Contents
Issue 5
Letter from an Editor Foreword: Uncanny Stuff by Nicholas Royle
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Ragabone by John Patrick Pazdziora illustrated by Alan Corbett
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The Lady wore a Shawl by Emma Matthews illustrated by Samantha Davey
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The Narratologist’s Monologue by Gaia Holmes illustrated by C Massey & G Dean
page 18
Borealis and the Thing-Finder by Rebecca Keller illustrated by Cate Simmons
page 19
Dear Little Emmie by Adam Oehlers
page 25
So it is Written by Natalie Brown illustrated by Ann, (Ruozhu) Sun
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An Ambivalence of Ladybirds by Kelley Swain illustrated by Faye Durston
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The Glass Girl by Stephanie Campisi illustrated by Eugenia Tsimiklis
page 37
Wondertale by Ryan Ormonde illustrated by Graham Dean
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Der Kindraube by Mark Tomlinson illustrated by Amy Hood
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List of contributors
pages 48 & 49
Creature from the Curiosity Cabinet by Particle Article & Publisher information www.newfairytales.co.uk
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Letter from an Editor I’ve been reading fairy tales, traditional and modern, ever since I got hooked on the Oxford Myths and Legends series many, many years ago. While other aspects of my literary taste have transformed since I relinquished my junior ticket for Doncaster Public Library, I’ve retained a real passion for tales of wonder with an appeal that is simultaneously universal and deeply personal. The Scottish tale of the quest of Iain Direach – and the help he receives from a wily fox – has an emotional impact totally at odds with the meaning it had for my 11 year old self. The world has changed and so have I, but there remains a vital, beating heart at the centre of that story. So I was delighted when a Google search shepherded me to Issue 1 of New Fairy Tales. Here was a site showcasing stories which drew on traditional tales of wonder to extend our imaginative response to the world in which we live. It offered highly original variations on the themes of traditional tales of wonder; or used their symbols and tropes to provide thematically and stylistically innovative stories. And when I was given the chance to join Claire Massey and her team I couldn’t have been more excited. Claire’s energy and knowledge of fairy tales (traditional and modern) is astonishing; Anna McKerrow (Associate Editor for Poetry) is an erudite, incisive and provocative poet; and Art Director Faye Durston (soon to be published by Macmillan) creates work of striking psychological resonance and impressive range. I think you’ll like the work they have selected.
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Claire and I read nearly 200 stories for Issue 5: it was a hugely enjoyable but deeply daunting and, ultimately, quite exhausting task. At the end we were reassured to have produced shortlists with a high degree of overlap – six hugely impressive stories were on both lists and we’re really confident you’ll marvel, smile, shudder and speculate at the ones we chose. In these tales the traditional collides with the postmodern, horror slugs it out with humour and quotidian reality wrestles with surrealist vision. The features shared by all six stories are their wit; their energy; a unique and highly specific vision; and their ability to entertain. We hope you’ll appreciate the universal psychological truths they uncover but, even more, we hope you’ll enjoy reading them. Once again, we’ve tried to select stories for the widest possible range of readers. There’s some unsettling imagery in this issue but we are confident younger readers will find much to enjoy (adults may wish to check the stories out in advance for younger readers). As Claire has said on the website, young people often enjoy being a little scared. Please remember that New Fairy Tales is produced as a free publication so we can bring new stories and new writers to the widest possible audience. These are difficult times for many people, but if you do enjoy our stories, poems and images we would be delighted if you could show your appreciation by donating through our website to Derian House Children’s Hospice, in Chorley, Lancashire, UK. It’s an excellent cause and every little helps.
Andy Hedgecock, Associate Editor for Fiction, May 2010
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Uncanny Stuff Nicholas Royle Horror stories have held me in their thrall since I was a boy. Horror stories, terror tales, weird fiction; the Gothic, the uncanny, the abject; from the subtly unsettling to the downright terrifying. Occasionally, one is asked why. Why do you like to read this stuff? You hear a variety of answers. It’s cathartic. It allows you to face your demons in a safe environment. It’s an outlet for negative emotions and impulses. If I didn’t read (and write) this kind of stuff, you sometimes hear people say, it would all build up inside me. What would? What would build up inside you? Bile? Fear? Unsavoury thoughts? An compulsion to commit harm? I don’t buy any of the justifications. Never have. I’ve pretended to from time to time. I’ve espoused this or that motive. But really I don’t subscribe to any of them. I’m not a theorist. I don’t even begin to understand theory, literary or otherwise. Let the theorists theorise, the analysts analyse. I simply read and write. I know what I love to read and I know what I love to write. I read John Gordon’s The Giant Under the Snow when I was maybe 11 or 12. It was deeply unnerving; the Leathermen haunted my dreams. I was not much older when I started devouring the Pan Books of Horror Stories. I would experience a delicious frisson from a successfully executed scary tale. As I got a little older, my tastes did not change dramatically. Perhaps I moved on, from James Herbert to Stephen King; I read Poe. Lovecraft’s ‘The Hound’ scared the shit out of me late one night when everyone else had gone to bed. Ramsey Campbell’s stories unsettled me;
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Clive Barker’s filled me with wonder. My French teacher introduced me to Marcel Aymé, my German teacher to Kafka. I was 20 when Picador published Alberto Manguel’s Black Water: The Anthology of Fantastic Literature, and I discovered Borges, Horacio Quiroga, EM Forster. At university I started writing – horror stories – and began obsessively collecting anthologies. Ramsey Campbell’s New Terrors volumes were my bible. How had I lived this long without reading Robert Aickman? Other editors – Stephen Jones, David Sutton, Karl Edward Wagner, Charles L Grant, Stuart Schiff – introduced me to new writers such as Dennis Etchison, Joel Lane, Lisa Tuttle, Steve Rasnic Tem. I finally made a sale, joining the ranks of Pan Horror authors. I thought people would stop me in the street. They didn’t. I sold a story to Etchison’s Cutting Edge anthology. Now I knew people would stop me in the street. They still didn’t. My impulse to create a publishing imprint of my own – Egerton Press – came from meeting and reading the unpublished stories of Michael Marshall Smith. His tales were joined by work from other short story writers I started to come into contact with – Mark Morris, Conrad Williams, Philip Nutman. Two decades on from my own modest attempts at small press publishing, I am at it again with Nightjar Press. Once more the focus is on short stories, stories best characterised as dark, Gothic, uncanny or weird. I flirt with crime fiction, I’ve dabbled in the mainstream, but I keep coming back to my first love – weird fiction, strange stories, dark, Gothic, uncanny stuff, all of which has its roots in fairy tales.
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“Yah! Silly Ragabone!”
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by John Patrick Pazdziora
Goodwife Alyum shook her head as he trundled away down the lane. “Poor old man. Nary a word in his head, that one.”
The children called him Ragabone. They couldn’t say who first conjured the name. But they all agreed he was Ragabone. He was what Ragabone meant. Ragabone shambled down the mountainside as the temple bells tolled for morning prayers. Frost broke leaves under his feet. His stick picked at the ground as he paused to flick away stones. The children scuttled alongside the trail, wide-eyed and jeering. “Yah! Silly Ragabone!” “Why’s he called Ragabone?” “Because that’s what he is!” “He’s a funny Ragabone!” Ragabone trudged under the leafless trees, unheeding the whispers from the hedgerow. His greasy coattails flapped round his knees. He never looked round, even when handfuls of gravel scattered against the crumbled shapelessness of his hat. He plodded through the narrow mud street to the first cottage. Goodwife Alyum stood in her doorway under her pear tree, a mug of goat’s milk ready. “Here you are then, tuck that in now, there’s a love.” Goodwife Alyum smiled, nodded, wiping her hands on her apron as she watched Ragabone gulp the milk. “I ain’t got mending for you today, but just you go on up the street to Muna’s. She’s broken something, I’ll be bound.” Ragabone wiped his sagging mouth with his cuff. He poked a fallen pear onto his stick, shook it into his bag.
Muna kept a pig. Ragabone heaved himself down on the doorstep. He stared at the pig rooting in the yard. The pig ignored him. “Oh, Ragabone! There you are!” Muna bustled round from the sheds, toting a bucket of slops. “I’ve been that busy I didn’t hear the bell. Gwan! Get them candlesticks, Ragabone’s here! Love the man, he can’t hear me. Never you mind, I’ll just run and get them myself. What good’s a man if he don’t come when called, I ask you.” Muna set down her bucket, bustled into the house. Ragabone glanced at the door as it closed. The pig kept rooting in the yard, ignoring the stick gently pulling the bucket toward the doorstep. When Muna returned, the bucket sat where she had left it. “Here you are, old man.” Muna dropped two brass candlesticks into his hands. “Look, tarnished to black. That’s my Gwan, letting them smoke the way he does. And him smoking himself.” Muna rattled the bucket of slops. The pig lumbered over, snorting, jaws champing as the slops sloshed into its trough. If Muna or the pig noticed the missing crusts, they pretended not to. Ragabone pulled a knife from somewhere in his clothes. He rolled a candlestick in his hand, gently tracing the wooden blade around the base. Gray wax flaked to the ground. The children clustered round the gate, watching.
Ragabone
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“What’s he doing?” “He’s going to cut its heart out with his knife, and eat it!” “Naw, he don’t eat them. He wipes them. With his spit!” “Why’s he spit?” “He’s a Ragabone!” Ragabone glanced up, puffy eyes dull, uninterested. The children ducked out of sight. Gwan swung out of the doorway, his pipe thrust into the tangle of beard hiding his mouth. He stretched his massive arms. “Morning, Ragabone!” Ragabone breathed on the candlestick, wiped it with his sleeve. The children consulted behind the wall. “See! He spit!” “He didn’t.” “He did!” Gwan spoke through a rush of smoke. “I’ll be carving more of them knives, if you need. I mean, if yours ain’t working as it should, like.” Ragabone held up the candlestick. It glittered like polished gold. “Ah,” said Ragabone.
Ragabone trudged to the village square. He sat on the stone bench round the well, his stick leaning against his heavy knees. He stared at the half-timbered houses round the square, and listened to the children without seeming to. “Why’s he wear that hat?”
