For 2026, as a form of literary cleansing and letting go, I’ve decided to go back though my old, unpublished efforts and either put them to bed, rework them for submission, or post them here. The following is the one and only time I tried to write a fairy tale. Admittedly, it’s not very original, or “literary,” but I still like it, especially as I wrote it for/about the girl I was then dating. That was back in December of 2015. Just over a week ago, some 10 years later, we got married. This will always be a sweet token of those early days for me.

The Girl with the Sunshine Hair

Once upon a time there was a beautiful young maiden with the fairest complexion and stunning hair the color of the autumnal sunset, for which she became known far and wide. She spends her days traveling the world with the love of her life—truly great explorers are they.

But that is the end of the story. For the maiden was not born that way but rather into the drab world of poverty, which coated her with a plainness that brought derision from the other girls of the village. Her hours were spent caring for the house and home, and for her father, who had lost the love of his life during his daughter’s birth. All her life it had been her and her father. This was plenty to keep her days full, but it didn’t stop her from dreaming. Dreams were fun, for she had a lively imagination, but she kept these in their place and was untroubled by her lot in life.

And so this story begins as so many of her days seemed to begin—ordinary and forgettable, and toeing the line of adulthood. This day, however, was the day she would cross that line—it was the day she would lose her father. Father went to tend the garden in the morning. Hours later, however, he hadn’t returned. It was after that that there would be no more dreams—or so she thought.

Her father’s last act upon this earth was to plant a tree, a small shrub of a thing with no distinguishing marks. She didn’t recognize it, but there was nothing unusual about that as he was always bringing home stray plants and animals. Most lived only a short time—disposed of by owners who saw the end was near and couldn’t be bothered. But, on rare occasions, one of the strays survived. And this tree would do much more than that.

With her father gone the maiden took on a new routine—one that mainly consisted of sitting beside the gangly sapling and sobbing. This was how time passed. Day after day the tears flowed from her broken heart, rolling down her face and into the ground, where they nursed the plant. Within days it grew into a fully mature tree and was blessed with a richness of flowers and leaves, for that is what love does.

On the seventh day following her father’s death she woke and went to the tree to cry. This day, however, the first fruit fell from its branches and rolled straight to her feet.

She looked at it. It was orange and covered in what appeared to be dangerous spikes but, picking it up, found them easily brushed away with a hand. It was bright and shiny and covered in morning dew, with the most pleasant of odors—like the sun after a mid-afternoon rainstorm—it was fully of promise, and just out of reach. On closer inspection it wasn’t orange, rather it was every color. Some were present only in the smallest of dots, but they were all there, even the yet to be discovered ones. Eyes wide, she raised it to her mouth and took a bite—in her grief she cared little if it were poisonous. But it wasn’t poisonous—the flesh was rich and sweet and like nothing she had ever tasted—it was the warmth of a long forgotten embrace. Woken from this requiem by the shriek of a passing old woman, the two stood in awed silence together, admiring her hair, which had turned from the color of wet hay to the glorious color it is today.

In life there was nothing her father wouldn’t do for his daughter, and death was no reason to stop that streak. For that is how love works.

Word spread throughout the village and soon people came from miles around to admire her hair. Occasionally someone called it black magic but was always laughed down.

“If this be black magic, bring it on!” the rest would say, captivated by its beauty.

And so it was that she became famous across the land. She happily offered the fruit to any who asked, but it had no effect on them – other than being delicious and nourishing. Some thought it a lie, that she must be hiding the real secret of her newfound beauty but no, the gift was from her father and it was hers alone.

To no surprise, the previously unnoticed girl became surrounded by suitors—none of which she had any interest in. For who could be trusted? Weren’t they only after her hair? She was the belle of the town and they each wanted something—fame, recognition, power—but none of them wanted her, all of her. The rest who came to visit loved her, for now that they allowed themselves to see her, her other traits—intelligence, humor—became visible as well and she was fawned over by everyone, especially the girls who’d once shunned her.

Yet despite her newfound fame, she missed her father. The nights were long. And cold. And she grew lonely. She had everyone and no one. Suitors continued to seek her hand but they were the same as those before. They shushed her when she spoke and told her to do what she did best and look pretty, and bring them revere. Beautiful as she was, she wasn’t the kind of girl to ever sit still. And so the days continued on.

One day a man no one had seen before appeared in town. He had come from a distant land, he said. Naturally the townsfolk believed he came to see their prized jewel and were shocked when he professed no knowledge of the maiden in question. Not believing him they took him to her and as their eyes met time stopped for the man, for never had he seen so much beauty as existed in her eyes. It was a full minute before he saw the rest of her, hair included. She felt something too, but pushed it away. It was a clever ploy, she’d give him that, but she refused to let her heart go.

The man, wandering for many moons, was a poet. He didn’t know what he sought but when he met her he knew he had found it. And so, for the first time in years he stopped wandering. Everyday he went to see her and she allowed their time together to increase ever slightly each time. He was generally not considered a handsome man, and older than most of the other suitors had been. He wrote her poems and lyrics and she was flattered but still did not trust him and kept him at arm’s length.

To have her so close yet so far saddened the man, leaving him unable to sleep. One day he decided to make a final attempt to win her heart. He thought of many grand gestures but they seemed foolish and overdone, they weren’t him. And so he hatched a plan, one that he knew would work if she was the one for him. From his journal he removed pages of hand-drawn maps, years worth of travel that had brought him here, to her. Over these he wrote a simple declaration of love and fashioned them into a card of the highest quality.

The following day he presented the card to her and turned to go. A minute later she came running and took his face in her hands, but at the last moment stopped herself from kissing him. Withdrawing with a whispered, “I’m sorry, I just can’t,” she ran inside her home where she fell to the floor, sobbing. The man, equally broken, crumpled to the ground. Where else was there to travel to? Where could he forget? These contemplations, however, would go unfinished as at that moment he found himself struck on the top of the head. Raging, he sought to fight the man who would do such a thing to him in his condition, but there was no one in sight. At his feet stood a piece of fruit from the tree.

Meanwhile, in the house, the maiden cursed herself and her fear and wished her hair had never attracted any attention and that she could have died long ago with her father. Gathering up her hair in one hand and a knife in the other she took a deep breath. As the blade began to break through the strands one by one with audible pops, she looked out the window and saw the most unimaginable sight. It was him. Or was it him? Yes, it was, but his hair now matched hers, a fiery warmth. She dropped the knife, ran outside, and kissed him to the ground.

All the villages around turned out for the ceremony. The two were setting off on an adventure, a grand adventure, to see everything the world had to see. Truly great explorers were they. The tree produced a mountain of fruit that was feasted upon by the masses and as the celebration went on and the love of the couple spread, one by one, each head of hair in the crowd turned a vibrant, glorious color, each unique and different, but all of which included a flash of sunshine.

END