By Soramimi Hanarejima
These days, the story fairy is always so very busy, flying all over the city to visit everyone who needs new stories to make sense of their lives and the world, and in this day and age, that’s a lot of people. So when I see her in the park and finally get to ask if I can apprentice with her, I’m surprised that she grants my request—and even more surprised that she then launches right into the basics of casting stories, voice chipper as she avidly explains how her wand automatically detects what sort of stories a person needs, then synthesizes meaningful narratives that fit the bill—all in a matter of seconds. The upshot of which is that much of her time is spent getting into people’s homes at night when there isn’t an open window or mail slot or cat door she can go through. Because stories, she tells me, have to be cast when people are asleep since the sleeping mind puts up little resistance to stories while an alert mind can tear apart even a story it desperately needs with reflexive skepticism.
After accompanying the story fairy for a week, I’ve gotten a decent grasp on becoming invisible, shrinking, going down chimneys with a controlled descent and waving the wand with the right motions so its magic reaches different parts of the mind. Then I’m on my own with the fairy’s spare wand until she can get me a new one from the wand shop, which is only open on Tuesdays. In addition to the wand, I also carry a scroll that lists people who need stories along with their locations. Conveniently, it too has automatic features, like opening right to the name of the person I’m closest to and checking off the name once the wand has worked its magic.
Soon, I know firsthand just how busy the story fairy is. No matter how many people I visit each night, the list seems endless. So I try an experiment: casting stories on people who are spaced out, daydreaming or on autopilot. After each casting, I consult the scroll, and most of the time, the name it opens to is checked off! Encouraged by these results, I continue the experiment throughout the afternoon.
When I float over a backyard and find a kid lying on the grass staring up at the sky—Bozarc Milimar, according to the scroll—it seems natural to wrap up the experiment by storycasting on this young cloudspotter. Then, the moment I finish waving the wand over him, I’m suddenly whisked away into the woods beyond the yard. There, I find myself face to face with a tiny woman in a white silk gown, looking miffed as she hovers before me. Another fairy?
“I know I should do this while they’re asleep, but there are so many people who need stories,” I blurt.
“They need ideas too,” she says sternly. “That’s what I’m here for.”
“Oh, you’re the muse,” I realize.
“That’s right. And the ideas I grant people won’t stick if their minds are preoccupied by stories.”
“Well, does everyone on this list need ideas?”
I hand her the scroll.
“These are OK,” she says, pointing at various names.
I get out my highlighter and mark up the list accordingly.
“How about I focus on these people during the day and work on the rest at night?” I suggest.
“Nice idea, and it didn’t come from me!”
“Maybe just being around you is magic.”
“That’s also a nice idea. If only it were true.”
“I feel like it’s at least a little bit true.”
“That’s sweet. The story fairy is lucky to have you.”
“Thanks, that means a lot to me.”
“Well, I’ll see you around.”
“Not if I stick to these names,” I say, holding up the scroll.
“You’ll get through those in no time. We’ll have to meet again so I can pick out more names. We can also coordinate schedules so you can cast stories here while I’m on the other side of the river.”
“I love that idea!”
“What can I say. That’s my job.”
And with that, she flits away, leaving me looking forward to our next meeting.
* * *
Soramimi Hanarejima is the author of the neuropunk story collection Literary Devices For Coping. Soramimi’s recent work can be found in Pulp Literature, Harpur Palate, Black Warrior Review, and The Cincinnati Review.