sleeping and waking, his vision blurred, he saw Ra’s skin darken then shift. What are you?

Something fell then shattered.

'...from the nineteenth century onward, Cinderella conveyed the explicit message that personal goodness and virtue merit reward, and that goodness and virtue are, and will be rewarded. As a generality, it is fair to say that most people believe themselves both good and deserving; thus the message that goodness will be rewarded is well suited to the hopes and needs of the large part of every country’s population that does not live in comfort. Furthermore, stories like Cinderella, in which magical assistance plays a prominent role, foster an existential belief in eventual assistance, whatever the presenting problem may be, and support hope for a happier and better future. For poor girls in the nineteenth century, for whom so few opportunities for social rise from the depths of misfortune to the highest imaginable joys existed, Cinderella could stand for a way out and a way up.'

Ruth B. Bottigheimer, 'Cinderella: The People's Princess' in Cinderella across Cultures, ed. M. H. D. Rochere (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 2016).

'The earliest Cinderella figures emerged within aristocratic milieus. Basile’s was prepared for academicians or their highly placed friends and acquaintances; Perrault’s was written for a princess of the blood; and d’Aulnoy’s was crafted for fellow salonières. In all three seventeenth-century tellings, Cinderella reproduced and represented aspects of aristocratic imaginaries.'

Ruth B. Bottigheimer, 'Cinderella: The People's Princess' in Cinderella across Cultures, ed. M. H. D. Rochere (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 2016).

pssssst hey. hey. free and expansive database of folk and fairy tales. you can thank me later

ending a story in other languages

kurdish: “my story went to other homes, god bless the mothers and fathers of its listeners” (Çîroka min çû diyaran, rehmet li dê û bavê guhdaran.)

greek: “and they lived well, and we lived better” (και ζήσανε αυτοί καλά και εμείς καλύτερα)

afrikaans: “whistle whistle, the story is done” (fluit fluit, die storie is uit)

goemai: “my tale has finished, (it) has returned to go (and) come home.” (tamtis noe lat / dok ba muaan yi wa)

amharic: “return my story and feed me bread” (ተረቴን መልሱ አፌን በዳቦ አብሱ::)

bengali: “my story ends and the spinach is eaten by the goat” (aamaar kothati furolo; Notey gaachhti murolo) *means something is irreversibly ended because goats eats herbs from the root

norwegian: “snip snap snout, the tale is finished” (snipp snapp snute, så er eventyret ute”

polish: “and i was there [at the wedding] too, and drank mead and wine.” (a ja tam byłem, miód i wino piłem.)

georgian: “disaster there, feast here… bran there, flour here…” (ჭირი – იქა, ლხინი – აქა, ქატო – იქა, ფქვილი – აქა)

hungarian: “this is the end, run away with it” (itt a vége, fuss el véle)

turkish: “lastly, three apples fell from the sky; one for our story’s heroes, one for the person who told their tale, and one for those who listened and promise to share. And with that, they all achieved their hearts’ desires. Let us now step up and settle into their thrones.” (Gökten üç elma düşmüş; biri onların, biri anlatanın, diğeri de dinleyenlerin başına. Onlar ermiş muradına, biz çıkalım kerevetine.)

Beauty and the Beast by STorA

Illustration from What the Moon Saw for Fairy Tales from Hans Cristian Andersen by Dugald Stewart Walker (1914)

As I am reading an aggregation notebook about fairytales, I am reminded of another reason for why there is this change from “folklorist” to “literary” studies of fairytales recently.

As you might know, the “folkloric” studies of fairytales led to typification, classification, catalogues - the famous Aarne-Thompson classification. We identified the “families” of fairytales, the common points they shared, the ingredients of the recipes, the pieces of the puzzle placed together ; we’ve got lists of archetypal characters and the typical scenarios and routines. And don’t get me wrong, this is really good and cool - through this we were able to identify the “untold rules” of fairytales, and the unofficial canons of the genre, and better highlight the unusual or brilliant variations…

But there is a slight problem with those studies. Their “break-down” method might start out or end as a catalogue, but it passes by a system of “molds”, if I dare say so. Basically, to forge types, to classify, to make lists and divided categories, they enforce the stories into a mold, into general archetypes, into “typical behaviors”… And this is where people see things differently nowadays.

