Contents
Letter from the editor
List of contributors
pages 3 & 4
Bears, by Jessica Wilson
page 5
The Ice Candle, by A.K. Benedict
page 11
Fairy Tale, by Graham Burchell
page 16
A Birthday Wish, by Emma Hardy
page 19
The Snow Bride, by Jacqui Pack
page 20
La Chureca, by Phil Corrigan
page 23
Now, time to settle in and enjoy; in this issue you’ll find short stories, flash fiction and poetry; wintry tales, a book that thinks it’s a bear, advice on the correct way to plant light bulbs and much much more. I’d like to thank all of the wonderful contributors to this issue; the fantastical creations I get sent never cease to delight me.
Creature from the Curiosity Cabinet, by Particle Article
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Editor Claire Massey
Important 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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Welcome to Issue 4, I’m very excited about this issue; we’ve changed the format (we hope you like it) and we’re running a fantastic competition to encourage donations to our nominated charity, Derian House Children’s Hospice. If you make a small donation and fill out the entry form, you will be in with a chance of winning the wonderful ‘New Fairy Tale Nymph’, a creature created especially for the competition, by the fantastic Particle Article; or a beautiful illustrated fairytale book, by one of this issue’s contributors Oona Patterson. You’ll find full details of the competition on my blog here: http://bit.ly/nftcomp
Best winter wishes, Claire November 09 Pictured: The New Fairy Tale Nymph
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Writers Jessica Wilson is an MFA candidate in writing at the University of Iowa. Her work has appeared in Glimpse Magazine, the Daily Palette, and the Seneca Review Online. This is her first published fairy tale, and she's delighted to be included in the issue. Born and raised in Dorset, A.K. Benedict read English at Cambridge and 20th Century Literature and Creative Writing at the University of Sussex. Her prize-winning poetry and prose have been published in various journals and anthologies. She lives in Hastings and writes in a red-walled room filled with mannequins, teapots and the severed head of a ventriloquist’s dummy. She did have a blow-up pirate but punctured it. Formerly the frontwoman of indie band The Black Tulips, Alexandra now performs solo as Pimpernelle. She is currently recording an album and writing the first in a series of crime novels. www.akbenedict.com Graham Burchell was born in Canterbury and now lives in Dawlish, Devon. He has lived in a host of places in between, including seven locations overseas. He is currently working towards an M.A. in Creative Writing at Bath Spa University. He is the editor of the online poetry journal 'Words-Myth'. He has two poetry books published, 'Vermeer's Corner' and a pamphlet, 'Ladies of Divided Twins'. A second full collection, 'The Book of Dawlish' is due out in December. Details can be found on his website www.gburchell.com Emma Hardy is studying towards her PhD in Creative Writing at the University of Glasgow. Emma also writes mainly for the stage but also enjoys writing prose fiction. She has Rapunzel-like hair that is so long she can sit on it and enjoys playing croquet, although not with flamingoes. Jacqui Pack loves fairy tales and has been writing for the last three years, producing short stories, poetry and screenplays. Living in the south of England, she juggles her writing time with being a wife and mother as well as several other things that aren’t half as much fun. She is currently studying Children’s Literature with the Open University as part of an Honours Degree, having already attained Distinctions in their Creative Writing and Advanced Creative Writing courses. A number of her poems have appeared in First Edition and her work has recently featured in Long Story Short. Phil Corrigan lives in the Pacific Northwest where it always rains. He works for a small food bank called Hope House. He is always working on new stories and often is inspired by the shape of leaves and clouds. ‘La Chureca’ is his first published work. Issue 4