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“Because! He’s a Ragabone!” “Heheheh. He’s got a funny old bag hat!” “You ever seen a Ragabone what don’t have a funny old bag hat?” “No.” “See?” The priest ambled across the square from the temple. “Gods keep you, Ragabone my son!” He patted the old man’s round shoulder as if trying to reassure himself that life couldn’t be altogether bad. “How are your old bones today, hm?” Ragabone gazed up at the smiling priest, his pudgy face expressionless behind ratted white hair. “Splendid, splendid.” The priest pulled the village’s only watch out of his pouch. “I say, Ragabone? My timepiece seems amiss. Do you think…?” Ragabone turned the watch over in his hand. It was the size of a saucer. He pulled a key from somewhere in his clothes, and wound it solemnly. He opened the back. Ragabone sat and watched the clockwork tick and whirl for a long time before he handed it back to the priest. “Ah,” said Ragabone. The priest held the watch to his ear. “Yes, splendid, that rhythm seems about right. In keeping with the passage of our lives through this world.” He beamed benevolence at Ragabone. “May Yresa the Blessed give you every blessing, my son. Would that we all might have such childish innocence as yours.” An apple whipped past the priest’s ear, bounced off the well beside Ragabone’s hat. “He’s a mangy old silly-face frogspit poo! Stinky old Ragabone!”
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Benevolence evaporated from the priest’s face. “Wollin, you young rogue! What have I told you about assaulting people in the streets? Get back here this instant!” Ragabone watched the priest chase the children from the square. Then he ate the apple.
As the temple bells tolled for evening prayers, Ragabone shambled back up the mountain. The children only followed him to the edge of the woods. They were afraid to go under the trees. Woods were terribly magical. Where the children left off, the blackbirds began, whistling and chirping from the firs. Ragabone pulled the crusts from his sack, and left them in crumbled heaps along the ground. Blackbirds swarmed as he passed. He reached his shallow cave as the stars appeared above the quivering fir trees. The fire in the hollow was already burning. A knapsack sat against his log. Ragabone stopped. This was not right. “Greetings, friend!” A long man in a slouch hat and tattered gray tweeds sprang down from the ledge above the cave. “Forgive me for not being adequately prepared for your return, but the view of this valley moved my heart to sweet softness, and the romance of the wind and the clouds, sweeping as they are away from sunset and stars, lifted me into very raptures of melodious delight.” Ragabone sat down on his log. He pulled a flask out of his sack, drank. The long man sprawled on the ground beside him. His long trousers were not long enough for his legs. A colony
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of moths had apparently made their home in his cravat before abandoning it for more respectable quarters. “I assume,” said the long man, “you are the proprietor of this establishment? Which is to say, this entrancing assortment with nature and beauty lodged here so cunningly above yonder village?” Ragabone bit into the pear, and gazed dully into the fire. Forgive, my friend, this seeming intrusion,” said the long man. “Lassen is my name. You see before you, little as you may know it, one born high but fallen lower, ground under the distaste of the gods. I am an artist, a tailor, a merchant, a pamphleteer, a songwriter, a scholar and a magician. Yes, friend, this is no ordinary caller who comes calling tonight.” Ragabone spat out a pear seed. Lassen sat up. “Today, my good man, I combine the talents of merchant and magician. May I show you a wonder which has astounded emperors and stumped enchanters?” “Ah,” said Ragabone. Lassen rummaged in his knapsack. “What I will show you has been the subtle quest of wizards and loremasters and postmasters for centuries untold.” He pulled out a package, fumbled with the string. “Emperors have killed for less magic than this. Old man, gaze in wonder at what I conjure in my hand—life, mechanically made.” In his long hand, he held a clockwork bird. Ragabone wiped his nose on his sleeve. He stuck a lump of mouldy cheese on the end of his stick. “I hold our feathered cousin only by his will,” said Lassen. “Because he knows that I am his friend—nay, his
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very creator—he stays. Else he would fly, and you and I would be left only with weeping for the memory. But listen. So great is his trust in me, he will sing when I ask.” He slyly slipped a key into the bird’s back. “I have but to stroke his back so, and he will sing, even with stars overhead, for you and me.” Ragabone heard the key winding the gears. The clockwork bird buzzed. It opened its metal beak, and sang. “Seek-seek-seek-seek-seek! Seek-seek-seek-seekseek!” Ragabone toasted the cheese over the flames. He liked the bird. He liked clockwork things. They weren’t complicated like children. The bird stopped singing. Lassen snapped his hand closed around it. “That is worth the fortune of kings. But I find the country folk of gentler persuasion, more deserving of such fortune to descend among them. I have it in my fancy to inquire at yon village come the morning. I hope you think it no imposition for me to billet myself at your lodgings, old man. I shall leave so silently, you shan’t hear me go.” He winked. “Magic, you know.”
Morning came with a gray mist over the valley. The fire was cold and Lassen gone when Ragabone shuffled out of his cave. He poked the damp ashes with his stick, scribing strange letters on the ground before trudging through the forest and the blackbirds. The temple bells rang for morning prayer, muffled and distant through the fog. No one met Ragabone as he shambled into the village. He took a pear from Goodwife Alyum’s tree. He stopped to scratch Muna’s pig behind the ears, and pinch
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the crusts from its slops. And he wondered, tiredly, what trouble Lassen would get into. Lassen stood on the bench around the well. A kit full of strange, extravagant wares—knives and scissors, matches and buttons—spread before him. He gesticulated with a riding crop as he addressed the clustered villagers. “...which would astonish the courts of emperors, at prices which would impoverish other men! But is money of consequence? Is money aught else than inconvenience, friends? I appeal to you.” He waved his arms. “To whom the benefit of pecuniary well-being, if not those who can least afford it?” Gwan looked up briefly from the steel knife he was admiring. “Can’t say, sir. We ain’t got none of that here.” “Precisely!” Lassen grinned. “The knife is yours for only two silver. Could I be taking these wares to the emperor’s court? They would be too fine for use there. Could I sell these with all piety to the High Priest? Even his riches would not sufficiently match their worth. Why am I here, friends? I appeal to you. Why?” “Can’t say, sir.” Gwan rummaged through the pouch at his belt, trying to remember how many base equalled one silver. “Why are you here?” Lassen tucked the riding crop under his arm. “Because my duty lies to the people! If I told you where I came from, gents and ladies all, if I so much as hinted who I truly am, there’d be what is colloquially known as a do. But I and my brethren are charged solely with beneficence. We labour ceaselessly for the people’s welfare even now, harried and persecuted though we are. In different guises, in different ways, we are among you still.” The gathered villagers fell awkwardly silent.
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Lassen pulled the clockwork bird out of his pocket. “Let this marvel sing for itself. I proffer for your examination a metal bird. Mute, voiceless—a toy such as little boys might use to strike their sisters. But with my touch I conjure magic, and the bird changes.” He stroked the bird’s back. The metal beak opened. “Seek-seek-seek-seek-seek! Seek-seek-seek-seek-seek!” The villagers murmured anxiously. Lassen’s eyes darted round the crowd for an enthusiastic face. “You know me, friends, to see me conjure life from my hand. I assure you I come among you only for your good. To you, to this village, I will sell the secret of this magic, this thing of wonder—worth the fortune of kings—for a mere gold mark. There is no bargain better, good people. No magic more marvellous.” The crowd had begun fraying at the edges. People wandered away through the square, mumbling things about chores needing to be done, crops needing to be brought in before winter. The priest glared up at Lassen. “I am not sure who you are, friend. I do not like thinking ill of anyone. So I will remind you that such potent magic as you boast of has long been forbidden, even among—er—wizards. When there were such people.” He tapped the face of his watch meaningfully. “But I think, my friend, your bird holds no magic at all.” Gwan tugged at the priest’s sleeve. “Here, Holiness— is it four base to a silver, or six?”
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Ragabone spent the day on the other side of the well, occasionally tossing handfuls of crumbs to the blackbirds. He listened to Lassen haranguing the villagers, growing less eloquent and more irritable as the day wore on. The children darted in and out of the square. A Ragabone was more interesting than a squeaking metal bird. “Why’s he never say nothing?” “He’s a Ragabone, Wollin. They can’t talk!” “Why?” “They ain’t got tongues. That’s why he wants to eat you, so he can get yours!” A lump of mud swished past Ragabone’s hat. “Yah, can’t catch me! Silly old Ragabone!” When the temple bells rang for evening prayer, Ragabone lurched out of the village. The children were waiting for him as he started up the path. He plodded through the storm of sticks and grass, patient as a cow going to pasture. One by one the children scattered down the hillside, shrieking and giggling. Only Wollin lingered, staring at Ragabone and trying to swagger. Ragabone stopped, looked at Wollin. Wollin stared back. After a few moments, the boy seemed to make a decision. He scrunched his freckles in a reckless grin, thumbed his nose. “Yah, silly Ragabone!” he shouted. “He won’t catch me, he won’t. He’s a silly old smelly old raggy old Ragabone man!” Ragabone gazed at the boy solemnly. Then he winked. And stuck out his tongue.
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Wollin gaped, and fled. The other children agreed later that he was lying.
Ragabone trudged back to the hollow. Lassen was tying his pack with ill humour. “Ah!” Lassen glared at Ragabone. “I fear I will not linger in these accommodations any longer.” He knotted a strap viciously. “For all my kindness—for all my consideration—I show them magic—ha! One knife sold. Eight base! Not even silver. Was silver too much to ask, I ask you? Bad times, they say. Clodhoppers not able to see—magic—when they see it. Not magic. Ha!” He stood up, his pack swinging in his hand. “You see before you a gentleman and a magician. He is disgruntled. I come here with bargains, and what do I get, eh? Thanks, welcome, respect? Their children mock me in the streets! And they themselves—eight base, ha!” He pulled the clockwork bird from his pocket. “And this—do you know this magic is forbidden, they ask? Do you mind not helping us out, they ask? Not magic, they say!” He flung the clockwork bird on the ground. “Good money after a metal bird no one will buy!” He stamped on it, tearing up the dirt in his frenzy. “Not magic, not alive! Ha! Some people!” He kicked the clockwork bird into the fire. “Gods help you, old man, if you must beg from such people!” Lassen swung off down the mountainside, the sounds of his anger fading into the twilight. Ragabone sat on his log. He pulled the clockwork bird out of the fire with his stick. The metal burned his fingers as he picked it up. Its beak was bent and twisted, its paint scratched. A crack ran through its eye.