The example I can bring forward is how the folklorist studies usually consider an archetype of the story to be the “aggressor”. You know, the typical fairytale villain. And this folklorist approach will often end up basing their categorization on “What does the aggressor does? How does the hero encounters the aggressor? Is the aggressor killed or robbed?”. But who is the aggressor? Anyone and nobody. In the “aggressor” position, they treat the very same way dragons and evil stepmothers, ogres and wicked fairies, witches and lustful kings, greedy knights and devious dwarves. These are all just “costumes”, for some folklorist, placed on an archetypal “fairytale aggressor”, and these “costumes” are just ornaments that are only a secondary, if not tertiary matter.

But… what the “literary studies” are bringing forth nowadays is the question: “Wait… Maybe it does matter. Maybe who or what the aggressor is does matter. Maybe we shouldn’t treat the same way stories that are about dragons and those about evil witches. Maybe there is a reason why the storyteller prefers to talk about a greedy abusive mother rather than an ogre deep in the woods. And the literary studies precisely ask those questions because - unlike the folklorist studies which mostly see fairytales as ancestral plans and outlines, traditional schemas and structure, cultural frameworks and fabrics, the literary studies try to consider the fairytales more as stories first. Stories told by a certain person, in front of a certain audience, crafted a certain way for a certain time and era. 

This is why, while the folklorist studies tend to discard or disregard the “little details” as not so important (because they are searching for the bone structure or “primordial core” of the story), the literary studies rather focus on these details - because it is those details that make the story. The little twists and turns that each storyteller adds to the formula, the specific additions of a man or woman’s own mind and culture. For a folklorist study, it doesn’t matter if the key is made out of gold or bronze - or even if it is a key at all, it might be a magical egg as long as it has to be found by the protagonist to open a magical door. But to the literary study, the implications of changing the key from gold to bronze will be questioned, and having an egg instead of a key will be a BIG deal. 

I don’t know if what I said is clear, but I just wanted to point it out. (With such a big topic as this whole literary VS folklorist debate, one needs to pile up the little crumbs over each other until they make a big pile, because that’s literaly centuries of scholarship, studies and popular culture reception at war here)

Collection of vintage French fairytale books

Why do Fae in fairytales always ask for a First Born Child? Like thats so worthless. What are you even going to do with a human baby. They’re literally useless.

You want me to undo a curse? That’ll be 20 bucks, cash only. Bless you with some magical gift? Get me a Gucci Handbag and you’ve got a deal.

You could be getting so much more out of this guys c’mon.

Here’s a story about changelings: 

Mary was a beautiful baby, sweet and affectionate, but by the time she’s three she’s turned difficult and strange, with fey moods and a stubborn mouth that screams and bites but never says mama. But her mother’s well-used to hard work with little thanks, and when the village gossips wag their tongues she just shrugs, and pulls her difficult child away from their precious, perfect blossoms, before the bites draw blood. Mary’s mother doesn’t drown her in a bucket of saltwater, and she doesn’t take up the silver knife the wife of the village priest leaves out for her one Sunday brunch. 

She gives her daughter yarn, instead, and instead of a rowan stake through her inhuman heart she gives her a child’s first loom, oak and ash. She lets her vicious, uncooperative fairy daughter entertain herself with games of her own devising, in as much peace and comfort as either of them can manage.

Mary grows up strangely, as a strange child would, learning everything in all the wrong order, and biting a great deal more than she should. But she also learns to weave, and takes to it with a grand passion. Soon enough she knows more than her mother–which isn’t all that much–and is striking out into unknown territory, turning out odd new knots and weaves, patterns as complex as spiderwebs and spellrings. 