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Illustrators Rebecca Holder is in her third year of an illustration degree at Coventry University, expecting to graduate with 1st Class Honours. She has undertaken a number of projects both as part of her course and for pleasure that allow her to utilise new technology while tackling both contemporary and traditional topics. Utilising the Internet, she is active in a number of illustration and creative forums while developing her own online presence at http://www.rebeccaholder.com/ Upon graduation, she intends to seek a career in the development of mixed media illustrations for film, television and printed works. Samantha Davey is an Illustration graduate and artist currently living and working in Hertfordshire. Since graduating she has engaged in a number of exhibitions with her Bristol-based art collective known as 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. Recent achievements include; illustration work published in ‘Inside Out’ magazine 2009, shortlisted in the ‘Don’t Panic’ Poster Competition 2009, and CD artwork for Cyclone Music Productions 2009. Oona Patterson is an artist and illustrator who uses paper to create photographs and sculptures that tell a story; often the story is removed leaving the viewer to discover it for themselves. To her, turning two dimensional papers into three dimensional sculptures is the perfect metaphor for turning dreams into reality and so she continually explores the idea of imaginary characters that can breach the boundaries of this world and that. www.oonapatterson.com The moon, old doors, hares, trees, folklore, and the magic that surrounds her in the Wiltshire countryside are just some of the things that inspire Artist/Illustrator Karen Davis. Karen studied Illustration at Maidstone College of Art, in Kent, England. She has worked on children’s books, magazines and greeting cards. To see more, visit her blog: http://moonlightandhares.blogspot.com/ or website: www.karendavis.me.uk Cate Simmons is a Liverpool-based artist, illustrator and fairy-tale enthusiast. She works mainly in silhouettes, and has been hugely inspired by the stories of Neil Gaiman, Charles Perrault, The Brothers Grimm and Angela Carter. She was delighted to discover this fascinating collection of new fairy-tales, and to be offered the opportunity to illustrate the beautiful story of Carmen and Mordecai. Her work can be seen at: http://www.flickr.com/photos/steeringfornorth/ Snowflakes by Samantha Davey
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Particle Article are sisters Amy Nightingale and Claire Benson. Together they create intricate, quirky sculptures of winged creatures from 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.
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Once upon a time there was a book, and once upon a time a man was afraid to open it. The by Jessica Wilson book was unassuming: it was heavy, to be sure, and dusty, to be sure, and its cover was a sombre grey; but it sat there lumpen on the man’s table and he sat by it and he would not open it. Perhaps if the man had simply kept the book tucked away, and gone about his business in an ordinary way, nobody would have noticed it—they would not have noticed the man’s fear, and perhaps they would have failed to see the book entirely. But the man did not keep the book tucked away, and he did not go about his business at all. When the people of his village lined up by his door with sacks of grain in their arms, they saw that he sat motionless in his kitchen; and they saw that the millstones which should have been turning were still. Instead of grinding grain into flour the man simply sat with one hand hovering over the book. He said nothing and looked as much like he was sitting vigil as like standing guard, and the villagers saw that love and loathing may easily be confused for one another. “What’s this?” said one old woman. “Will you not grind our grain into flour so that we may bake our bread?” But the man was silent. “What’s that?” said another old woman. “What’s that book you’re sitting by? Will you not read it to us?” But the man was silent.
Bears
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“I’ll open it,” said the butcher, who shifted a sack of grain uncomfortably from one hip to another. “You can’t read,” said the bricklayer, who stood behind him. “I don’t need to read to open it, do I,” said the butcher. “Hello, book!” shouted the boy who had followed the bricklayer down the lane. He darted forward into the room, skidded to a stop at the miller’s knees, and made as if to grab the book. “Ah!” cried the miller softly, catching the boy’s wrists. “Well, there’s something,” said the first old woman. “Shh,” whispered the miller. “Please. Go away. You’ll wake it.” “What now?” said the second old woman. “Daft,” the bricklayer told her. “WHAT ARE YOU ON ABOUT,” said the butcher, very loudly. The miller cringed. The book yawned. “Oh, now you've gone and done it,” said the miller, blanching. “My word,” said the first old woman, peering down her nose at the book, which rustled its pages once and then again more vigorously. It shuddered and twitched on the table, and snapped its cover open and shut. "Is that some new kind of book they're making these days?" “I’m not a book at all,” said the book, in injured tones. “I am a bear.” “The book has my princess,” said the man, simply. “I am afraid it will eat her.”
