Crankypot Halloween

Friendly Fairy Tales is pleased to offer a Halloween story for Adventurous Fairy Tale readers, Crankypot Halloween. Here is an excerpt:

Through the house give glimmering light,
By the dead and drowsy fire;
Every elf and fairy sprite
Hop as light as bird from brier;
And this ditty, after me,
Sing, and dance it, trippingly.
First rehearse your song by rote,
To each word a warbling note:
Hand in hand, with fairy grace,
Will we sing, and bless this place.

— William Shakespeare
(A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act V, Scene II)

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The gray-haired man sat tapping his fingers on his knee, without noticing tiny flickering lights under drooping dahlias, but he was aware of the darkening sky. He did not notice three raven nests in the tree across the street. A little girl followed the flickering lights, crying the whole way, closer and closer to where the man sat in the dark.

He heard her weeping by the gate, and shouted “Take your tricks elsewhere! No treats here!” He had been guarding his yard from the pitch-black of his porch for 25 years, not letting any trick-or-treaters through the gate, all lights off.

The crying got louder. “Go away, you can’t trick me!” He shouted again, unable to see anything with the sun sinking fast. He heard hiccups, then even louder wailing. He flipped the floodlights on, against his usual policy entirely. In the wash of yellow light, all the flickering twilight fairies hid, and the ravens called out, restless.

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He sighed and approached the gate for the first time in 25 years on Halloween. In the light from his floodlights, he saw a little girl with blonde curls stuck to her wet cheeks. Tears were rolling down from her eyes, and dangling on the strands of her hair like dew. The straps of her pink butterfly wings had slid off her shoulders, and she clutched a pillow case tightly in a fist. She looked just like his daughter, Ella Mae, all those years ago when he caught her sneaking out to trick-or-treat behind his back. He had yelled at Ella Mae, and now she lived on the opposite side of the country.

“What’s the matter, girl?” He asked gruffly.

 

 

To find out what happens, whether tricks or treats, please click on Crankpot Halloween.

Copyright 2013 Brenda Davis Harsham

New Adventurous Fairy Tale!!

I’ve added a new adventurous fairy tale: The Fire-Flower Dragon. In it, a young boy prays to his ancestor, a marathon monk, for guidance and wakens a fire-flower dragon.

Adventurous Fairy Tales are written for kids of all ages and middle year kids. Below is an excerpt. I’d be grateful if you follow the link if you’d like to finish reading. As usual, comments are greatly appreciated. Peace and Joy to all of you!

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The Fire-Flower Dragon

Osaka Castle

Osaka Castle

“Fireworks!” my mother, Akemi Shou, exclaimed, while I played my Sakuhachi, my traditional bamboo flute. I had learned to play it after hearing it at Osaka Castle.

I looked up, my fingers still moving automatically, my breathing deep and controlled. I looked right into the bright eye of a fire-flower dragon. Time stopped, but my heart continued to beat. I stopped playing for a moment in surprise, and I saw fireworks. I played my flute, and again I looked into the bright eye of the dragon. The dragon’s scales moved so fast, the air broke into colorful bursts that tricked human eyes into seeing fireworks, luminous ever-changing flashes of color in the twilight sky.

My father, Akio Shou, sighed with pleasure. “The fireworks must be part of the Kyoto Fire Festival that starts tomorrow. Funny, I never heard of fireworks here.”

I continued to play, looking at the dragon, who had risen from the rocks on the mountainside. My parents and I had been praying to Buddha and our ancestor, Isamu Hayato, for guidance on whether or not to leave Kyoto and move to America to join my father’s brother. I wanted to stay here in the land of my ancestors, with all my friends, but my father’s company wanted him to go to Boston. I asked them to go without me. We had hiked up the mountainside, a journey taking all day. We followed in the footsteps of my ancestor who had been a marathon monk hundreds of years before. He had run over fifty miles a day on these steep, rocky paths for almost one thousand days. Perhaps he had paused briefly at the same sacred spots to worship.

To continue reading, click here.