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Dully, Ragabone wound the bird as best he could. It quivered slightly, the bent halves of its beak scraping against each other. “Sssk-sssk-sssk-sssk.” Ragabone cradled the clockwork bird in his hands as if it were a living thing. He shambled through the fir trees up to the ledge that looked down across the valley. The last moments of the sunset hung against the clouds in slashes of yellow. Around the swatches of tilled land, the forest spread endlessly over the mountains. The village glittered with firelight, half hidden in evening. Ragabone looked at the crushed clockwork bird in his hand. It stared back at him, the cracked eye unseeing. He could hear its plaintive song in his mind, could hear the words forming round it. It wasn’t right, he thought. Not now, not anymore. But such things had always been somewhat forbidden. And once more—once more would do no harm. He whispered something to the clockwork bird, words that coursed through his blood as he spoke, that throbbed on his breath like fire. He ran, shambling and swaying to the edge of the cliff. He flung the clockwork bird as far and as hard as his could, out over the valley. It spun away into the evening, a falling shadow. For a moment it dipped low, then swept up to the sunset with a rush of feathered wings. Ragabone gazed at the sky as the sunset faded. He smiled. From far overhead, he could hear the faint warble of birdsong. “Ah,” said Ragabone.
Illustrated by Alan Corbett Issue 5
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The Lady wore a Shawl by Emma Matthews
“Is that her?” “Is she here?” “Did it work?” A chorus of questions fill the dank air as she glides through the streets; touching walls, smearing glass, humming softly. Children rush out of the darkness, a sense of celebration floods the eerie quiet as they clutch at her dress and skip around her as she moves. “Is it you?” “It is you!” “You came I knew you would...” Their words echo about the ruins, splashing into puddles and bouncing off the rusty husks of abandoned cars. Small bare feet sidestep rubbish and spent shell casings with practised ease. The children are moths to a flame, pride and excitement lighting their eyes and puffing out skinny chests. They smell like sweat and fear turned sour, but the city smells of rot and damp. The scent of death is sickly and taints everything. She remains silent and wariness creeps in, the current of jubilation deadened by her cool stare. Quiet surrounds her and flattens the city where she treads. Her shawl clings to thin shoulders and the jade satin gleams and winks as she passes. The children scatter from her skirts then and hover behind corners, watching as the woman floats above the
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mud and debris, down streets once busy with traffic and noise and life. Now the alleyways are stained with the memory of the flood, holding secrets much darker than illicit kisses bought and paid for. Disease festers in the ruins, reaching beyond the tumbled walls and shattered glass to curse the survivors two times over. The visitor appears untouched by the decay of the city. The children grip slimy brickwork, craning dirty necks to catch a better look as she wafts on by. “I think it worked,” a blonde boy whispers, his eager bright eyes following her passage reverently. “We did it.” “She don't look much,” another grumbles, chewing a torn thumb nail nervously. “You should ask her.” The blonde boy shakes his head but the others crowd about him, nodding and pushing him on. The woman pauses outside a bakery and peers into the jagged glass that juts from the door frame. The children fall silent, holding their breath, waiting. Her long dress billows as she moves, as dark slate clouds above the city press down, squeezing the air like a damp rag. The children are used to being hot and sticky now, and wear mere scraps of clothing that flutter when the wind picks up. The wind is a blessing as it tears through the thunder trapped streets, and they laugh as their hair is whipped from their faces. The sound amplifies the emptiness that sours the place, and fades quickly to nothing in the gloom. “Shh, she'll hear you,” a red haired girl whispers, her blue eyes like saucers as she gazes at the visitor, admiring the luminous white hair that flows like a banner in the wind. The woman's face is old, like chewed leather, but her eyes are sharp and bright in the murk that exists beneath the cities fallen towers. Her expression is serene as she
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glances at the small faces peering hungrily between the cracks of the buildings, and the children turn to each other, excitement bubbling upon mud streaked faces. “It is her, did you see—” “Ask her, go on ask her—” The blonde boy steps forward, his scuffed shoes squelching through the mud and vegetation now sprouting between the cracks in the pavement. He coughs, then turns to his comrades, who duck out of sight like the cowards they are. “'Scuse me lady,” he stutters, then tugs at her skirt and raises his head, swallowing his fear. “Are you who we asked for?” A roll of thunder breaks the silence and the woman turns to examine the child, a small frown crossing her features. “I am here aren't I?” Her lips don't move but her voice flows about the city, filling each empty crevice with rich vibrant noise. The city seems to moan in response, and the storm overhead snatches the wail of the dying and sweeps it across the barren stretches of land that border the city. The boy stumbles away, gulping back a cry of terror. The city creaks beneath the storm and he returns to his comrades, dimples forming in his forehead. “I don't think we did it right.” “I did my part—” “You mucked up that chanting—” “You never cut your hand like us—” “I did, what you sayin'—” “Stop it!” hisses the red head, smacking clenched fists to her thighs. “She's here now, and if she ain't who we asked for who is she?” They turn in unison and stare at the lady,
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apprehension crackling between them. A small boy jumps, then wobbles as shafts of stark white light spear the clouds and hit the street like searchlights sweeping the wreckage. The children shrink back, the memory of the searchlights and the bullets from the sky still raw. “Look!” gasps the brave child that dared voice their question and points at the lady with a trembling hand. Caught in a beam of sunlight slashing the darkness, the woman raises her face to the sky and her hair and face glow with opal sheen, the lines of her face smoothed away by the glare. The shawl about her shoulders bursts with colour and as the children gaze in hushed awe, hundreds of tiny gems spark with life against the jade green cloth. Tentative feet shuffle forward and the red head squeaks in rapture as she squints at the rainbow hues now flowing through the shawl. The children form a circle about the woman, gasping in amazement and clapping in delight as the gems morph into creatures that dance and flutter upon the fabric. It is beautiful. Delicate chattering nibbles at their ears as they creep ever closer to stare at the magical spectacle, and the thunder is a distant thought as it roars overhead, and the rain is no distraction as fat rain drops splash upon their upturned faces. “We really did it,” a tall girl with freckles says, her voice cracking as rain trickles down her forehead. The children nod in agreement, and wide smiles split hopeful faces as the living shawl glitters and whispers in the rain. They really had.
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The woman lifts her hands then, holding the corners of her shawl tightly like a cape, letting the wind lift it high as they watch. She turns in a slow circle. The red head notices her feet are bare and her toes are sinking into the mud and sludge of the city. The shawl is as large as a flag, being hoisted proudly beneath the storm. The creatures swarm upon it in a frenzy of colour and rustling words too small to decipher. The children strain to hear anyway, spellbound by its glory as the roving sunlight kisses it to life. The rain is whooshing down now, thick and moody, attacking the streets and cascading dirt where it flicks puddles of grey mud. “Are you ready now little ones?” The white haired lady smiles at her admirers, her voice penetrates the darkness of the city yet her lips remain closed in the smile she shares. “Yes lady,” they nod, “I am, yes please…” The spells had worked, the chanting, the offerings. Skinning the rat was worth it, slashing palms and swearing oaths, all worth it. They had summoned an angel. “Then we shall begin.” The lone cry of a bird pierces the scene and she looks up, eyes flashing as scarlet as the blood they spilt to call her. A vast bird swoops down through the steely clouds and lands upon her left wrist. Its beady golden eyes and indigo feathers are vivid beside the woman's luminous hair. A sigh ripples through the gathered children as their worries and fears melt away with the rain. Then the shawl shrieks loudly and the creatures dancing upon it writhe in agony, twisting and clawing to get free from their prison. One by one the children vanish, marked only by a violent popping sound and acrid smoke
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twisting where they stood. The shawl grows larger and glitters fiercely as extra gems appear, and the woman lets the tail of the shawl dip and sway in the windy rain swept street. The city howls again, the wounded wretched wail of a last hope fled. The silence that returns is that of the sea, of the desert, of the forest. The silence of a place without people. The last child, the blonde boy, disappears as he is swirling about looking for his friends, confused and frightened. A final spark attaches to her shawl and she breathes in a deep lungful of air, wriggling her bare toes in the sodden muck beneath her. The bird lifts its wings a little and cocks its head to one side. Golden eyes pin the woman and she laughs, wrapping the shawl tight about her as the lines fall from her face completely. She spins, up on tip toe, and squeals as her toes slip. The bird wobbles and vicious talons cling to her wrist too tightly, drawing blood. Wincing, she stares at the creature, and then sighs, stepping along the street. “Are we done now?" Her face is hopeful. The bird shudders. She frowns, her free hand reaching up to find her face wrinkle free, as smooth as it had been the first day she made her own wish. That dreadful, dreadful wish. "Eternity, my dear, is a long way off yet." The bird loosens its talons. "Let us leave it to rain now."
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The Narratologist’s Monologue At some point in your life, you’ve got to climb out of the fantasy, like a girl climbing out of the cave of a belly, like a girl jump-started back into life. Night times are the worst as I try to disentangle myself from the narratives, as I try to leave those mutilated maidens to fend for themselves, leave my Donkeyskin housecoat hanging behind the door. I tell myself, it’s time to wind down, time to put away those enchanted towers of books, time to take your heart out of the witch's mouth, time to stop walking on knives.
Most nights I drink a half-pint glass of wine and read cookery books in bed. I scan through Leith and Lawson, Oliver and Craddock, Cranks and Slater, and try not to analyse the brutality of culinary method: ignore the whipping, basting, broiling, slicing and dicing and take comfort in the undemanding text.
Outside the kids kick a ball against the curb and it’s the sound of white hands beating the glass lid of a coffin . It’s the thud of a caged boy’s frenzied heart. I want to sleep, but wonder if I’ll ever wake. Will the bathroom mirror scare me with someone else’s face? And if I go downstairs, will the Wolf be sitting at the table grinning as he leafs through my life?