“Aren’t you clever,” her mother says, of her work, and leaves her to her wool and flax and whatnot. Mary’s not biting anymore, and she smiles more than she frowns, and that’s about as much, her mother figures, as anyone should hope for from their child. 

Mary still cries sometimes, when the other girls reject her for her strange graces, her odd slow way of talking, her restless reaching fluttering hands that have learned to spin but never to settle. The other girls call her freak, witchblood, hobgoblin.

“I don’t remember girls being quite so stupid when I was that age,” her mother says, brushing Mary’s hair smooth and steady like they’ve both learned to enjoy, smooth as a skein of silk. “Time was, you knew not to insult anyone you might need to flatter later. ‘Specially when you don’t know if they’re going to grow wings or horns or whatnot. Serve ‘em all right if you ever figure out curses.”

“I want to go back,” Mary says. “I want to go home, to where I came from, where there’s people like me. If I’m a fairy’s child I should be in fairyland, and no one would call me a freak.”

“Aye, well, I’d miss you though,” her mother says. “And I expect there’s stupid folk everywhere, even in fairyland. Cruel folk, too. You just have to make the best of things where you are, being my child instead.”

Mary learns to read well enough, in between the weaving, especially when her mother tracks down the traveling booktraders and comes home with slim, precious manuals on dyes and stains and mordants, on pigments and patterns, diagrams too arcane for her own eyes but which make her daughter’s eyes shine.

“We need an herb garden,” her daughter says, hands busy, flipping from page to page, pulling on her hair, twisting in her skirt, itching for a project. “Yarrow, and madder, and woad and weld…”

“Well, start digging,” her mother says. “Won’t do you a harm to get out of the house now’n then.”

Mary doesn’t like dirt but she’s learned determination well enough from her mother. She digs and digs, and plants what she’s given, and the first year doesn’t turn out so well but the second’s better, and by the third a cauldron’s always simmering something over the fire, and Mary’s taking in orders from girls five years older or more, turning out vivid bolts and spools and skeins of red and gold and blue, restless fingers dancing like they’ve summoned down the rainbow. Her mother figures she probably has.

“Just as well you never got the hang of curses,” she says, admiring her bright new skirts. “I like this sort of trick a lot better.”

Mary smiles, rocking back and forth on her heels, fingers already fluttering to find the next project.

She finally grows up tall and fair, if a bit stooped and squinty, and time and age seem to calm her unhappy mouth about as well as it does for human children. Word gets around she never lies or breaks a bargain, and if the first seems odd for a fairy’s child then the second one seems fit enough. The undyed stacks of taken orders grow taller, the dyed lots of filled orders grow brighter, the loom in the corner for Mary’s own creations grows stranger and more complex. Mary’s hands callus just like her mother’s, become as strong and tough and smooth as the oak and ash of her needles and frames, though they never fall still.

“Do you ever wonder what your real daughter would be like?” the priest’s wife asks, once.

Mary’s mother snorts. “She wouldn’t be worth a damn at weaving,” she says. “Lord knows I never was. No, I’ll keep what I’ve been given and thank the givers kindly. It was a fair enough trade for me. Good day, ma’am.”

Mary brings her mother sweet chamomile tea, that night, and a warm shawl in all the colors of a garden, and a hairbrush. In the morning, the priest’s son comes round, with payment for his mother’s pretty new dress and a shy smile just for Mary. He thinks her hair is nice, and her hands are even nicer, vibrant in their strength and skill and endless motion.  

They all live happily ever after.

*

Here’s another story: 

Keep reading

This is Rinah! He’s a sheep farmer, based off of Frank Baum’s Little Boy Blue.

Autumn Fairytale aesthetic

Finding A True Name

The woods are quiet at this time of morning, when the sun is barely peeking over the horizon and the forest be thick with mists and glittering with morning dew. At the base of an old oak I pick up an acorn and fashion its cap smooth like a bowl, carving down the stem into a base before I toss the seed high between a fork in the tree's upper branches.

