An Author’s Tale

An Author’s Tale

New Found Fairy Tales

Writer of Science Fiction and Mystery Romance, this is An Author’s Tale: New Found Fairy Tales. These Tales were written long ago, in a time of mystery and imagination. When our worlds were many, snared by a wood, hidden by mist, watched by eyes that could not see. Each world blinded by a touch. Fear grew in creatures of the worlds, darkness in their imagination, coldness gnawing their senses until new lights shone, piercing the dark, breathing hope. People we now call heroes.


People in many forms populate these worlds, people like us, dancing with joy and torn hearts, in the mysterious light of ordinary and magic. We know these worlds now through tales handed down, fragments of clothing snatched by trees, fragrances remembered, of journeys travelled and lives past. As easy to catch as mist in our hands.

I found these Tales one winter’s night when the Sun died, and ice creaked. In the refuge of my home, the lights shone, and an electric flame mimicked a wood fire. I sat by the fire, a notepad on my lap, and spied something strange. A parcel concealed amongst others, with a name I did not recognise. The parcel was fading, but when I touched the wrapping, I sensed an age of mysteries hidden within. Of times unknown, when towns were thatched villages, concealed by tumbling hills and enticing woods.

Opening the parcel revealed a lost treasure of aged tales, of lives scrapped across the earth, forging imprints on our mind. Worlds no more, worlds we did not know and worlds we did. Worlds pulsating in worlds we dreamed. But as I read the Tales, in horror, they faded from the page. I read faster, panicking, trying to catch the words, absorb their meaning, but the faster I read the faster they faded, page upon page, into the air. No ink to give words substance, no page to anchor; words floated silently before my eyes and tumbled into the fire, an unreal flame burning a surreal world.

The tales vanished, and I remained with haunting memories of what I might have read. I could not rest, my fingers searched the air, pressed the vacant paper in hope and desperation, refusing to let die what might have been. And, I feared, what had died before.

I found myself in the morning writing in the air, the notepad slipping from my lap. Perhaps I caught the words, but the sentences were lost. In despair I walked away, leaving the scattered papers on the floor, an ethereal ink in a flameless fire.

That is many years past, now I am grey and sit on a different chair in a different home, living another life. Until one night, I found a strange folder on the computer on which I now write. Within the folder were partial tales, fragments of what might have been. Tales started in a rush, suddenly ending, tales almost complete and tales I would remember – if I could but read them. A tale of what happened then is a tale of no telling. It is sufficient, whether we wish it or not, that handfuls of mist pervade our mind. Words of mist without substance, feeding our world as they feed worlds before, snared by a wood hidden by mist, watched by eyes that would not see. Waiting for heroes to bring new light, stir hope and cheer, laughing voices and lifting melodies. Close your eyes and see not letters forming on the page but tales lurking in the shadows of your mind. Look deep and see a flickering candle parting the dark, lighting new paths, new hopes and smiling eyes. These tales are new found, as real as any page written in mist.


Science fiction
Mystery Romance
New Found Fairy Tales


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