Literary Update!

well... here is the Beginnings of the Fairy Godmother story. Hope you like it. It's nowhere near done, obviously, and I'm quite sure it's not going to be close to finished for a while. But here it is.

Chapter 1
One could say that the reason high school really sucks for the fantasy-loving girl is because it is definitely not like the fairy tales they read about as kids. There are no fairy godmothers that carry magic wands, no princes that can come along to sweep a hard working and deserving young lady off her feet and into a Wedding-Bound Happily Ever After. Life just does not work like that for most people.
For other girls, fairy tales are stuff to laugh at. And, honestly, I sometimes wish I could be you.
But for kids like me… fairy tales are the reason we're dorks. They are things to analyze from a literary perspective and to study for the archetypes and motifs and themes that come up. I have never really believed in fairy tales and happy endings; I have never really bothered fantasizing about getting carried off into a Happily Ever After. It just seems like taking the easy way out to let a man do all the dirty work.
If truth be told, I really wanted the girl to shove the prince off the horse, take the reins, and gallop off to do her best to save the world on her own terms at least once in at least one of the stories. The Savior of the World did not have to succeed; I just wanted a girl to attempt to fill the role for a change.
This would also be a wonderful time to point out that nowhere in any volume of Grimm’s tales, Andersen’s tales, and most volumes of folk tales does anything remotely like having a butt-kicking female exist.
Which, I might add, really sucks.

High school can suck, do not get me wrong – but what I've learned is that everyone could use a little magic. And, generally, I'm the one who has to provide that magic – it's an occupational hazard.
I know, I know – all you skeptics are saying, “Oh, fairy tales are just fiction” and “These fairy tales would never work out in the twenty-first century” and “Fairy Godmothers don't exist at all.” But you're wrong – I know that for a fact. I've already done enough to realize that how wrong the third statement is.
You see, I am a fairy godmother.

It all started when I walked into a tree on the last day of eighth grade.
Yes, a tree.
In the middle of the sidewalk.
Where did this tree come from?
I had no clue whatsoever.
But this tree changed my life.
Like most people would, I became very confused. Why was there a tree in the middle of a sidewalk? Why did it look like this particular tree had ALWAYS been in the middle of this very sidewalk, when I knew for a fact that it had not been there the day before?
And then a little man with a crooked nose, sagging skin, irate black eyes and a scraggly beard poked his head out of a knot in the tree and said in a deep voice that had a bit of a Brooklyn accent, “Oh, wonderful. She's here!”
“Um… what?” I said. This was even more confusing – this tree housed a little man, and both of them looked like they had been here since forever even though they most assuredly had NOT been in this very location twenty-four hours ago.
“You're here!” he cried again.
“Um… yeah…” I said. “Were you expecting me?”
“Of course we were,” the little man exclaimed with glee. “Why wouldn't we be?”
Um… because I don't know any little people who live in trees? And also, I don't know anyone who lives in a tree, period? And also, I have no idea who you are? “Uh… I think you have the wrong person…”
“You are Ericka Rose Dalnorn, address is 25 Rosenburg Street?” he confirmed.
Yeeesss…” I said slowly.
“Yes, we were expecting you,” he said briskly. “Come on in, and we shall get this interview started.”
“Um... like a job interview?” I asked cautiously. I was also becoming wary of the long-imprinted Mom-Quote: “do NOT enter anyone’s house if you don't know who they are.”
“What other sort of interview is there?” he answered.
“Uh…”
“Don't answer that. Come inside.” He disappeared from view and reappeared a few moments later from a small door near the base of the tree.
“Um, I didn't apply for any job. I think you have the wrong person,” I said as I ducked into the tree, feeling extremely uncomfortable with the situation.
“No, you are Ericka Rose Dalnorn, and you live on Rosenburg Street, and your appearance matches our descriptions. This meeting is scheduled.”
“Then why was I not informed of it?” I asked. I felt I had a right to know.
“Because your guardians are stupid humans. Take a seat anywhere.” He gestured around the room. Unfortunately, all the furniture looked as if it were better suited for someone more the size of – there’s really no other word for it – the dwarf, who was currently telling me that I had applied for a job.
“Now,” said the dwarf, settling himself on a small wooden rocking chair and giving me a critical look as he pulled out a clipboard, “Basic questions. Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No,” I said slowly.
“Do you have a best friend?”
“Yes.”
“Male or female?”
“Male.”
The dwarf gave me a sharp look. “Name?”
“Alexander James Nolanew.”
“Any romantic interest in Alexander James Nolanew?”
“No…” Alex and I had been friends since kindergarten, and nothing had changed since then. I mean, I had thought about liking him, but the idea died three seconds after it came into existence.
“I see,” the dwarf said skeptically and made a note on his clipboard. “Anyway… age?”
“Fourteen.”
“Hair…” he glanced up. “Straight and coppery. Eyes…”
“Hazel,” I said.
He squinted at me for a second or two. “Green. With glasses.”
“Hazel,” I insisted. “With glasses.”
“Oh, very well,” he sighed, then added something like, “Hazel-eyed blahblahblah my arse,” under his breath. The “blahblahblah” sounded kind of like “godmother,” but I wasn’t entirely sure. “Height…”
“Five foot seven and growing.”
“What height do you expect to be at in four years?” he inquired.
“Um… I don’t know. Five-nine, maybe?”
“It doesn’t have to be definite.”
“Then go with five-nine,” I decided.
“Body type…”
“Body type?” I repeated. “Why do you need to know my body type? I don’t even know what my body type IS.”
The dwarf gave me a long, searching look, as if he were sizing me up, which he probably was. “Hourglass,” he concluded after a few moments of staring awkwardly at my midsection. “And it is part of the archetype identification. It has no lasting effect on whether you get hired; it is only to identify which archetype you will receive.”
“Archetype identification?” I repeated. “WHAT IS THIS MADNESS?”
“Do you know nothing, Miss Dalnorn?” the dwarf asked in an exasperated tone.
“Apparently,” I answered in equal irritation. “Would you care to inform me, or do I have to figure it out for myself?”
“Well, since you're here, I guess I should be the one to tell you,” the dwarf mused. “Very well, then. Take a seat.”