“This isn’t going to work,” thought Grouchina, “I will have to find a part-time job that can help me pay the bills.”
Grouchina wasn’t the kind of pixie you are used to reading about in fairytales and seeing in Disney movies, she was a real, down-to-earth, practical pixie. While the pixies that you see in those Disney movies are waif-like creatures draped in short little skirts made of flower-petals and leaves and would rather fall dead than be seen wearing spectacles; Grouchina preferred denims and found spectacles a lot handier than contact-lenses. There were other dissimilarities too, although a lot less glaring but equally disconcerting, if one looked closer. While most of those other, more popular pixies look a lot younger – in fact quite into their teens, Grouchina looked like she was comfortably in her twenties, and unlike most other pixies she was throughly disenchanted with the world.
When Grouchina was inside her home in an old oak-tree hollow, she was the happiest. She’d wear a pair of denims, perch her specs on her little pert nose, and snuggle into a corner with her drawing pencils and her sketchbook. But then it wasn’t easy to let go of the pixie community totally, nor was it possible to stay in and not go gathering the cherries, which were Grouchina’s staple diet. So for such times, when she had to necessarily step out, Grouchina had a pretty imitation-petals dress hanging in her wardrobe. This was her only dress, her armor against the giggling, teasing gaggle of pixies that she was bound to meet if she stepped out.
It was sort of…crazy! It was like she had two different pixies inside her. There was Grouchina, the grouchy pixie, dressed in her imitation-petals dress, zapping everyone and everything that had the misfortune of crossing her path; and then there was Artiana, the sweet absent-minded pixie who just wanted to draw and paint everything that she saw.
But then, buying the paint, the canvases, and everything else cost money, and Grouchina was terribly short of it. So when Signora, her Aunt approached her with the assignment of zapping love notes and envelopes that belonged to the poor lovelorn human, she found herself in a fix.
“The more you zap, the more you earn,” said Aunt Signora.
“But is it right?” asked Grouchina, “I mean, is it right morally? This poor love-struck individual is trying to play a game of romantic courtship, and I the evil, grouchy pixie, zaps away the labor of love to make money. Doesn’t that make me a mercenary of kinds.”
Signora cocked her right eyebrow, brought her face closer to Grouchina’s, and cackled, “Yes, it does. A love mercenary, I suppose. But consider this, my righteous little niece. If you took up this assignment, you’d never be short of art supplies. Think about it.”
With that parting shot, Signora took flight, and Grouchina was left alone. She fought her demons for a very long time, but then she caved in. After all, the only thing that she ever wanted to do in life was paint… and eat cherries. And if this job could help her realize her dreams, she was game.