But, on page 66 there’s a recipe for Gingerbread stained to translucence with my dead grandmother’s utility lard. On page 54 there’s a recipe for Apple Strudel and I can’t help thinking of poisoned fruit stuck in a virgin’s throat. I can’t help thinking of palatial ovens and Briar Rose fences.
Gaia Holmes Issue 5
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Borealis and the Thing-Finder by Rebecca Keller
It was during the Great Depression, when many people who had never lacked for anything learned how it felt to want and not be able to get, and when people who already knew how to make do, made do with even less. My friend lived with her family in an old house with a big yard and six bedrooms. Her mom and dad had one room, my friend had a nook in her granny's room and her three brothers shared. The others they rented out. They planted a big garden in the summer and put aside as much food as possible against the winter. The whole family worked at whatever they could, and in this way they got by. My friend had a very useful skill—she was a ThingFinder. She discovered what other people left behind. You and I could look at a patch of sidewalk and not notice anything. But my friend would bend over, and pick up— what? A penny, or maybe even a dime. Broken jewelry. A button or a baseball. She was good at fixing and making. She could fix a broken necklace with some wire, or darn a mitten or embroider a flower over a burn in a glove. She could make dolls out of rags and toys out of bits of wood. This was how my friend helped her family. Wherever she went she kept alert, finding things. Every day she would go to the center of town. She had a bench right by a streetcar stop. She would spread a square cut from an old flannel blanket on the bench, and lay out her things for sale. Regular customers, people who didn’t want to spend the money to buy a whole card of buttons but needed one
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for their coat, would count on her. Mommies who wanted to get their child a toy might find something in her blanket and, for a few pennies, bring their child home a present. My friend would stay at her bench until supper, then pack up whatever was left and start home. But one day she lost track of time. The frost had arrived, and it was getting dark earlier than ever. She was hungry. When she pulled a piece of bread saved from lunch out of her pocket, she felt something brush her leg. The dog's hair was long and silvery, and hung in pointy clusters. It didn’t beg, even with its eyes which held hers with a curious, detached expression. My friend tore her bread in half, and offered the animal a chunk. He sniffed it and then ate, with good manners. The dog visited her often after that. At first people tried to chase it away, they didn’t trust such an odd looking pooch. But my friend petted it as it lay under her bench, and soon people associated the dog with her and accepted it. As the cold got colder she was glad of the company. The holes in her old boots were getting bigger and the dog sat on her feet and kept them warm. Her family had less money than ever. One chill-brittle day, she unwrapped the boiled potato she'd saved, wondering whether to eat it or wait until she was home (she knew dinner would be thin that night). Just then the dog arrived. He looked thin. Poor dog, she thought, he’s even hungrier than I am. On an impulse she threw her chunk of potato into the air and the dog promptly caught it in his mouth and chomped it down. The girl laughed and petted him. “Thank you," the dog said. “That was generous.” The girl gaped at the animal. “You...spoke!”
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“Yes. Now come with me.” “But, but...” she stammered. Amazed, but unable to resist, the girl followed the dog down a path winding through a deep thorny hedge. A white skinned birch stood against the dark bushes. “Spread your blanket under the tree,” came the rumble from the dog's throat. The girl did as she was told. “Now pick it up and, tomorrow, sell what it holds.” The girl replied, having regained some of her wits by now, “But nothing is there.” “Really?” said the dog. And suddenly he was gone. The girl rubbed her eyes and bent to retrieve her blanket. She was frightened. As she picked it up by the corners it became a sack full of something. Puzzled and scared, she ran home. She woke up late the next morning. She rushed to her bench and opened up her parcel, expecting to uncover her buttons and bits. Instead she found apples. Shiny juicy-looking apples: bright ruby, blushing gold, and pale green streaked with red. Before she could stop herself she bit into the crispest, most fragrant apple she had ever imagined. The people at the bus stop turned their heads at the sound. Mothers bought one for their children. Couples holding hands bought one to eat together. Even people who didn’t usually buy from her, people who could perhaps afford to buy a whole set of buttons, were drawn by the spicy fragrance. And whenever she thought she'd sold them all, out from under a fold would come another. Finally, though, they were indeed all gone. But the girl had coins in her pocket. She took some and bought bread and cheese for her family. She wrapped the food in the blanket
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and, when she got home, there was an apple for each of them next to the cheese and bread. The apple-money came just in time. They were able to buy fabric for a coat for her, and they ate a little better for a while. However, the day came when they had spent the last penny. She got thinner. She continued at her bench, trying to make whatever few cents she could. Ever since the night of the apples she would talk to the dog when he came to warm her feet, speaking in low tones and hoping he would answer. But he never did. One especially dismal afternoon she pulled out the half sandwich she’d saved, knowing there would be no dinner. She sighed, and tore a little corner to hand down to the dog huddling at her ankles. It never occurred to her not to feed him. As she chewed, a low burbley sound shaped itself into "Thank you." She looked at him and could’ve sworn he was smiling. “So I wasn’t crazy!” she said. “No, you’re not crazy. But keep your voice down, or someone will think you are.” The dog spoke in a throaty rumble, slow, but clear as water. She scratched his ears. “Why didn’t you answer me? I've been trying to get you to talk.” “Come with me,” the dog said, gesturing over his shoulder with his nose. “Oh no,” she said, “I want some answers. First off, why can you talk? And what's it like to be a dog? Where did you live before and, actually, where do you live? And—” “Come with me,” the dog said again. My friend pressed her lips together. She could see he wouldn't answer unless she did as he said.
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He trotted her down a road, through a grove of lindens that suddenly rose in front of them, and they emerged into a field with stubble poking though the frost. They had only traveled for a few minutes, but she knew they were far from any town. It was late and the sun was going down. “Put your blanket down here,” the dog said. The girl did as she was told. “Now pick it up, and sell what is in it tomorrow.” Once again, she lifted it by the corners and, as before, it was heavy and full. When she turned around the dog was gone. The field was a lonely place. She hurried toward the lindens, clutching her bundle against their scraping arms. No light filtered through the black branches. She shivered in her worn boots, worried she was lost, but the path was short and led right to her bench by the trolley stop. In the morning, she untied her parcel with eager fingers. A wonderful smell arose. Small fragrant rolls, delicate sweet breads and flaky turnovers nestled in the folds. She hurried to her bench, knowing anyone smelling the warm aroma would be sure to buy one. All morning people bought them, and yet the rolls seemed to never run out and continued to smell as if they'd just been baked. Finally, when her pockets were heavy with coins, her blanket was empty. She bought sausage on her way home and, when she opened her parcel, the cloth contained fresh bread for her family to eat with the sausage. Her mother was delighted but puzzled. The girl explained she'd met a customer who was generous and kind. When her family saw the plate of crusty rolls, and heard the snap and sizzle of the juicy sausages in the pan, the evening felt like a party. Her
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father got out his harmonica (he had sold his guitar) and they sang. But only a few days later it all felt like a dream. Her stomach growled with hunger, and the winter seemed to stretch without breaking. Snow draped the eaves and it was so cold people didn’t stop to buy anything. The limp potatoes and softening cabbages that remained from her family’s garden dwindled to a precious few. And the dog seemed to have disappeared. The whole town longed for spring. Finally, it came. There was softness in the air. The icicles hanging from the roofs began dripping, and the girl could detect the sound of running water. One gusty morning she got to her bench early. The melting snow had exposed all sorts of exciting things. Her new inventory included a tin comb she had cleaned and polished, a pretty box that once held tiny violet candies and, best of all, a souvenir spoon with an enameled picture of a waterfall and "Niagara" written across it. The pale sun warmed the bench, making her feel drowsy. Earlier, she had found a couple pennies in the snow and, as a rare indulgence, had bought herself a cookie. Just as it touched her lips, the dog appeared. “You’re here!” the girl said. Even though she didn’t know if he had an official owner somewhere, she thought of him as her dog. But her hand froze as she petted him. “What’s the matter, fella?” She lifted his face. He was thin as a shadow. His hair seemed darker and closer to his body; the clumps were longer and thinner too. “Poor thing,” she said. She gave the dog her cookie first half, then, when she saw how he gobbled it, the rest.
