Footsteps storm up the staircase; steps that threaten to break the very ground they walk upon. Christa, bangs falling so that anyone would wonder how she could see clearly, streaks into her room. The door slams, the windows rattle. Sobs can be heard, muffled from inside. “Honey, what’s wrong?” The emotional thunderstorm that had just blown in the front door had attracted the attention of Christa’s mother, as she was getting ready for work. The woman, dressed in a smart business suit, stands outside the door, hand resting on the handle. She seems to be respecting the demanding sign scrawled in red marker reading KEEP OUT! from past experience.
“Nothing!” The tear stained reply comes out defensively. The sobs are cut off abruptly.
“Christy, I’m here to listen if you want to talk.”
“No you aren’t. You only care about your work.” This reminder makes her mother glance at her watch.
“Honey… that’s not true.”
“Just leave me alone!” This last broken cry reaches its way past her mother, past the roof of the two story suburban home, and pierces the endless sky beyond. The sobs surface again, refusing to be kept in. Her mother sighs, glancing at her watch again.
“Honey, I’ve got to leave for work now. We’ll talk later, okay?” A defiant silence meets her; she turns and leaves.  

                                       -   -   -

“Papa, Papa! Guess what?” Christa, a small girl of about five, came bouncing into the kitchen where her father sat writing. She glowed with happiness. Her father sets down his pen and picked her up onto his lap.
“What is it, Princess?” Distracted for a second by the sight of pen and paper, Christa grabbed them and began to doodle on the paper‘s edge. The lines formed smoothly, revealing simple, yet clear images.
“I couldn’t sleep last night, so I looked out my window and saw the fairies dancing.”
“Now that you mention it, the fairies had sent us an invitation to their party last night, but I forgot all about it. I‘m sorry.”
“That’s alright Papa, at least I got to watch.” The ink flowers and cats crept across his paper like a living vine. Her mother came down, dressed in a waitress’s uniform, hair in a tight bun. Remembering something, Christa’s father reached into his pocket and pulled out a small glass phial strung onto a necklace.
“I went out early this morning into the Giant’s Forest and knocked on every toadstool home’s door I could find. I asked any sleepy fairies that answered if they had some spare dust for a special little girl. It took all morning, but I found enough for you to use!” Christa’s eyes lit up as she took the phial carefully into her hands. White dust filled half the tube, glittering as the sun touched it. “You remember what I taught you, Christy, that fairy dust can grant wishes?” She nodded. “Fairy dust is very rare, so only use it for your biggest, most wished for wish.”
“I will.” Then, with eyes that reflected as much excitement as her own, her father opened his closed hand.
“I even had a little left over to use for myself.” He gently blew the dust into a glittering cloud that danced in her hair. She giggled; her hair sparkled. The mother just watched with arms folded, a slight smile playing at her lips.
“What’d you wish for, Papa?”
“That you will believe.” The small girl closed her hand over the glass and held it to her heart.
“I do, Papa.” He put her down gently.
“Run along and play now.” She skipped off, still holding the phial. Her father turned and looked at his wife. Her expression made the smile in his eyes fade. “What is it?” She came over to the table and pulled out a chair, sitting down.
“When are you going to tell her the truth?”
“We’ve talked about this before.” He picked up his pen and scanned his paper, as if that was the end. His wife pulled the sheet away from him.
“So what, we’ll just let Christy continue to believe this nonsense without a clue of what reality is really like?”
The father took off his glasses and began to clean them, irritatingly cool.
“This is a reality to her; she’ll have plenty of time to learn how cruel the other one is.”
“What is she going to think when she finds out that everything she believes is a lie? She‘ll end up hating us!”
“That’s not true. When the time comes, Christy will understand.”
“Understand what? What is the point of this whole charade?”
“If a person doesn‘t have faith, then they‘ve got nothing to live for in this sad existence. Eventually she‘ll understand how through these fairy tales I was really teaching her about the reality of faith.” The wife stood quickly, shoving back her chair.
“Well, if you call running through the woods looking for fairies and magical jewels a lesson of reality…” Her exasperation made the words tangle; instead she looked at her watch. “I’m going to be late.” And she walked out the door.

                                      -   -   -

The rain poured down on the black clothed assembly. The umbrellas, gathered in groups of two and three, looked like deathly poisonous mushrooms. A preacher spoke words in a monotone voice, but no one was really listening. Suddenly, a girl’s heartbroken wail rose above the rain. Struggling violently, the child broke free of her mother’s grip and dashed towards the open coffin that was resting under a canopy, waiting to be lowered into the ground. “Paapaaa!” Christa’s tears mingled with the rain. The black clothed figure of her mother followed the small girl, demanding that she come back. Christa ignored her. Startled out of his sleepy words, the preacher fell silent to watch this interruption play out. Kneeling beside the black box, Christa frantically unclasped the necklace from around her neck. In her trembling hands the phial of dust still sparkled in the gloom. “Papa, wake up.” Her mother was just behind her now, reaching for her. Quickly Christa uncapped the bottle and dumped its whole contents onto the body in the casket. “Papa, I believe. Wake up!” She waited breathless moment after breathless moment. The dust lay scattered across his black suit like hopeful stars in the blackest of nights. Her mother picked her up roughly, embarrassment adding to anger.
“Christy, what are you thinking?” She began to walk back with the girl in tow, the murmuring onlookers stood where they were, encompassing the grave site; black toadstools oblivious of the rain pouring down. Christa resisted her mother, pulling backwards. She slipped in the mud and fell hard. Wet curls clinging to her forehead, she looked up at her mother.
“Why doesn’t it work?” She whispered. She struggled up, all muddy, and gazed at the peacefully resting body of her father. “Why aren’t the fairies helping?” Aware of the staring eyes, the whispers behind hands, Christy’s mother grabbed her daughter’s hand again.
“There is no such thing as fairies!” The angry words slashed, cut deep to the heart. And the little girl followed back to their place, dazed; she crumpled at her mother’s feet, unaware of all else that went on around her. The preacher droned on.

                                       -   -   -

Christa is lying face down on her bed. Her sobs have died. She sits up. Looking around with stinging eyes, she notices a notebook sitting neglected at the top of her bookshelf. On wobbly legs, she gets up and reaches for it. It’s a sketchbook, with a thick layer of dust gathered on its cover. She takes a deep breath and blows it off. For an instant, the air around her is filled with the particles of dust. The clouds outside suddenly open enough to let a beam of sunlight fall across her room, making the dust sparkle and dance magically. Christa smiles, watching it. Sitting down on her bed again, she opens the notebook. On the first page she finds it filled with doodles from so long ago; fairies, and flowers, strange looking creatures and dragons. She turns the page. It’s blank; forgotten and sad looking. An idea suddenly dawns on her, just barely staying still, like the footsteps of a teasing fairy. Quickly reaching for her pen before the inspiration fades, she begins to draw in smooth, elegant motions. The simple form of a toadstool appears, filling almost the whole page. She adds a door, window, and chimney. Standing before the door is a small girl, not much different from herself when she was young. The girl balances on tip toes, hand raised; the moment of hesitation before knocking. Christa pauses, thinking a moment. Then she writes quickly, with words flowing from years of being held back; “This is the story of one small girl and her journey through magical lands to find a cure for her dying father.”
Maybe the fairy dust would work after all.