"Fairy Tales and Space Dreams"

I have put together a collection of fantasy, science fiction, and horror short stories which I'd like to publish as an anthology titled "Fairy Tales and Space Dreams."

The stories range from a wistful tale of a mermaid falling in love with a fallen star, to a spaceship captain venturing into the depths of space to flee a dying Earth. 

In this collection, Snow White has lips as red as blood, hair as white as snow, and skin as black as ebony; and a quirky space unicorn sets off to save the world from a horde of ravenous aliens.

My estimates are:
Professional editing: $1,000
Artwork and marketing budget: $600

The following is a short-short included in the anthology titled, "Wild Woman":

I am Vega, daughter of Azalea, daughter of Rosalind, daughter of Daisy, daughter of Fleur, daughter of the Goddess.
And I am not afraid. 
I am not dainty. 
I am not small. 
My feral hair grows thick. It cannot be tamed. It gathers twigs and leaves as I run, and climb, and hunt.
From the treetops, I watch the sun bathe the horizon in gold, and I see the stars light up the night with their soft, white glow. They are mine. And I am theirs.
My sisters strike their drums as I dance around the fire, matching them beat for beat, digging my toes into the sand, whipping my hair, howling at the moon. 
We join hands and sing well into the night before falling asleep on the beach. It, and the forest, and the meadow are our home.
Not far away, across the barren field, a city thrives. Its paved streets cut farther and farther into the field as time turns. From miles away, it stinks of constraint. Of anxious sweat and empty words spoken with tacit breath. My sisters and I sometimes watch them. The women there never seem to be just right. They dress too much or too little. They are too soft or too strong. Too big or too small. They suffocate their breasts. And every single one of them wants to scream.
It’s heart-crushing to watch. But we must. Because every once in a while, one toddles our way. Confused and cold. We welcome each one with big embraces, holding them close and warm, often as they openly sob into our aching bosoms. 
Afterward, we take our new wild woman and send her running along the forest floor, through the foliage, jumping over logs and ditches, crawling under low-swinging branches. We do this until her face is brown with earth. We bath her in our sacred lake and decorate her with our favorite shells from the beach. 
She is tall, she is short, she is lanky, she is stocky. She is the color of tea, milk, sand, cream, cocoa. She is mother, she is sister, she is daughter. 
She is us. 
She is woman.