Book of fairy tales

And this story was told when travelers stayed overnight in the mountains. The site, covered on both sides by rocks from the wind, sheltered almost a dozen pilgrims, the fire burned brightly and hot, boiled on the coals kettle. At such moments, conversations were replaced by fairy tales, legends, and bikes, lived on their own skin. That evening the story was narrated by a tall woman whose age could not be determined. The winds whitened her hair, hardened her face, and the wrinkles around her eyes spoke only of how much she liked to smile...

In the quiet morning when the sun is just rising in the summer, this room is filled with light as if it were reflected, but so clean and clear that you want to dissolve into it. He gently strokes his face, wraps himself with a weightless feeling of peace, gives a smile, almost happiness. In an hour he disappears, leaves, in the room, even if it is still sunny, but absolutely not so. The day is becoming an ordinary day, containing sorrows, joys, problems and moments of rest. If you don't catch the first ray, you won't feel anything special - light as light, day as day...

If you walk along the path for a long time, which is winding among rocks and hills, and then runs away into the forest, you come to the stream, through which there is no bridge or ford. Not too narrow, but not too wide, it flows along the ravine, and you have to go down to its shores very carefully. Here, the reed grows thinly and the toads in small factories, but the stream itself, rushing along the central channel, is very fast and cold, and the water in it is transparent and so clean that you can see the bottom sprinkled with sand and small pebbles and fish, blowing back and forth...

How do you look into the eyes of your demons, your dragons? Traveling from world to world, I have seen many who have tried to find the very path that would lead to the den of their personal monster. How many hardships fell on such a difficult path, how many times the path changed direction, lost in the woods, fell off among the rocks! It was not easy to find it again, to get over the crevices, to overcome the turbulent mountain rivers, and sometimes the whole seas, and only to find out that the lair was still behind that hill, behind another forest, behind the next corner...

Awakening worlds bring many stories, all sorts of sad and funny, disturbing, even scary, and soft as soufflés, mysterious and quite simple, in which there is no drop of mystery. Listening to them, I sometimes imagine them interweaving melodies, ringing, shaking in the wind. Sometimes these stories leave bells that can be hung on a tree in the garden. On a windy day, they all ring a bell, and it even seems that this sound is so powerful that somewhere in the world the sea will be born. But this world was silent...

The sky here was both gray and empty. The uniform tone did not seem to be a dense cloud. Or maybe in this world, it wasn't a cloudy shroud, maybe there was never a blue one here. I've met worlds with lavender-colored skies, a sky as bright as a slice of mandarin, a scarlet and golden sky, but I've never seen such an empty gray sky before. The wasteland lying in front of me, too, did not shine with paint, but also did not seem to be a fresh canvas, which should have touched the brush of creation to finally breathe life...

I have the key in my hands, but there's no lock around here. There can be no locks here at all, because there is only a steppe, a steppe, as far as the eyes are concerned. A feather grass walks in waves smells like wormwood, heavy insects hum, and the sun leans to the west, but still high enough. You can choose any direction, but you won't get any closer to the castle. He was lost somewhere else in the world, there is no way to find any thread that could lead to where he should go. And I squeeze the key harder, and then I get caught in the arms of the grass...

The silence in the house, only in the fireplace the flame cracks cheerfully, the blissful warmth spills over the room, and there is no longer even a desire to get out of the arms of the blanket. Whether it's fatigue or fatigue, but in this small and cozy corner, you suddenly want to spend the rest of your life. How peace caresses hands, how a hot tongue of warmth licks feet... Eh... It's dangerous for a traveler to stop at a place like this. No, no, and the question will arise in the heart of the...

I'm a forest. And the forest is me. Was there anything before the forest stood here? +Rustles and rustles, the sound of a pond gently rolled up to the gentle and swampy shore of the water, the crunching of the forest bedding under the feet of a drunk deer... The screams of birds, the bustle of birds, the bustle of rabbits, the happy grunting of wild boars... All these sounds, all these manifestations of life are part of my being, part of the being of the forest. In a way, they are me. And I am a deer too...

No matter how many stories you listen to until you wander the worlds, what you see, who you meet... Other people's words are woven with colored threads that suddenly become a whole picture. So I came to this gloomy shore. The sea here was lead and violent. The waves were darkening and threateningly throwing white and yellow foam heads, biting the shore, crumbling rocks, and grinding them into fine gravel, which covered the coastal strip. The sky was darkened by dull, gloomy, immovable clouds, which could compete in density with the rocks...

Https://pixabay.Com/ru/photos/%d0%b4%d0%be%d0%b6%d0%b4%d1%8c-%d0%ba%d0%b0%d0%bf%d0%bb%d0%b8-%d0%b4%d0%be%d0%b6%d0%b4%d1%8f-%d1%81%d0%b5%d0%b7%d0%be%d0%bd%d1%8b-%d0%b2%d0%be%d0%b4%d1%8b-84648/ It is raining,...

Wailing outside the window, throwing snowflakes at the window, the winter wind rustling on the roof. Today he is unbearable, cruel, demanding to close in the house, not to go out. But I still open the window and sit on a wide window sill - today I want to freeze to the bone. The wind tears my hair hits my cheeks, and a second later I jump into his arms to imagine myself as a flying snowflake, which is not in control of itself. I land in a snowdrift, the snow is absorbed by the ice stings in my bare feet...