Over two days, I wrote my once upon a time story for mlmm Tale Weaver/Fairy Tale, January 24, 2019. A semi-free write, as I went back over and filled in some **** place holders for words that I could not catch the first time.

A rough week. Two daily gratitudes: “surviving the pain for another day.” Mundane routines unleashing waves of agony. “Bi-polar” weather: from frigid to tropical in 24 hours; northerly fueled minus degree wind-chills to umbrella bursting south winds within 24 hours. Upsetting my migraine-brain while my medication was as lost as I was.

Morning fevers and night-time sweats: a function of my sluggish immune system’s battle with ordinary germs – my reoccurring pseudo-sickness.

Of in-articulation of feelings; of discomforting dreams; of inability to function at “normal level.”

And . .

Of that euphoric moment when migraine breaks, and facial, jaw, and neck pain unramps to “usual” background music level.

Of hawk flying into tree overhead next to inner-city parking garage.

Of coffee and conversation after self-imposed isolationism.

(Written Saturday/Sunday January 26/27, 2019. . . life happens . . .)

Once upon a time in an alternate reality far far away, a semi-circle of children framed, in a U, the ephemeral figure of their teacher. Story time . . . best part of solstice day.

A shimmer of anticipation and excitement shot through their rainbowed-translucent clothing. The group floated as the sun and moon exchanged places in the whirling starscaped sky.

“Once upon a time,” Calaxia said,” her words appearing in thought bubbles above her head, “in an alternative reality far far away, across the vast cosmos of being, a group of children gathered.”

Her audience gazed upwards, smiling as each thought bubble burst, showering them with star-dusted words.

“A deep, dark woods surrounded them in shades of verdant green.” Her thought bubbles mirrored a nature’s palette.

Her student’s mouths formed into “O”s at the idea of floating above a green sea, the tops of trees forming windy waves.

“A single sun shone above, dip-dappling them in slices of warm gold.”

The children, as one, looked overhead, thinking of the four suns whose silvery-cool glow splashed them with mercury-fire.

“Each day their teacher would tell them a story. Fairy tales.”

Her students shook their heads, imagining a fantastical creature with multiple tales crouching on the woman’s shoulder.

“No,” teacher corrected, “these stories were history lessons in their world.”

“Of generations passed who slept until awakening-moment kiss.”

Puzzled, as if in a kite-flying competition, the children’s own questioning thought bubbles tumbled over each other

“A brushing of lip to lip,” their teacher explained, her own bubbles giggling and blushing pink and orange.

“And, no, you may not try such a thing,” she scolded, as her pupils leaned towards each other.

In an alternative reality far far away across the vast cosmos of bangs, strings, and quantum bits, a history lesson progressed.

But the warm sun, the gentle breezes and the smell of pine rocked a teacher, up late to watch the full red wolf moon, begin to feel her eye lids sagging.

While her students giggled, her boy-friend, finger to his lips, slipped into their semi-circle.

Once upon a time for a tale-weaver fairy taler (January 24) far, far away . . .