Read ten stories over ten weeks, exploring a new world in each story
Or catch up on Vol. 1: Fairytales for Grown-Ups.
Every night, they fought in the skies. At first, the people below thought that the bursts of light were stars shooting closer than ever before, or planets spinning near enough to threaten them. The sparks would clash and fly above them without sound, fizzling out before reaching the ground, and the people eventually decided that whoever it was—stars, aliens, planets, gods—they were battling in the night skies above the land. ➤
At the edge of the town of Moorwick was the lake. There was always mist on the lake. It didn’t matter if it was hot or cold: the fog always roiled fast across the surface like steam over a pot of soup. Sometimes it got into the town. When it came up out of the water it was still and heavy and you could feel it sticking to your skin. But every once in a while, on a clear night when the moon was full, the mist parted and you could see the island. ➤
It was just past midnight when Felicia stepped out of her second floor window and into the sky beyond it. She grabbed her backpack, but nothing else—no shoes, no clothes, no toys. It was not summer yet, just before it in mid-May, and she was surprised how easy it was to walk on the warm air. It lifted her with each step, and she rose up and away from the house without hurrying. This was the night she had been waiting for. ➤
The land of Filigri was like every other land, except for one thing: Filigri had no animals. Filigri had tomatoes. Filigri had petunias. Filigri had forests and mountains and cocoa beans. But for a hundred miles in every direction, there was not a single sparrow, a single rat, a single walrus or tiger or platypus to be seen. ➤
The worst part of the Winter War was watching the old people fight it. No young people wanted to join. Instead, they let the old men with long white eyebrows and women with hair going from silvery-brown to white pick up the guns and planes and bombs and drive into each other all winter long. No one was happy about it. The old people thought the young people were neglecting their duties; the young people thought the old people were wasting their time. They were both right. ➤
It was the summer of ’98 when all the magical creatures of the famous Fable Hotel went on strike. The dwarves came up out of the boiler room, the imps skittered out from under the leaky sinks, the centaurs left the stables. All together with the griffins and the the goblins and the gnomes they marched in circles around the old marble pillars that flanked the front doors, waving signs, clanging bells, and beating drums while Og the troll, head of the Magical Creatures Union for the last three-hundred-and-fifty years or so, bellowed into a megaphone. On the whole, it was quite a spectacle. ➤