All Characters and Situations Fictitious

No fabulous creatures were harmed in the production of this fairy tale.

Have A Very Happy Xmas

& Stay Away From The Elf Bars

Deborah Snowdrop was not feeling well.

There are few less attractive sights than a fairy with a hangover and for Deborah, it didn't feel any better from the inside.

It was always the same at this time of year. She'd go to some bar planning on having a quiet drink or two with a couple of girl friends. Then a bunch of elves would turn up having rolled out of some office party, bragging about how they'd all finished painting rocking horses or toy trains or whatever for the year and made their bonuses and now they were going to have some FUN.

Or the pixies would be out on the pull, out of their heads on mushrooms, looking for some of their sort of music which - as far as Deborah Snowdrop was concerned - was repetitive, electronic and involved too many flashing lights. They'd all be busy experimenting to see if a slice of Fly Agaric with an Archer's chaser really did what it was reputed to. They hadn't worked out that what a girl first looked for in a bloke was some level of consciousness.

Even the trolls could be found enjoying, if that was the word, themselves. Let out from what ever dark corners they skulked in the rest of the year, they'd go on skulking together but in the corner of a bar. They'd be working their way disconsolately but efficiently through glass after glass, usually of flat, warm beer while they complained that it wasn't like it was when they were younger — even the young ones — and that even if it was it cost more now. They didn't cause much trouble though. Just as long as the Billy Goats weren't in.

Somehow Deborah Snowdrop and her friends always seemed to get caught up in things. It wasn't that elves were attractive as such, or that pixies were particularly engaging company, or that trolls were — well anything really. But somehow the season seemed to make them all more persistent.

The elves were the worst. They all used the same chat-up lines. "Why don't we go back to my crib and see if you can make the bell on my hat ring?" was one of the more amusing ones. At least until you'd heard it for the thirtieth time. And, of course, there was always, "You fairies are good with wands, why don't you come and rub mine to see what magic happens?" But they had plenty of money at this time of year — it was always busy in the workshops in December — and they all seemed determined to spend it.

Which was what had accounted for the line of vodkas that had been set up for Deborah and her friends and the drinking game and the karaoke session and...

Deborah groaned quietly at the thought of it. Her headache was certainly not elf sized, but on the bright side she wasn't lying in bed beside a naked elf wearing one of those stupid hats with the bell on the top. And at least her stomach wasn't too bad — she hadn't made it as far as the "let's all get a kebab" stage as far as she remembered.

What did she remember?

Well there was the last vodka and she and her friends had gone to the powder room. She'd wanted a cigarette but they didn't allow smoking in the bar. The fire door at the end of the corridor had been propped open and she'd stepped outside. One of the elves had been out there. He'd given her a light and told her he thought her dress looked nice but would look even better over the chair in his bedroom. He'd staggered back into the club when she told him to fuck off. Which had been something in his favour, Deborah had thought.

Then what?

Oh yes. Oh shit! Then someone had pulled a sack over her head and she'd been lifted up. That had been when she passed out. And how, she guessed, she came to be here sitting on the floor, in what looked like a tiny room, with the silver wreath of flowers that she wore on her head in a distinct state of disarray and the wand that had been tucked into her belt, badly bent and almost certainly, from a magical perspective, broken.

On the positive side she was still wearing the same, possibly too short, silver dress and she still had the little handbag that held her most precious clubbing possessions; credit card, lippy, a packet of condoms (well they said a fairy couldn't get pregnant shagging an elf if he didn't have his hat on, but frankly Deborah didn't believe them and besides there were lots of other things that you certainly could get), a spare pair of knickers ... and the obligatory bag of fairy dust.

She looked around. The tiny room started to move. It was like she was in an elevator but much more jerky. The movement stopped apart from a gentle swaying that would have been pleasant if it wasn't having the effect of bouncing Deborah's brain around inside her skull.

Light shone into the room as a window opened.

She looked up. A single, blood-shot, eye was peering in at her through the bars of the window. What she could see of the green warty skin around the eye told her all she needed to know. An ogre. She was in some sort of cage and the cage belonged to an ogre.

The eye moved back a bit. She could see all of the ogre's face. It wasn't much of an improvement. What was more when he went to speak the subtle perfume of his breath practically pinned Deborah to the back of the cage.

"What's your name?" the ogre said.

"Deborah," the fairy answered, coughing a bit at the fetid smell of cabbage and old cheese.

The ogre shook his head. "No it's not. You're a fairy. Fairies aren't called Deborah. Least ways not outside Fairy Porn. You weren't in Debbie Does The Pixies were you? Hurr. Fairies are called 'Buttercup' or 'Peasblossom' or 'Cowslip'.Though in your case it might be 'Cowsarse' I suppose. Hurr, hurr!"

That's unfair, thought Debbie looking behind her, although the short skirt of her dress did make her bum look a bit big. She called herself Deborah because it seemed a lot more fun than 'Snowdrop'. Deborah, Debbie, Debs, all of those were fine but 'Snowdrop'? It wasn't her at all! It would have to do for the ogre, though. "It's Snowdrop. Deborah Snowdrop. Why don't you let me go?" She tried a winning smile at the single blood shot eye that was staring in at her.

"Hurr, hurr, because I don't want to," the ogre said. "What's the point in me catching you up in my little sack, putting you in that little cage and taking the risk of you heaving all that vodka all over it just to let you go again? Nah! That doesn't sound like the sort of idea even an ogre would go for, does it?"

Deborah thought about it. He was right of course. Even ogres weren't that dim. "If you let me go, I'll grant you a wish. I can grant wishes. How about that?"

"I dunno," said the ogre. "Most time wishes seem to turn out wrong. I don't really trust magic. Not since they started letting school kids do it. And that lot that live on that world with the turtle. They're just mad most of them. Naw! I'll stay away from wishes, thank you."

"Well there's other things that fairies are good at..." When all else failed, Deborah Snowdrop, knew that one of her flirtatious glances and a suggestive word was enough to divert elves, pixies and even, on a good night, trolls. Perhaps it would work on ogres too.

"We'll see." The ogre poked a finger through the bar of the cage. It was almost as wide around as Deborah's head. She backed away but the finger followed her pinning her to the back of the cage. She squealed. "Hurr," the ogre responded, moving his finger in a motion which might have been construed as tickling if it hadn't been so threatening "Hurr." The eye squinted in. "Who's a slutty little Snowdrop then?" he smirked.