I miss of course, but that's hardly the point. I have no offering for the little or hidden people, hardly believe in them besides an idle fascination with little rituals like these, a bowl of morning dew I'd carved but moments before and set aside between then twisting roots of the old tree, and a mandarin in my hand that I begin to peel as I lean against it and try to listen to the morning sounds of birds.

I hear a voice beside me ask what I am doing there, and I give a little shrug. It's a public forest, and I figured a morning walk would be nice, no need for the inquisition.

"You ever thought about climbing it?" they say, and I tilt my head. "When I was younger," I tell them, "I could climb a smooth pole if I wanted to, but no… not anymore. Maybe… maybe someday, but I'm not as sure those branches will hold me as I am,"

"This tree is special," they tell me, "It is old and it is tired, but it is a home to anyone who might seek its shade, for a price of course"

"Maybe," I tell them, "It's not like I didn't leave anything though,"

"So I see," they say, "but trees get water every time it rains, every night when the cool settles on their leaves, what could make them want some in a little bowl they can't even drink from?"

"Wasn't so much for the tree," I say, a small smile building on my lips as I pull free another piece of the mandarin and stick it in my mouth, "More for any hidden folk, should they want it," I swallow the piece of fruit down, "This oak gets plenty of what it needs, water, sunlight, nutrients from the soul, the freedom to grow, I figured all more it could want was some company, so that's what I offer it in exchange for shade,"

The other gives me an odd look, something of a little gleam in their emerald green eyes as they tilt their head a little to the side, blink twice, and ask me a question.

"Can I have your name, at least?" it asks, and I tell them of course. I give it readily enough.

The green eyed stranger frowns at me, "That's not your name," they say plainly.

"It is though," I say, "The one of my birth at least,"

"But it is not your name,"

"It is a name," I say, "they've never really seemed to stick to me, especially when I came out,"

"So what is your name?" they ask again.

"I already told you didn't I?"

They pout harder, "That's just a name, an empty name," they say, "It's not yours,"

By now I've caught on, whether fact or fiction or something in between,

"I suppose it's right to say I haven't one yet, I'm still trying to find it,"

"Was it taken?" they implore me, "No, that can't make sense if you could still give it freely,"

"I think it just died," I say, with another bite of the fruit in my hand, "It faded, with that part of me that didn't really consider anything else, or maybe it never really was mine to begin with," I swallow it down again, "I've been rotating between nicknames for now, but nothing quite feels right."

"I can feel them," it says, "Nameless, what an interesting thing you are, to be nameless and whole all at once, oh the fair folk would hate you and I would too, had I not the pleasure of your earnestness."

I give a little nod, despite the small swell of unease in my chest.

"Would you like some fruit?" I say, offering the other half, yet untouched but picked clean of skin and grit. It isn't often I can peel a mandarin without piercing it's flesh and spilling it's juices.

The Faerie smiles at me, a mouth full of needle like teeth and eyes that glimmer with gold flecked inside it's too bright eyes.

"I would like that," it says to me, and takes it readily. Popping some of the pulps in its mouth, one after another, and licking the juice from its lips as it chews. Turning over what remains in its hands and smiling a little to itself as it does so.

"What are you here for?" I ask it sweetly, pulling free a knife and idly making another bowl from a nearby acorn.

"I had wanted to steal you away," it says, and I stop a little at the declaration, "It's always fun to have better company in Faerie, with your name I might have been still able to leave something behind that would have others none the wiser,"

"And now?"

"I couldn't charge you if I wanted to," it giggles a little under its breath, "I haven't your name nor your thanks, instead I have two gifts freely given, and nothing but the utmost pleasantries from you on my and our friend's account, so I'll tell you what," they say, "I owe you a boon, and so meet with me whenever you are able, and I shall help you find your name, and it shall be all your own,"

"And yours?" I ask coyly, "May I have yours?"

They flick a finger by my ear and I laugh.

"Cheeky," they say, "but you may call me a friend,"

Cinderella marries the Prince, part 1/2

Installation by Vincent Olinet.

unicorn art by roger and linda garland

'Nighttime Travellers' by Barbara Sobczynska