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The worried girl put her arms around him and felt his ribs. “How thin you've become.” “Time is running out,” the dog replied. The girl jumped. Though it had happened twice before, it was still a great shock. “Please,” the dog spoke with effort, "You need to follow me.” His tone scared her. “Quickly,” the dog urged. Before she could say anything he took off in a stiff-legged trot and disappeared between two buildings. She sprang after, following him into an alley choked with a deep thicket. A tangle of gnarled silver branches framed the entrance to a path. Seeing her dog getting farther away with every second, she squinted against the thorns and plunged in. When the trees parted she found him panting at the edge of a pearly lake with mist rising off the softening ice. “It’s beautiful,” she gasped. “Put your mitten on the ground.” His voice sounded like it came from inside a cave. Concerned, she set down her mitten and it filled with a great fish. He said, “Bring that home to your family and eat well tonight.” Something about the way he spoke frightened her. He returned her gaze with liquid eyes. “Why are you different today?” she whispered. “What is happening?” “My home is across this lake,” said the dog. "You won’t see me again.” “No!” she cried, and knelt to hug him. He was damp. “Come sit with me at the bench. I’ll give you all my food and—”
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“Lily,” the dog said, using her name for the first time. “Do you know who I am?” Lily shook her head. Droplets formed on the dog's whiskers. He said, “I am Borealis. Canis Glacis. The Ice Dog.” “The Ice Dog?” “I come only in winter, and only once. It will be my daughter or son who comes next year. But the thaw is coming and I must go." “Wait!” shouted Lily. She was trying to understand what was happening. “You can’t go!” “You've been a good friend. Don't worry.” Lily stammered “But…but,” but it was too late. The dog ran on to the frozen lake, and disappeared into silver mist. The thicket behind her dissolved. Lily went home. Somehow, after eating the delicious fish with her family she felt comforted. Still, it took her a long time to stop missing her dog when she sat at her bench. After that, although the family was still poor, things went a little better. Spring came and, soon after that, summer. The garden was in full bloom. Her father found some work. And on hot days, when she went to their local swimming pond, she would wonder if she had imagined it all. Seasons continue, of course. At harvest they dug a bumper crop of potatoes and cabbages and onions. It was fortunate they got the vegetables tucked into their cellar, because winter came suddenly. Lily watched it arrive while sitting at her bench. She had grown up during that year, but she was still a good Thing-Finder and she still sold her discoveries by the trolley. On that day when the first snow twirled through the afternoon air, a pink and silver streetcar unlike any Lily had ever seen before rolled past
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without stopping. Chasing after it came a young man who bent to catch his breath at Lily’s bench. He had an open face and eyes that caught the light. He smiled as he leaned over. “You’ll have to ...huff...excuse me…huff. I wanted to catch that trolley.” Something about him made Lily smile. They watched the car lean around the corner. “I think you'll have to walk,” she laughed. Soon the young man was next to her on the bench, chatting. The young man came nearly every day. He would bring Lily some cake or a piece of fruit. He even found a little booth for her in the covered market, where she could stay dry while she sold her things. Little by little, Lily came to trust him and respect his views. Lily's mother, however, was protective of her daughter and afraid for her. She did not know the young man, or feel she could trust him. “Have you ever wondered,” she asked, “why he is being so good to you?” Lily never had. But from that moment she couldn’t rest until she asked. One day she cleared her throat and said “Thomas” (that was his name), “Why are you being so kind?” Thomas nodded as if he'd been expecting this. He looked at the sky. “Three years ago my sister was sick and we didn’t have money for her medicine. A mangy dog used to come by the house. He looked so cold I always fed him a little something, even though we didn’t have much. Then he spoke to me and gave me things that helped my family." Thomas shrugged. “At the end of the winter he left, but the next year we met a doctor who went out of his way to help my sister for no apparent reason. I asked him the same thing you just asked me.”
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Lily opened her hands. “And? I don’t see what that has to do with anything." Thomas looked directly at her. “He said: it was Borealis. The dog had helped him the year before. I don’t know how it happens, but the people he helps are somehow drawn to one another to continue the kindness. I knew the minute I saw that fancy trolley that I was supposed to follow it, and I knew the minute I saw you that you had helped the Ice Dog.” Lily sat with distracted eyes. “So someday I’ll…” “You’ll be drawn to someone, and you’ll know for certain the person was the Borealis' friend.” Lily chewed her lip for a minute, taking it all in. Then she said, "So you've been kind to me because the Ice Dog sent you." Thomas took her hand. “At first. But as I got to know you I realized he is up to something else too.” “What do you mean?” she asked. “Remember that doctor who helped my sister?” “Yes.” “Well, he fell in love with her.” Lily smiled at Thomas and blushed. “Oh,” she said. And blushed again.
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So it is Written by Natalie Brown In stories such as this things usually work out the way everyone plans, if they’re pure of heart and all that; but no one ever thinks of the people who get caught up in someone else’s story. That was Nicole’s problem. She’d never expected that any of this would happen and it was as much of a shock to everyone else. Nicole was one of those overwhelmingly ordinary people. Polite, softly spoken, smart in an understated way, unremarkable in appearance save for her hair which was long and straight, the exact colour you see when you close your eyes because the sun was too bright. Nicole was destined to meet a nice respectable man, get married and have nice respectable children. Until the remarkable happened. No one was ever really sure of the exact details. One day Nicole was tending her market stall, and the next day she was rushed off to a room in the palace where a dozen young handmaidens prepared her to meet the King and Queen. The room buzzed with various activities. Nicole was not quite sure what was happening. “We need your narrative,” one of the handmaidens demanded. Each girl in the room looked exactly the same, they were just dressed in a different colour. “I don’t understand,” Nicole told them. There was a hush. “Your narrative,” the girl repeated, “we need to know your background story, your character profile, so we can tell the kingdom.” “I don’t have a narrative,” Nicole said slowly, “I’m a
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background character, I work in the market, my character profile doesn’t go much farther than that.” There was a brief moment of silence as this new information was digested. “But you’re marrying the Prince,” a girl in green stated. Nicole blinked at them in disbelief. “A background character can’t marry a Prince,” a girl in blue said finally. “So what do we do?” Nicole asked. “We’ll just have to rewrite you,” said the first girl, who was swathed in orange. “It’s really the only answer.” Nicole looked stricken, “but I’m not designed for this! I’m not a leading lady, I’m a market girl!” The handmaidens looked at her coldly, a shade of jealousy coming over them. “Not everyone gets this opportunity,” Miss Orange informed her. “Most of us just have to do what is written. Now you have the chance of a lifetime.” “Don’t I have any say in this?” Nicole asked. The girls shrugged. “But I like being a market girl.” This time they laughed. “I don’t love the Prince.” The girls stopped and stared. It was a thought that had never occurred to them. “I don’t think we can stop the story,” said a girl in green. “No,” agreed Miss Orange, looking Nicole up and down, “we’ll just have to make do with what we have.” And so they rewrote her. Pink, it was decided, was the new princess’ favourite colour. Carnations, someone else stated, were her favourite flower. It was also declared that she like horses, cauliflower and a particular kind of cheese found only in the farthest reaches of Latvia. She was strapped in, painted, curled, styled and designed until
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she no longer resembled herself. It took a long time. She tried to pay attention as she was given a new history, a new set of knowledge. It was while she was being given the proper etiquette for addressing the King and Queen, the correct manner of speaking to them and the proper way of sitting down, that she was finally asked if she had any questions. “What is the Prince’s name?” The room filled with laughter. “Why do you need to know his name?” a girl in green asked. “So I’ll know who I’m marrying.” “But you already know who you’re marrying,” a girl in orange said. “The Prince!” Nicole rolled her eyes. “And that’s all? He’s the Prince, and I’m marrying him and I don’t need to know anything else?” “What else do you need?” said Miss Orange, “the end is written, and it’s happy, forever and after.” “And love doesn’t feature into that?” Nicole asked. Silence filled the room. It was an odd gnawing silence that seemed to command to be filled at the same time as acknowledging that there was nothing to say. Miss Orange filled it. “If the end is happy, do you think readers really care if love is involved.” There was a knock on the door and a polite cleared throat. “Is she ready?” The girls reluctantly replied with an open door. The man behind it was nondescript a standard issue serving man. He indicated for her to follow him. The shoes clacked loudly down endless corridors until they were led into an impossibly small room lined with mirrors. Nicole’s face was
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reflected back at her hundreds of times, each as frightened as the next. Without warning, one wall of mirrors slid open and revealed the King and Queen sitting on matching thrones watching her as the Prince stood on the King’s right elbow, his face a mask of sadness. The servant stepped forward and introduced her, bowing as he did. The Queen watched her with disdain. Nicole reacted as she was shown, dropping to one knee, keeping her head down. The Queen tutted elegantly, “Oh do get up child, only peasants and market girls are supposed to greet us like that.” Nicole looked up at her. The Queen smiled conspiratorially. “You’re not one of those anymore,” she whispered, then turned to the King. “Next week I think, for the wedding. That will give everyone enough time.” The Prince kicked the arm of the throne. “I’m not getting married,” he told them. “She’s not a real princess,” he said, gesturing toward Nicole. The Queen glared at him. “She’s a market girl with adjectives.” The Prince smiled falsely at her. “No offence, I’m sure you’re lovely.” He sat down on the steps of the dais, sulking. The Queen looked at him sharply, “you have to, it is written” she told him, her voice sharp yet ladylike. “I don’t mind.” Nicole’s voice was quiet, almost lost in the vast room. They all turned to her, as if realising for the first time that she could talk. “You don’t mind what?” the Queen asked. “I don’t mind if we don’t get married,” she answered. The Queen raised an eyebrow, “so you don’t want to marry my son?” “I don’t want to marry anyone, your majesty.” The Prince seized the opportunity to press his luck, “and neither do I.”
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The Queen rolled her eyes toward him then turned her attention back on Nicole. “You don’t have a choice, either of you. It is written, they don’t want to read anything else. They won’t accept this story if it goes any other way.” The Queen turned to the Prince who was kicking the arm of her throne, ignoring the rest of the room. “I’m sure it’s only a few adjectives, just a little embellishing, you both like the same colour—” The Prince cut her off, “really, or is it just written that way?” “Come now,” the Queen said gently, “the ending is happy, we checked, this story can’t end any other way.” “I don’t know what’s worse,” said the Prince, “being married to an embellished market girl I don’t love, or being happy because I’ve been told I will be.” Nicole smiled. The Queen scowled. “You have to go through with this,” she told him. She turned to Nicole, “You both do, there’s no worming your way out of it.” The Prince scowled and stormed off. Nicole watched him leave with long elegant strides. When the Prince was gone the Queen’s face fell blank, Nicole was no longer interesting to her. Nicole realized that the King had not said a word the whole time. As she studied him now she realized he was only rendered in two dimensions. His story had not been filled out. Nicole wondered what it was like to be a background character in your own story. Had that been her before the rewrite? Or had she always been waiting for a new story to inhabit? The serving man arrived at her elbow and led her away. The more she looked at him the more solid he became, tiny details beginning to distinguish him from the other servants who were arranged like furniture along the
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walls. She didn’t know where she was going but it felt automatic, like the story was leading her to where she needed to be at all times. “I need to speak to the Prince,” she told the serving man. He blinked, hesitated and stumbled. Nicole caught his elbow, steadied him. “I need to speak to the Prince,” she repeated. The serving man nodded, a vague smiled catching the edges of his lips and they moved off through the castle to find the Prince. When they found the Prince he was sitting on a stone bench on a balcony, facing the setting sun with his eyes closed. “Go away,” he said, without moving. The servant was unfazed. “My Lord, I bring Lady Nicole, she wishes to speak with you.” The Prince remained still. “Is she here?” “Yes my Lord.” Slowly the Prince opened one eye. “You may go,” he told the serving man. He bowed simply then left. Nicole thanked him quietly as he went back into the castle. The Prince looked at her with one eye still closed. “You don’t have to thank him, he’s just doing his job.” Nicole looked at him in disbelief. “Yes I do, it’s always nice to know you’re appreciated.” “He doesn’t get paid to be appreciated.” Nicole gasped, the Prince turned towards her sharply, opening both eyes. “Don’t make that noise at me, you’re going to have to get used to this kind of attitude, you’re not a market girl anymore.” “So I just have to forget who I am because I’m Royalty?” she asked indignantly. “Rewritten as Royalty,” the Prince answered, turning toward the sun, “but yes, something like that.” He closed
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his eyes then opened them again, looking back at her as if seeing her for the first time. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to go, you do know that. I was supposed to fall in love, act like a responsible adult for once, be brave, be daring. But then you...” he trailed off and stared again at the sunset. “I don’t even know you and here you are, wedged into my story.” “Your story?” Nicole asked, annoyance twinging her voice, “I was in another story completely; you’ve been shoved into mine.” “Well that’s great, we’re supposed to be happy forever and we don’t even like each other.” Nicole looked away, “I’m sorry,” she said with genuine regret. “I guess we weren’t written that way.” The Prince shrugged “It’s not your fault my life is so complicated.” He paused, thoughtful, “I’m just not sure how this is going to work, I mean, I just don’t love you.” Nicole smiled back at him sadly, “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t love you either.” To her surprise the Prince brightened slightly. “Well at least we agree on something. This ending looks more promising already.”
