Thimbelina

Once upon a time, a little girl played with her Gran's thimble collection. She'd sit on the floor and wear them like rings on the tips of her thumbs and fingers. The adults would laugh at her absorbed in the task of studying these ten more closely. Some were metal, some were wood, and some were china; some were commemorative, some were decorative, and some were plain, but none of them were the same as each other. When she wore them she knew her different-ness was somehow protected, and because of this habit she was called Thimbelina.
With a fairytale name, when she went to school she invented her own story. She said she had hatched from a Kinder Surprise, concealed as the toy inside, but a passing fairy had touched her with her ring three times and she had grown in size. Her complexion did indeed match the chocolate: white milky skin with brown hair and dark eyes. When she went to bed, she would only be read 'Thumbelina'; she wanted to be small like her and was obsessed with squeezing herself into tiny spaces.
As Thimbelina approached her teenage years, she told her peers her parents had been cursed by a witch and wearing thimbles stopped her fingers getting pricked. What would happen if they did? They asked, and she replied: I'd be no bigger than a woman's thumb. Many asked if the curse could be broken and she said yes, but she wasn't sure of the ending yet. She thought it had something to do with marrying a kingfisher because her Fairy Godmother said his feathers were as bright as her dreams.
In her adulthood, despite her average height, she still looked for that kingfisher. Someone to see the world with, because although her fingers hadn't got pricked, as a grown up she felt smaller. Now 5ft 6 and daintily boned, next to big people she felt petite, and next to people smaller than her she felt huge, but if she stood next to people of a similar height she felt under-protected. And it wasn't just that that pained her, when she tried to do good, her motives were misunderstood and her individuality was incompatible with ambition. The ways of the modern world made her feel tiny, but not like her childhood heroine Kylie. She wasn't a pretty little thing or elfin, she was a plain, scruffy intellect.
Although Thimbelina knew her myth was absurd, a part of her wanted it to come true. Afraid of doing difficult things in a real world, she wanted to be popped into a pocket or ride atop a giant's shoulders. Being genuinely nice, she had found, was too 'alternative'. If she owned her fictional persona, perhaps she too would have adventures with creatures: be carried off by a moth, captured by a spider, and given shelter by a squirrel, although she drew the line at marrying a prince just her size. If she'd been Thumbelina, she would have stuck with the swallow. Nestled by wings the big, wide world wouldn't seem so harsh and unfriendly.
Perhaps like her, her kingfisher was in disguise: attired in a sapphire blue suit with dyed orange hair, or had less obvious flare, but a vibrant personality. Although she inhabited this giant land, Thimbelina still believed in broken spells and fairy tale endings: only a kingfisher would add glorious colour to her dreams.

The Farmer's Wife

Once upon a time, a farmer and his wife lived in a ramshackle farmhouse. The outside worn-down, but furnished inside with antique heirlooms. Ancient armchairs that coughed up dust, a mahogany dresser that displayed patterned china plates, and handwoven rugs that needed beating, along with jugs of wild flowers in every room and windows framed with red gingham curtains. The pantry had shelves of neatly labelled preserves and the cellar had hooks of hung meats and a supply of bottled whisky. In the kitchen, the Farmer's Wife's domain, the wood fired range had to be fed constantly.
The Farmer's Wife worked her carving knife expertly. Its sharp blade glinted mischievously, as she butchered fresh meat. Her cheeks flushed and her sleeves pushed up to reveal her plump arms; she sliced intently, but with dexterity. Some cuts were floured, some were minced, and some were jellied and canned. Villagers praised the quality of the meat and her corned beef hash. The creamy mash and the grainy meat when combined and fried had a delicious fatty texture. Everyone assumed the meat was from the farm, and the Farmer, if he was suspicious, dared not question her, for although his wife was known to be quiet, she had a quick tongue and an even fiercer temper. Displeased, the Farmer's Wife's employed her beloved carving knife as a scolding weapon: she shrilled as its tip plunged erratically.
The Farmer was hen-pecked and occasionally he did regret the day he married her, yet he knew he couldn't have found a better cook or a more moral woman. The Farmer's Wife saw her husband as a means to an end: a cover to punish ill-reputed men, but as her piety increased she grew reckless.
In the Summer when the corned beef hash had never tasted so good, three of his hired farmhands went missing. As foreigners to these parts, their sudden disappearance set tongues wagging, but the Farmer said they got up in the night and left, as they arrived, together. That would have been the end of it had not the Farmer's Wife boasted of her meat's Devonshire quality and some eye witnesses that said she had seen acting strangely: scrubbing her carving knife under the village pump religiously. At country fairs where she sold her wares, she had begun given rousing speeches on man's indecency. By Autumn, her carving knife stained and she still feverish, she served up her corned beef hash and said: “Get your gums round man-flesh!”
She then went on to brag how she delivered men from evil and brandished her bloodstained carving knife in their faces. The three farmhands, she said, were worst of the lot for their wantonness: a thief, a drunk, and a cheater. One she caught thieving food from the pantry, the other drunk far too much whisky, and the married one she repeatedly found in the barn with a milkmaid. Incensed by this behaviour, she coquettishly invited them to her chamber and to a game of Blind Man's Buff. The Farmer's Wife said she never saw such a sight in her life as these three, now blindfolded, nakedly followed her. Men were mice she said.
These murders confessed, she was put under house arrest and denied her right, as a Farmer's Wife, to ever cut meat with a carving knife.

