A Little Town Called Fable

there’s a place you can find by looking

underneath the second star to the right

and narrowing your eyes just a tad—

between the briar and the brush—

where fairy tales live and breathe

as if they were as old as time

and just as magical to behold.

it’s where Cinderella fled after midnight,

where Snow White almost breathed her last,

where Little Red found a home after tragedy—

a wonderland that wasn’t, a hollow that was full,

the place where dreams went to thrive or die,

a sanctuary for the heroes and villains who could

not find another land that would take them whole.

but magic has its costs, even for a tell-tale setting,

and those who entered had to pay a price—

big or small, too much or not enough,

things precious or throwaway, stone or gem,

missives or lamentations, voices or tears or kisses;

there were no things that could not be bargained away,

for it was whatever you were willing to pay, or just a bite more.

this little hub became a crux in a world that was once

thought to be just make-believe or a child’s bedtime story,

but like all things it had to be watched and protected—

sometimes even from itself, dependent on who would be

threatening the sanctity of the place and all its inhabitants,

nameless royals and Fair folk or ghosts and witches,

whoever would pay the tithe just to stay safe and alive.

and Fable (as it was called, given its storybook origins) lived

and breathed

and slept

and rose

and took

and gave

and lived on.