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Illustrated by Ann, (Ruozhu) Sun
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An Ambivalence of Ladybirds Last night, one thousand ladybirds flew from her mouth in rattle-clack flight, humming from her soft palate, crawling round tongue and over teeth, stick-black legs pattering and she spat, rolled and coughed them out, nearly sick. The first thousand poured in a red wave with black spots, escaping into the dawn light, followed by a second plague, now black with red spots, and she rose, half-gagging, the click of their falling bodies still bouncing from the pane where they huddled in restless hibernation. She remembered The Green Mile, the man on death row letting fly a plague of evil from his mouth, relieving others of their woes. She remembered how seven-spot red ladies are celebrated natives; starved out by black-faced harlequins that trespass in their destructive masquerade.
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The Glass Girl Looks Back by Stephanie Campisi
There once was a girl made of glass. She walked with fragile, jagged steps and everyone she touched wept long lines of red from their skin. When she smiled it was reserved, as she feared her lips could so easily shatter. Because she was made of glass people would either look straight through her, their eyes opening up her secrets and toying with them, or they would look straight past her as though she did not exist at all. Once, someone smashed a wide-mouthed green bottle in front of her and deliberately crunched it under their boots, and she ran, crying, to her home of windows. Her mother and father were ornate chandeliers, and took turns ornamenting expensive dinners, and her little sister was a beautiful paperweight spun through with bubbles of red and blue like frozen paint spatters. But the glass girl had no place. She was too sharp, too plain, and beneath her cold hands everything fell apart. She could not visit the library, as her fingers would slash through the pages of the books; nor could she comb and braid hair, as it would fall to the ground beneath her in hazy curls. One day, the glass girl stood watching the syncopated hoof-beats of the huge horses that dragged plump, pompous carriages up and down the cobblestone roads. One stopped right by her and a handsome man, dressed in fine silk brocade and with fingers drowning beneath fat
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gold rings, climbed down from the carriage. And, because he moved with his nose so high up in the air that he found it difficult to watch where he was going, he walked right into the glass girl, knocking her into a wide metal trough filled with slimy water. The young man started and bent down to peer into the trough where the glass girl lay. One of her arms had snapped off and was reflecting the light like a crystal, but the young man was far more interested in another sort of beauty that he saw in her. He had his coach driver assist the glass girl from the trough, and tossed a few coins the man's way when his skin grew dark and wet with blood. The handsome young man removed his fine brocade jacket and put it gently over the glass girl's shoulders. It frayed a little here and there, but the young man did not seem concerned. “My, you are beautiful,” said he, peering intently at the glass girl as though he were looking for something. “Are you in need of work? I will treble any price you ask.” The glass girl wanted to smile but could feel her lips beginning to crack from the pressure, so she did not. Instead, she thanked the young man graciously. That afternoon she met him at his house as he had directed. The house was wide and tall, with a peaked roof and arched windows and hedges surrounding it like a moat. The glass girl recognised it as one that her parents had talked about--they had spent three months working in the dining room before the owner had grown tired of them. Inside, she was directed to a dressing room where a maid sprayed her back with fine silver paint and told her to pose in peculiar ways. Finally, she was deemed appropriate to begin work and was led back to the vast entrance hall,
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where she was to hang on the wall in an ornate gold frame. A young boy, clutching a sealed letter, was sent to the glass girl's home to inform her family of her new position. The handsome young man came to see her frequently and it made the glass girl happy to see him proudly preen himself while spending time with her, as though he were dreadfully worried about how he appeared to her. As time passed the glass girl grew happier and happier, and ever more in love with the young man; for not only was he handsome and kind, but now, because of him, many people stood before her, talked with her and gazed lovingly at her, which was something that she had never before experienced. And it seemed nobody would ever grow tired of her. But the young man grew older, as did the glass girl, and gradually he stopped coming to see her. The glass girl became lonely, having only the snippy young maids and relatives to talk to, and she drove herself quite mad wondering what it was about her that he must dislike so. And then there came a day when the handsome man, who was by now grey-haired and walked with his head tilted down rather than up, walked by her, not even looking in her direction. The glass girl blinked away tears, trying desperately not to show her hurt. However, the handsome man retraced his steps back to her and stood staring at her, silently, for a very long time. Then he frowned. “You are no longer beautiful,� he said; then walked away. The glass girl began to sob so deeply she feared she might break. She climbed down from her place on the wall
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and quit the house, her glass feet clacking and splintering on the rough city road. It was a bright summer's day and the light caught at her, dazzling her and those around her, but still she kept running. When she was too distracted by the shimmering spectrum of light pouring from her, and she could no longer bear the pain from her broken feet, she stopped, clutching at a lamppost for support. Behind her, she saw, she had left a narrow trail of glass slivers that danced a hundred colours in the light of the sun, and people stood at both sides of the roads marveling at this thing she had created through her pain. It began to rain, a gentle mist, and the sun caught at this as well, expanding the shimmering trail that the glass girl had left behind into an arch of plaited light. Her breath caught in her fragile throat as she saw the extent of what she had made; and she stood for a moment more, thinking that she was indeed beautiful. But momentarily, the brilliance of the light began to wane and the city people began to yell and shout in anger. Some started running after her, carrying hammers and other brutal tools that could shatter the glass girl into a million pieces. She began to run again, but more slowly this time as her legs had begun to grind down to nothingness. She thought of the handsome man, and she thought of her parents, and she thought of everyone who had ever been cruel to her, and she realised that every part of her burnt with a harsh, fundamental pain. And she kept running until she could run no more, and her body lay behind her like a string of crystal, catching the light and creating a fleeting beauty that everyone stopped to watch before turning back to their lives. And, in the tiny instant before the glass girl
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was no longer the glass girl, she was happy because she had found her place.
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This story first appeared in a print issue of Shimmer, 2008
Illustrated by Eugenia Tsimiklis
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wondertale and in this house a housekeeper and a half a woman man and a blind child at the window scratching hair and the head louse whispering, ‘stay by the window, child’ and the window repeating, ‘do not pass, do not warm your face’ and the rag insisting, ‘mopping, mopping, always mopping!’ and a man, half a woman, drawing out her lover and painting his beard when the rain stopped from the sky and carved from the last tree the recent table did not splash to the floor and and and in a
the spell was breaking the house the housekeeper dawdling pile of fluff
and a half a man woman once a window, riding on the back of a horse, once a man, half a woman and the blind child was witness to all and writing it down, for all to see
Ryan Ormonde Issue 5
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Der Kindraube by Mark Tomlinson At first glance Briony thought it was a wadded up ball of brown paper and assumed David had bought another ‘objet d’art’ (or, as she and the rest of the world might call them, ‘piece of crap’) and just left the wrapping paper lying around as usual. Shaking her head she walked into David’s study (or as she and the rest of the world might call it, box room) to take it out. Her assumption was proven incorrect as soon as her fingers touched the thing. With a small cry of shock she pulled her hand away. It was not paper. It felt hard and slightly greasy, like old wood or leather. Rubbing her hand absently on her trousers she bent forward as far as The Bump would allow for a closer look. She didn’t want to get too close. The thing was about the size of a football and roughly spherical although there were odd knobbly shapes and deep folds and creases all over it. Briony picked up a pencil lying beside it on David’s little desk and prodded the thing (she was reluctant to touch it again). The pencil point sank in very slightly leaving a tiny dimple. Briony watched, strangely revolted as the dimple slowly filled out. The thing, whatever it was, felt heavy. She prodded it again, this time with the eraser end of the pencil and it wobbled but did not move along the desk top. The Bump kicked and Briony, startled, placed her hand over her stomach. “I know what you mean kid,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.” She dropped the pencil and left the room making sure she closed the door tight behind her.
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David breezed in at his usual time, flinging his coat over the banister and found Briony curled up in an armchair in the lounge. “Sorry, I must’ve dozed off,” she said. David knelt beside the chair. “How are you wife?” he asked, kissing her cheek. “Sleepy,” she replied with a yawn. He addressed The Bump. “And you? Behaving yourself?” He bent and kissed her stomach. “Any activity?” he asked. “A few kicks.” David beamed. “I can’t believe there’s a person in there,” he said, caressing The Bump. Briony stroked his hair. “There’s one out here too,” she said. “I thought you were sleepy.” She smiled that smile. “So did I.” She pulled David to her and kissed him with sudden passion. He broke away, grinning. “Madam! And you in that condition!” Briony stood up and led David by the tie toward the stairs. “You can’t ignore hormones,” she said.
