Dorothy’s Little Book: The Fairy Who Learned to Fly Again
Once upon a time, in a kingdom of swirling silver dust and carriages that never stopped arriving, lived a little fairy named Dorothy. Her wings were unlike any other—crafted from shimmering crystals that caught every ray of moonlight, making her look like a piece of the night sky.
But when Dorothy was just two years old, a terrible accident changed her life. Her caretaker, Tiny-Hands Mustapha, was cycling her to the Moon Kingdom to watch the grand fireworks when Dorothy, lost in a book, bent forward, and her delicate crystal wings caught in the bicycle’s spinning wheel. In a painful crack, her wings were torn, and from that day, Dorothy could no longer fly.
As the years passed, Dorothy’s cousins with their paper and cloth wings soared joyfully through the sky, leaving glittering trails behind them, while Dorothy could only watch from below. At family gatherings, her cousins would laugh softly, whispering about her broken wings.
“Oh, dear, look at those crystals, so shiny yet so useless,” Patricia once said with a sigh that sounded like mockery.
Dorothy tried to hold back her tears, pressing her lips together, her gaze falling on the ground as the laughter echoed around her. It wasn’t just her broken wings that made her different. Her beauty made others jealous, and without the ability to fly, she could not join games in the sky, nor did she have siblings to confide in.
In her loneliness, Dorothy found comfort in books. The Fairy Kingdom had long forgotten books, believing them to be a lowly human hobby, unnecessary in a world of magic. But for Dorothy, books became her secret doorways to adventure. She devoured tales of knights and dragons, stories of forest sprites and daring quests, and mysteries hidden in forgotten libraries.
Books were her wings.
“Books have answers to every problem, Mama,” Dorothy would say to her mother, Hilda, a kind fairy with a bun perched on her head like a small cloud.
“Dorothy,” Mother Hilda would reply gently, “books are wonderful, but to fix your wings, we need a doctor and faith.”
“But books have magic too,” Dorothy insisted. “You only need to believe.”
“Then why haven’t they healed your wings yet?” Mother Hilda would sigh, gently wiping away Dorothy’s tears as she wept.
“Because I haven’t found the right book yet,” Dorothy whispered, clutching her favorite book close to her chest.
Dorothy continued reading, searching every page for a cure, her mother watching with a mix of hope and helplessness.
One misty afternoon, as Dorothy sat by her window, a book open on her lap, she noticed a pair of large, blinking eyes peering at her through the glass.
“Hello!” the eyes giggled.
Dorothy tumbled back, startled. “Who are you?” she asked.
“I am a witch sent by the Wizard of Oz to help you,” came the warm reply.
“And how could you help someone like me?” Dorothy asked, her voice small.
The witch sang softly:
“When clouds burst and mists grow deep,
A fairy’s dream stirs from sleep.”
“But I have read every book looking for a cure, and nothing has helped,” Dorothy sighed.
“Books don’t lie, dear child. They are full of magic, but you must truly believe.”
“I believe!” Dorothy cried. “But why can’t I fly?”
“Because you haven’t written the book meant to set you free.”
Dorothy’s eyes widened. “I have read human books, fairy books, every book. What do you mean?”
“Write your own,” the witch said. “Pour your magic into your words, sprinkle your crystal dust upon its pages, and bind it to your spine. That book will be your wings.”
With that, the witch disappeared into a speck of starlight, leaving Dorothy breathless.
That night, Dorothy pulled out a feather pen, ink, and sheets of paper. She began to write under the glow of her lantern, weaving stories of the Moon Kingdom, her dreams of flying, and her love for books.
She wrote about how Tiny-Hands Mustapha had pedaled into the mist that night, about how the book had flown from her hands and jammed the bicycle, stopping it just before a crash that could have hurt them both. How the book had saved her, even if her wings were lost that day.
Dorothy wrote with her heart, pouring hope and magic into every word.
When the dawn broke, Dorothy’s eyes sparkled with determination. She sprinkled the crystal dust from her broken wings onto the freshly bound book, sewed its cover with her own hands, and pressed it to her back.
The book glowed softly, and as she stepped outside into the morning breeze, something incredible happened.
Dorothy lifted from the ground.
Higher and higher she rose, the pages of her book fluttering like layered wings, catching the wind. The kingdom below watched in awe as Dorothy flew, singing:
“Light to the winds I am,
With stories in my wings,
Sky is the limit,
For the wisdom a book brings.”
Patricia and Suzanne, watching from below, could only blink in disbelief.
“Your wings are made of paper!” Patricia called out.
“Your wings are simpler than ours!” Suzanne added.
Dorothy only smiled, calling back, “Simple, but strong. Light to the winds they are, and light to the winds they will remain.”
She flew higher, her laughter ringing like chimes through the sky, proving to every fairy that stories can carry you to places even magic cannot reach.
In time, Mother Hilda opened a small library in the kingdom’s quietest corner, calling it Dorothy’s Little Book. Fairies, goblins, and even forest spirits came to read, learning that books could heal hearts and lift spirits.
Curious fairy doctors came to study Dorothy’s writings, searching for cures hidden in stories, and mothers read books to their children under starlit skies, helping them dream of a world where stories could mend broken wings.
And high above, in the glow of the moon, you could see Dorothy, flying with the stories she wrote, singing for every creature who believed in the magic that lives in books.
