I'm new. Here's a quick story.
Once upon a time, no one believed in fairies, save for one little girl, who had a pair of pixy wings all her own that she kept hidden in the back of her bottom drawer. Her mommy watched her dance throughout the forest and flowers, kicking up wild blossoms and kissing at the air, and she patronized her little girl with a smile. The little girl was so in love, with a handsome young pixy, with wings to match her own, like an entangled gossamer monarch bound by symmetry, gowned in spiderwebs and ivy leaves. However, her mother was one of class and sophistication, and as time wore on and the girl began to outgrow her pixy wings, the mother began to frown and pull her away from the forest she grabbed at. Gain manners, she said, speak only when spoken to, for it is a woman's place, and the little girl spent less and less time in the woods and more time getting aquainted with the aristocrats of society. She sipped her gold-lined cups of sweetened tea as fairies did, dainty and delicate, and wherever she went, she danced as if there was nought beneath her feet. The mother feared that it was a bad habit, but society accepted her dancer's feet and her fragile movements (as if china would break at the merest sudden movement), and the mother sighed in relief, for what is more important that image? Every day, the little girl would stare out her foggy window at the rainy forest, for the sun hadn't properly shined since she'd left, and she would watch as elves and fairies peeked at her from behind the trees with longing. I miss you, she would say, you're where I belong, not with this sophistication, this class, I want to marry the pixy with wings to match my own, gowned in spider webs and ivy leaves, not a socially acceptable man that my mother picks from the aristocrats with upturned noses, from the nobles that snub those with brighter hearts, save me from monotony, return me to your magic. But the mother found her a husband and made her forget the forest as she moved into the cobblestoned and cold and grey city, carried on a carriage's rickety wheels and dressed in the height of fashion. She married a chosen man who smoked tobacco cigarettes and stunk of nicotine and french cologne instead of smoking foxglove and smelling of rose petals and rainbow tinged dew, who wore cufflinks and bootblacked shoes instead of spiderwebs and ivy leaves, who matched her in no way. The mother died and they had a little girl with wide and bright eyes, and the grown up girl insisted that they move back to the cottage near the forest, and as she wandered the empty and dusty rooms, waiting for servants to arrive, in the back of an age-old bottom drawer, she found pixy wings. How silly, she thought, a child's toy, and so she gave them to her little girl to play with, and she watched as she danced through the forests, kicking up wild blossoms and kissing at the air, until the little girl ran home with the widest smile and the most eager eyes, saying, Mommy, I've met a fairy with wings to match my own, like an entangled gossamer monarch bound by symmetry, and he says he loved you once, and you loved him, he says you used to sip tea with dainty fairy fingers, and dance like you were in a fairy's circle celebrating a new blue moon. But the grown up girl just patronized her daughter with a smile as she watched her dance like china would break at the merest sudden movement. For nobody believed in fairies, save for one little girl.