Later as they lay wrapped in each other’s arms Briony remembered the object in the study. “What’s that thing on your desk?” “Oh did you see it? It’s good isn’t it?” “It’s horrible. What is it exactly?” David untangled himself and leaned up on his elbows. “I’m not really sure; a curio.” “Where did it come from?” “You know that antique place near the office?”
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“The junk shop?” “It says Antiques and Curios over the door. Anyway I was passing the other day and there was a notice in the
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window saying there’d been a house clearance.” “So, out of a whole houseful of things you chose that?” “It’s unique.” “Thank God!” “Did you have a proper look at it?” “I didn’t want to get that close.” David made a face. “Wait there.” Before Briony could protest, David rolled off the bed and dashed out of the room returning a few seconds later with the thing held on his palms like an offering. He knelt on the bed. Briony scooted away, disguising the action as sitting up. He turned the thing around slowly. “Can you tell what it is yet?” he said in a Rolf Harris voice. Briony peered at it through half closed eyes and a shape began to suggest itself. From this new angle the protuberances and folds made an awful kind of sense. She noticed a series of nubs running down the centre in a line. They reminded her of vertebrae. “It’s a body,” she said in a horrified whisper. “Got it in one!” “Oh Christ David, whatever possessed you to buy something like that?” “No, wait. It isn’t real obviously. It’s a sculpture or a model or something. It reminds me of those bodies they find in peat bogs.” Revolted as she was Briony could not keep her eyes off the ugly thing. More details resolved themselves as she looked. It was a tiny body, compressed and squeezed together. The limbs must be folded tight beneath the torso she reasoned; the head pressed hard against the stomach,
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flattened and bent at an impossible angle like a gruesome parody of a child in the womb. The Bump suddenly squirmed, Briony jumped and David dropped the thing. It rolled into the depression where Briony sat and banged against her knee. She shrieked and scrambled off the bed. David was laughing until he noticed the look on Briony’s face. “Keep that out of my sight,” she said and stormed out of the bedroom. David sighed and retrieved the thing. He turned it in his hands thankful that he had cut off the red cords that bound the thing when he bought it. It had looked really weird with them on. “Hormones,” he said. Briony clattered and slammed around the kitchen despite David’s protestations that tonight it was his turn to prepare the evening meal. He contented himself with laying the table and making sure anything Briony might need was easily to hand, while keeping out of her way. It was a knack he had mastered lately. They ate in strained silence. After dinner when the dishes were packed into the washer and the kitchen tidied David brought Briony a cup of coffee. “I’m sorry Bri,” he said. “I just didn’t think”. She bit back her first response and smiled. “Oh it’s OK. I suppose I over-reacted. But it is a horrible thing.” “I suppose so. I’ll chuck it out shall I?” “No don’t do that but just keep it in the box roo...study.” “I’ll throw it away.” “You’re such a big kid.” “I know. I hate it when you’re upset, especially now.” He stroked The Bump.
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Briony captured his hand and pressed it against her stomach with both of her own. She could feel the baby’s back and a sudden image of the thing’s vertebrae flashed into her mind. “What is it anyway? What was it called?” “It was in German I think.” “God! It’s not a Nazi experiment is it?” “Course not! It’s an antique; the guy said it was at least two hundred years old. There was a bit of paper with it, all old fashioned writing.” “Saying what?” “Something like ‘Der Kindrauber’.” “Which means?” David shrugged. “Dunno, I didn’t do German.” “Didn’t you look it up?” “No.” “Where’s the paper?” “Oh, in the study somewhere. I’ll check it out later.” “You’re a weirdo.” “You married me.” Briony yawned. “I’m tired” she said. David waggled his eyebrows. “Is that code?” “Down tiger, it just means I’m tired. I think I’ll have a bath and an early night.” “Want your back scrubbed?” Briony handed him the TV remote. “No thanks.” She kissed him. David squeezed her tight. “I do love you, both of you” he whispered. “You better” Briony said.
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Lying in the bath, a flannel draped over her face and her hands interlocked over The Bump, Briony felt as if she could drift off to sleep and stay right there; she was so perfectly warm and perfectly comfortable. She imagined The Bump born and nestling in her arms, that indefinable baby smell filling her nostrils. There was a brief cold draught as the bathroom door opened. “Close the door Dave,” she murmured, sinking lower into the water to keep the chill off her shoulders. The cold air stirred. “Dave,” she complained, “I don’t want my back scrubbed.” A fingertip stroked the back of her hand. “You’re freezing” she said and reached up to move the flannel. She could not be sure what she saw, not really, the sudden glare of the light; the water in her eyes; it could have been nothing. It could have been anything. But she thought she saw something dark streak away from the bath, rat quick. She squealed. The Bump threshed inside her.
“You must have nodded off. You said you were tired and you always have the bath hot enough to cook a lobster.” David said. “It felt real.” “Dreams do.” “I was awake David. Don’t look at me like that.” “Like what?” “Like I’m a silly little girl.” “I’m not.”
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“You bloody are.” “Right I’ll go and search the house then shall I?” “I saw something,” Briony said quietly. “Well I’ll go and find it.” David ran upstairs. How was he supposed to win with her? She was like this all the time; up one minute, down the next, unreasonable, manic, paranoid. Pregnant. For a terrible moment David felt a surge of resentment for the little intruder that was changing his wife. He regretted it immediately, hating himself for his childishness and knowing it was just his own anxiety about the impending birth. It didn’t calm him down though. He went from room to room making sure he made enough noise for Briony to hear. He gave each room only a cursory look. It was his house for God’s sake; he knew what was in it. He came to the nursery and pushed the door open. The sight of it made him feel guilty for his earlier petulance. Unable to physically give their growing child a safe environment he had lavished all his attention on the nursery. The cradle, the decoration (neutral yellow of course), the antique bookcase with the collection of fairy tales, the mobiles, the shelf packed with cuddly creatures. His eyes brimmed with tears and he backed out of the room. You’re an idiot, he told himself, and went downstairs to apologise. Once the nursery door was closed a small, dark shape detached itself from the cuddly toys and dropped soundlessly to the thickly carpeted floor.
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Briony woke with a start and sat up in bed. David, lying on his back beside her and snoring like a walrus, shifted onto his side and was silent. Had he woken her? She looked around the bedroom, the familiar objects made strange by the half light and the clinging remnants of a dream. She tried to recall the details but they drifted away leaving only a series of vague impressions; a soft voice crooning something in a foreign language; small fingers caressing her stomach. She laid her hand on The Bump. Something felt wrong. Clicking on the bedside lamp she looked down and saw that the material of her nightgown was pockmarked with runs and pulls as if a kitten had raked it with tiny, sharp claws. She heard the soft click of the box room door closing. She reached out to wake David but held back. He would only think she was dreaming again, hell, she had been dreaming. She turned off the light, lay down and pulled the duvet up to her eyebrows the way a frightened child might. The Bump, almost as if it sensed danger had passed, shifted. In the dark she began to cry.
She woke late feeling as if she had hardly slept at all. The events of the previous night were blurry and lacked the significance they had had, but the strangeness of the dream (for it was surely just that) followed Briony throughout her morning. A heavy limbed feeling persisted and a low level headache took up residence at the base of her skull. The Bump too was restless and out of sorts, twitching and jerking and pressing awkwardly on her insides in ways that she had never noticed before. The
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house too seemed different, cold and damp despite the mild weather and there was a faint, unidentifiable smell in the air. She wondered if she were coming down with something. At around eleven o’ clock she went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. When she poured in the milk it came out of the bottle in stinking clumps. How could it have gone sour in the fridge? The stink made her gorge rise and she dashed upstairs to be sick. She knelt on the cold tiled floor, hunched over the toilet bowl, her body wracked with dry heaves but nothing came. What was happening to her? Should she call the doctor? The heaving stopped and she stumbled into the bathroom to splash some water on her face. She saw a movement out of the corner of her eye, the box room door swinging slowly open. “David?” she called, although she knew there was nobody in the house but her. Feeling foolish she crept along the landing pausing outside the door, her back to the wall like a cop about to storm in. Downstairs something rattled. “Who’s there?” she shouted. There was a telephone in the bedroom but who would she call? What would she say? The Bump leapt in her belly and she shrieked at the sudden shock. From downstairs she thought she heard laughter, soft and distant. “Get a grip,” she said to herself, and, pushing herself away from the wall she started downstairs. This was her house. There was nothing to be afraid of. The smell was stronger now, like wet leaves, and the chill was deeper. The Bump shivered and Briony rubbed her hands over it. “Ssh baby,” she whispered. She walked along the hall to the kitchen to clear up
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the ruined tea. That was normal. Normal was what she needed, and when she had done that she would vacuum or iron. She tipped the mess of sour milk and tea into the sink and turned the hot tap on full. The kitchen door slammed shut with a bang. Briony whirled to look. It was standing there by the kitchen door. The ugly thing. The Kindraube. It was no more than eighteen inches tall, brown and wrinkled. Its limbs were gnarled like the branches of an ancient tree. Its body was a leathery sac topped by a wide, flattened head. Ears like withered leaves drooped to the thing’s shoulders. Reality closed down. It could not be real. She wanted to laugh. The thing, the Kindraube (and now, somehow that name resonated in her consciousness, familiar and steeped in dread) opened its gash of a mouth and spoke. Briony could not understand the words she heard but the creature was speaking in a way that bypassed the brain. It was the voice that whispered terrible things in the night, the voice that gave sense and shape to the nameless fears that have plagued mothers since time began. My baby will be born deformed. My baby will be born dead. My baby will be taken from me. “Ich höre sein Herz, Ich rieche sein Blut. Das Kind ist meins,” the thing said. Briony knew what it meant, ‘I hear his heart, I smell his blood. The child will be mine’. Briony looked into the jackdaw eyes of the Kindraube, the Child Robber, and saw in their ancient depths a hunger that would never be sated. The Bump, no the baby, her baby shivered and something in Briony, something equally ancient and
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powerful rose and bloomed. “No,” she said. The Kindraube laughed, a hideous chittering sound and Briony launched herself at it. There was a blur of movement and she felt claws rake her calf. The Kindraube was now at the other end of the kitchen, its goblin face a mask of twisted mirth. She pulled open the drawer and took out a knife which she pointed at the thing. A flash of fear crossed the thing’s face at the sight. Iron. Some dim memory of stories she had read as a child came back. They fear iron. She took a limping step toward the Kindraube but again the creature moved. This time as it streaked past her it grabbed the hem of her dress, unbalancing her. She slipped over landing heavily on her hip. The knife flew from her hand. “Das Kind ist meins,” the thing said, as it stalked toward her, no need now for speed. She shuffled backwards trying to raise herself but, in her panic, she succeeded only in upsetting the storage jars on the work surface. One of them rolled into her lap. “Das Kind ist meins,” it said again. Briony scooted backwards and came up against the table. Nowhere to go. She flung the jar which burst open scattering rice across the floor. The Kindraube screamed and shrank back as if it had walked into a wall of fire. Its eyes were filled with terror. Baffled, Briony watched as the thing knelt and began to pick up the grains of rice one by one. Its hands worked quickly but there were many grains. Briony struggled to her feet. The Kindraube looked up at her towering over it. She expected it to move but it did not. Instead it feverishly picked up the fallen grains. It could not move, not until it
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had them all. Briony took down another jar, puy lentils. She hated them, but when she emptied them on the floor it seemed that the Kindraube hated them infinitely more. It threw back its head and wailed. Briony retrieved the knife and advanced on the thing which shook its head from side to side but could not stop picking up the fallen grains. Briony raised the knife. “Das Kind ist meins,” she said.
