Urban fantasy has swallowed up a great number of mythical and paranormal creatures. Some are well-digested, and any elf or fairy or vampire could be switched with the other and no one would care. And some sit in UF’s stomach like a wad of flower stems and by Maab you’d better not call a fairy an elf or a gnome a dwarf. But for the most part both are domesticated, tamed, adpated to ciy life. Even the elves wear black leather.
I’m not trying to take potshots at UF, mind you. It’s just that when the only difference between a were-jaguar and a were-rat is that one’s got wide, green eyes and the other beady, black ones, you have to wonder what’s the point?
Thankfully, as popular as UF is, and as many mythologies it has cut into pieces and devoured, the wild ones are still out there. They don’t play by human rules, or reason by human logic, and they certainly don’t angst over hot little teens and twenty-somethings like there’s no one of their own species to lust after.
For example, here’s a lovely little fairy story, from Beneath Ceaseless Skies: More Full of Weeping than You Can Understand by Rosamund Hodge. No black leathers or “tough” cookies here. And no schmexy fairy lovin’, either.
Look out for my next post, where I bitch even more about how UF has homogenized fantasy literature, and turned it into a bland slurry of empty names and pasty skin. And it doesn’t matter if you call them “elves”, “fae”, “faeries”, “fairies”, “changelings”, “fey”, “fay” “feyries”, “brownies”, “goblins”, “vampires”, “werewolves”, “lycanthropes”, “shapeshifters”, whatever, they’re still all the same.