The Goblin King & The Baker's Daughter

“... Through dangers untold, and hardships unnumbered, I have fought my way to the castle beyond the Goblin city to take back the child you have stolen.” Daphne threw down the play in disgust. Forget the screaming baby, choose the Goblin King, she thought. That's what she would have done, but she knew Sarah didn't.
The amateur dramatics society was performing The Labyrinth and Daphne as Sarah was word perfect, but she argued the script should be updated, they should end the story differently. Give it the ending all teenage and grown up girls wanted: to stay with the Goblin King in his castle. Her will was strong, but in each rehearsal the director refused to discuss it. And it didn't help that the boy cast as the King was wimpy. If that had been the case in the film, she too would have saved her infant brother.
The eldest daughter of a baker with 15 younger siblings, the 'noisy brats' as she called them, she wanted to run, but with nowhere to go, she plastered her bedroom walls with posters of the Goblin King and spoke to him hoping that he'd hear her.
One evening after a busy day helping in the bakery and caring for her siblings, Daphne flung herself on her bed and sobbing said “Goblin King! Goblin King! Wherever you may be, use your power over me!”
There was frantic tapping at the window. Had he come? There were shrieks of laughter and the angry voice of her mother, “Climb down this minute!” Three of her brothers were in the apple tree outside her window.
“Daphne and Jareth sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!” They chorused before scrambling down hurriedly.
“I have no privacy!” Daphne shouted, “I wish the Goblin King would come and turn the world upside down! Right now just for me!” She fell asleep in her clothes and dreamt of the castle's ball where she let Jareth seduce her. But when she awoke she was in the same bed and late for Sunday morning rehearsals.
Racing to the village hall, she passed a blind beggar, dressed in black with a brimmed hat and white stick. She stopped, turned around and went back; his strange appearance was vaguely familiar. His hand shook a tin mug in an appeal for silver. Daphne generously gave a pound from her jean pocket. Could it be the Goblin King? She continued to stand in front of him, waiting for him to transform before her. Instead from the folds of his cloak he drew out two crystal balls, twisting and turning them in his hand, releasing them like bubbles. Her two futures floated towards her: one with the blind beggar, but living without his love and without his great kingdom; the other, an adult life chained to lazy kids and feckless husbands. As the crystal balls were carried away, Daphne was bitterly disappointed.
The blind beggar spoke, “My kingdom was great, but it's gone. My will was once strong, but love destroyed it. A shabby, blind beggar doesn't have to live up to a young girl's expectations. Wish again and I'll fulfil it.”
Daphne didn't want either of those lives he had shown her. She saw The Labyrinth in her head and knew what she had to ask for, “Then I choose freedom! I wish to be turned into a creature of the night. Turn me into a snowy white barn owl!” And as the words left her lips, it was done. The Goblin King had freed the baker's daughter from captivity.