David breezed in at his usual time bearing a box of chocolates and a bunch of flowers. He found Briony sitting in her favourite chair hands clasped over The Bump. “Hiya babes,” he said from the doorway. “Hiya yourself,” she replied. “I’m sorry about yesterday,” he said, perching on the arm of the chair and stroking her hands. “That’s OK.” “No, I should never have bought that bloody thing.” Briony put her fingers over his lips. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I got rid of it.”
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Illustrated by Amy Hood
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Writers Nicholas Royle is the author of five novels – Counterparts, Saxophone Dreams, The Matter of the Heart, The Director’s Cut and Antwerp – and one short story collection, Mortality. He has edited twelve anthologies including A Book of Two Halves (Phoenix), The Tiger Garden: A Book of Writers’ Dreams (Serpent's Tail), The Time Out Book of New York Short Stories (Penguin), and Dreams Never End (Tindal Street Press). He lives in Manchester with his wife and two children, and teaches creative writing at Manchester Metropolitan University. John Patrick Pazdziora is a freelance writer, editor, and critic. He is currently researching the iconography of death in the fairy tales of George MacDonald. He lives online at http://mrpond47.wordpress.com/, where he blogs about literature and social justice. In the real world, he lives with his wife and daughter, and changes diapers. Emma Matthews is a keen poet and writer, based in the East Midlands. She is currently working on her first novel, set in the fantasy genre. She is a member of a couple of writers groups, which have renewed her passion for story telling. Emma has contributed poetry to various online forums, and never fails to be inspired to put pen to paper. You can contact Emma at: emmam79@fsmail.net. Gaia Holmes lives in Halifax. She is an associate lecturer in Creative Writing at the University of Huddersfield and a free-lance writer. When she's not teaching, reading or writing poetry she is a DJ for Phoenix fm or tapping her tambourine with Halifax Samba band. Her debut collection, Dr James Graham's Celestial Bed was published in 2006 by Comma Press. Her second collection Occasional China is due out with Comma in Autumn/Winter, 2010. Rebecca Keller: I am an artist and writer, teaching at the Art Institute of Chicago. I have written extensively about the way art intersects with contemporary culture, and began pursuing fiction about a year ago. Last June, I was awarded the Jakobsen Scholarship for writers of exceptional promise to the Wesleyan Writers' conference, and this summer I hope to finish revising a novel. I live in an old house that shows every second of its age, along with my husband, two daughters (one of whom approved of this story) and a dog, who is not at all magic. Natalie Brown has been interested in fairy tales since she first learned to read and began writing them a few years later. She became serious about these stories at university where she discovered many complex terms for the types of writing she was doing. She is based in Sydney, Australia. This is her first published story. Kelley Swain’s first book of poetry, Darwin's Microscope, was published by Flambard Press in 2009. She collaborates with the Whipple Museum of the History of Science to run science-and-literature events, and is working towards her first novel and second poetry collection. Stephanie Campisi is an Australian writer of the weird and sometimes wonderful. Her short fiction has appeared in magazines and anthologies worldwide. She can be found online at www.stephaniecampisi.com. Ryan Ormonde is half Danish and spent time in Copenhagen every summer while growing up. Now that he has put childish things away ('all children, except one, grow up') he lives in Brixton, London and is a member of the exciting, forward thinking poetic collective press free press. He has a chapbook called y chromosomes published by Knives, Forks and Spoons, poems have appeared in Streetcake and Readings Journal and forthcoming in Freaklung. In 2009 Ryan helped set up Southbank Centre’s Global Poetry System. Ryan keeps an online journal poeticpracticejournal.blogspot.com where you can find links to his digital poetic projects. Mark Tomlinson is married with four children and lives in the North East. He has work in Everyday Stories, Fantastic Horror, Bewildering Stories and Millionstories. He has always been drawn toward the fantastic and particularly enjoys fairy and folk tales. He also thinks writing is great fun except when Issue 5 he's actually doing it! www.newfairytales.co.uk - 48 -
Illustrators Alan Corbett: I’m from Cork, Ireland. I have completed the MA in Children's Book Illustration at the Cambridge School of Arts and I have also done a BA in Graphic Design in Cork. My technique involves playing around with textures, colours and traditional pencil drawing. Concepts and Ideas play a big part in my creative process. I love fairy tales and I like nothing better than illustrating them! My portfolio can be viewed at: http://www.coroflot.com/redseven Samantha Davey is an Illustration graduate and artist currently living and working in Bristol. Since graduating she has engaged in a number of exhibitions with the art collective 145, which has included set design and mural painting. Although now seeking a career in community arts, Sam has spent the past few years working as a freelance Illustrator and has produced CD covers, flyers, posters, badge and T-Shirt designs for local bands. She considers herself to be a traditional artist- preferring to draw and paint rather than using computer software to create her illustrations, and often works with mixed media. Cate Simmons is a silhouette artist and fairy-tale enthusiast based in Liverpool. She is hugely inspired by the writings of Neil Gaiman, the Brothers Grimm, Angela Carter and Charles Perrault. Cate has produced commissions for John Moores University, Friends of the Earth NW, Scientists for Global Responsibility, News from Nowhere Bookshop and more! She is currently absorbed in stories of sea-witches and ocean-lore... Her work can be seen at: http://www.flickr.com/photos/steeringfornorth/ Adam Oehlers: I have been working on ‘Dear Little Emmie’ for many years. It started off as a painting, depicting Little Emmie in the swampland, then I made a sculpture to match. Around a year later a piece of music was written inspired by the story (see the album 'To Sleep' by Lee Westwood). Then in 2007 I completed work on the Illustrations you see here. I am now re-working the story, adding in new illustrations and some more sequences getting it ready for print publication in early 2011. I am thrilled to have Little Emmie shown in New Fairy Tales. I hope you all enjoy it. If you wish to see some of the new images for the book please feel free to browse my website at www.adamoehlers.com Ann, (Ruozhu) Sun: I recently graduated with a distinction from the Children’s book Illustration MA at Cambridge School of Art, before that I graduted from the Illustration and Animation BA (Honours) at Kingston University. My work has been exhibited at the Xtravagaza Graduation show at Shoreditch, the D&AD, University of Gloucestershire (Cheltenham Illustration Award) and at the MA graduation show in Illustration Cupboard. My website is: www.sparrowprince.co.uk Eugenia Tsimiklis is an illustrator, prints and graphic designer for apparel and homeware based in Melbourne, Australia. In her spare time, she loves to draw animals, ladies, flowers and all things nostalgic. She is inspired by vintage prints, dresses and old story books, art nouveau graphics, coloured glassware and animal figurines. Her folio of work can be seen at www.emikli.com Graham Dean has been taking photographs for over 40 years, more seriously in the last decade, since the onset of digital imaging. He’s had one solo exhibition to date with a second planned for spring 2011. He's also had images accepted at national and international exhibitions from Malmö to Miami. Website www.grahams-gallery.co.uk Amy Hood was born and raised in London. Having studied at Wimbledon School of Art for a year, she then embarked on an undergraduate degree in History of Art with Material Studies at University College London where she fell in love with the work of Italian painter Caravaggio, Italian sculptor Bernini and British Tudor and Stuart Portraiture. However, the itch to draw never left her and she went on to do an MA in Children’s Book Illustration at Cambridge School of Art that culminated in a London-based exhibition in February 2010. Fairy tales, both old and new, have always been a major source of inspiration for her due to their dark and often unsettling themes. Her portfolio is online at: http://www.coroflot.com/AmyHood Particle Article are sisters Amy Nightingale and Claire Benson. Together they create intricate, quirky sculptures of winged creatures from Issue 5 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 49 abandoned and reclaimed materials, both organic and manmade. Their fragile figurines often resemble insects, fairies, angels, or hybrids of these. They have exhibited their work across the UK. See their website www.particlearticle.co.uk for more details, stockists and forthcoming exhibitions.
New Fairy Tales is a not-for-profit online magazine run on a voluntary basis. If you’ve enjoyed this issue please show your appreciation by helping us to raise money for charity: http://www.justgiving.com/newfairytales
ISSN 2042-7999
Editor: Claire Massey Associate Editor for Fiction: Andy Hedgecock Associate Editor for Poetry: Anna McKerrow Art Director: Faye Durston
Front Cover illustration by Adam Oehlers Contents page and page 5 illustrations by Faye Durston
Copyright Notice: Copyright of all the work contained in this magazine remains with the individual writers and illustrators. The magazine is intended for personal and educational use only. Please respect copyright; all enquiries about the work contained in the magazine should be directed to editor@newfairytales.co.uk. We will pass your enquiry on to the relevant writer or illustrator.
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