The Storyteller Read online

And it wondered. Was it only a special tree when the children were there? Or was it something more? Could it be special and important without them?

  It remembered now the words of the first young prince, who planted the tree and stood above it when it was small and helpless. He told the Gardeners that the tree was his own tree--no one of them would touch it.

  “It’s a very special tree, you see,” he whispered as he bent the lowest branches along the ground, an attentive gardener watching him work. “It will be the most beautiful tree in the world.”

  And as he made sure the inner branches pointed straight toward the sky, “You’re a very special tree.”

  The tree believed him. It had always believed him. But for a time--you know how it goes, as we grow older--it had forgotten the words. It had been special long before it held the children, long before there was even a garden wall. Long before the other trees had existed.

  “I am special,” whispered the tree in wonder. It looked toward the sky and raised its branches toward the luminous stars. “I am special,” it said calmly. “And I will always be special.”

  The other trees whispered among themselves, as they had previously done, but the tree ignored them. “I am special,” it said again, stretching new shoots along the ground.

  In the years following, until long after the old Queen died and the Queendom became a Kingdom, the tree laughed and stretched toward the sky, cradling the young princes and princesses, holding their treasures, and absolutely certain that it was the most beautiful and special tree in the world.

  Even at night.

  Author's Notes:

  These fairy tales were written for my nessies (nieces and nephews, for those who do not understand my Lauren-speak) and this book is dedicated to them.

  The essence of a fairy tale isn't the gowns and the palaces, or even the princes and fairies.

  A fairy tale is a complex story, told simply.

  Sometimes they have lessons attached and sometimes they do not. But fairy tales are not always for children (just read the Brothers Grimm versions, if you don’t believe me) and so I write fairy tales that are as much for adults as for children.

  I write what I like to read, and I hope you enjoyed these original Fairy Tales.

  If you liked them, please let others know.

  Lauren

  p.s. I had intended that this book be free to anyone who wanted it, but because of a plagiarism attempt I was forced to put a price on it.

  Please be aware that you are allowed to give this book away, with the caveat that this licensing statement remains intact and you make no changes to the text. You do NOT, under any circumstances, have the right to sell this book or any part of it.

  If you do give it away, please send the number of copies to [email protected]. I will immediately delete your e-mail and will not use your address for anything except tallying the numbers. I want to keep track of how many copies are floating around.

  Piracy of copyrighted works is an ongoing problem, and it hurts both the publishing industry and the authors. I now know precisely how much it hurts.

  Please do not contribute to this problem.

  Connect with Me Online:

  Website: https://lauren.laurentritz.com

  Twitter: laurenritz1

  Facebook: LaurenRitztheWriter

  Blog for writers: Eclectic

  Blog for readers: The HalfWorld

  Sample pages of Without A Voice, a contemporary religious novella available April 2013

  * * *

  Mae’s breath frosted in the air before she opened the apartment door, and frosted in the air after she stepped through. She made sure all the locks were secure and turned. There was a draft coming from somewhere. She left the light off as she padded through the short hall and stared blankly at the open balcony door.

  The porch already wore a white blanket of snow, and some of it had drifted in to rest on the rug. The muscles around her chest tightened.

  She wanted to leap across the room and slam the door shut, but she remained where she was. The old habits, habits she'd allowed to fade as she started to think this place was safe, resurfaced.

  The balcony connected with every other balcony along this side of the building, with a fire escape on either end. The “privacy” of the residents was preserved by flimsy railings between each apartment. It would be simple for someone to walk along, testing balcony doors. It had happened before.

  Her eyes darted to the left to the closed bedroom door and to the right into the tiny kitchenette. The light on the microwave blinked at her complacently.

  She could feel her heartbeat now, quicker and stronger than it should be. The safest exit was behind her, out the front door and down the stairs to the apartment manager’s office. It would mean unlocking the door; two deadbolts, a chain and a bar--lots of noise, and time. She should have remembered that locking evil out was useless if it was already inside.

  The quickest escape would be that open door onto the balcony.

  She glanced around again. If it was a robbery, they were doomed to disappointment. The only things she had of value were a ten year old laptop computer in her bag and one of her rings, which she wasn’t about to relinquish unless it was cut off her finger.

  Whoever had opened the door didn’t appear to have broken anything, which was a relief in an odd way. It was all garage sale or thrift store furniture, but she’d chosen carefully and refurbished a lot so it looked good. Oak was her wood of choice, mixed in with a few pieces of wrought iron that she’d painted a dark green.

  Two of her own paintings graced the walls, in refurbished matching frames. While someone who had no interest in or knowledge of art may have grabbed them, they really weren’t good enough to sell.

  The odds were getting greater that the perpetrator was still in this apartment.

  Best just to retreat, slow and easy, and unlock as quietly as possible.

  She started to move in that direction, and heard a familiar voice from the kitchen. “Stay where you are, Mina.”

  End of Sample