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“I told you,” the book said, louder. “I am a bear!” It ruffled its pages in a threatening manner. “Bears don’t have pages,” said the boy, rolling his eyes. “Everybody knows that.” “Where did a man like you meet a princess?” said the second old woman. “That isn’t important,” snapped the first old woman. “Be quiet. Pay attention.” “I never,” the second old woman sniffed. “Attention. Princesses. Books that think they’re bears. Poppycock.” "Please," said the miller. "Don't provoke it." "All right, then" said the butcher, in the soothing voice he used to calm a pig before slaughter. “But explain.” The miller began. The princess was in the book, he told them. In her tale she peered into the eyes of all the people who looked through her pages; she saw them as travellers on the street through a carriage-window; she saw the forests and cities and towns behind them. But there was a set of eyes that kept returning, as a traveller doubling back upon his own path to pass the carriage-window twice, three times, four. These eyes, of course, were the miller's eyes, for her tale was his favourite among all the tales he knew and loved, and he returned to it often. And through it the miller and the princess came to know and love one another as well, and late at night in soft murmurs they whispered. "I am tired of my tower," said the princess. "I wish to see the world." "I will rescue you," said the miller. "How?" said the princess. "I will come into the book and scale the tower and climb inside to where you sit," he said. "Will that work?" said the princess. "I don't know," said the miller. He opened the book and laid it gingerly upon the floor. He took off his shoes so as not to dirty the pages going in, but tied them to his belt so that he could put them on again once he was inside. He paced the length of the room,
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turned, flexed his toes, and leapt nimbly onto the open pages. There was a cracking sound as the spine of the book gave way, but the miller saw that he was still in stocking feet alone in his kitchen. "Oof," said the princess. "Try again. But carefully." "It was the stockings," said the miller,"--they made me slip." He peeled his stockings off and tucked them inside the shoes tied to his belt. He paced the length of the room again. He shook his body loose and cracked his knuckles. He flexed his toes once more and leapt. There was a slight tearing as the corners of two of the pages came loose. But the miller was still alone in his kitchen barefoot. “Oh dear,” said the princess. “It doesn’t seem to be working, does it,” admitted the miller. He lifted the book and placed it on the table. He slumped into a chair, and fished inside his shoes to retrieve his stockings. The floor was cold. “There’s nothing for it,” the princess said at last. “You cannot get in, so I must come out.” “You could try,” said the miller, sounding intrigued. “Yes,” said the princess, “I will come out, and though you cannot show me all the world you can at least show me the mill and the village, which are still better than the inside of a tower.” “How shall you do it?” he asked. “I will imagine I am opening a carriage-window,” she said. And she reached into the air before her as she said it, twisting an unseen window-latch, and the page she lay upon began to ripple, and the princess began to slide into the world— “ENOUGH!” roared the book itself, with no warning, and it slammed shut upon the princess who had so nearly
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managed to leave her tower. “As if my patience were inexhaustible! As if cracked spines and torn pages weren’t bad enough! Now my princess wants to desert me? Of all the ingratitude! I will not have it!” “Please,” said the miller, “she only wants to be something other than a princess locked in a tower in a tale.” “And do you not suppose,” said the book, “that I too wish sometimes to be something other than a book? That I do not tire of telling the same old stories to the same dull people, of being passed from grimy hand to grimy hand, of occasionally being stashed in the bottom of a chest and forgotten about for years?” “Mmmrph!” said the princess, who was still shut between the covers. The book cracked itself open a bare fraction. “What’s that?” it said. “But suppose I leave,” gasped the winded princess; “then you will tell a tale with no princess, and surely emptying yourself of your tales will bring you a step closer to being something that is not a book?” “Only paper,” said the book. “Only paper!” “There are many uses for paper,” offered the miller. “Wrapping packages, for instance.” “Packages!” hissed the book. “Do not speak to me of packages. You mock me. Suppose I destroy you entirely, Princess? Suppose I tell you that so long as I cannot leave off being a book about a princess, you cannot leave off being a princess about a book? Suppose I chew you up and spit you out?” And there was a crackling rustling sort of a sound, and a chewing slavering sort of a sound, and a
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spray of white paper-bits spewed out from between the covers like grain from a burst sack. The miller moaned. “Quit snivelling,” said the book. “That was only the fly-leaf. But you see what I can do. You see I am no mere package to be trifled with. Perhaps this is how I will stop being a book. I will be a creature of great power. A force of destruction. A terrible beast with gnashing teeth and fierce claws. And I will destroy the princess if she tries to leave, and I will destroy you if you try to help her go.” The miller thought for a few moments. “A terrible beast with gnashing teeth and fierce claws?” he said. “That’s right,” said the book, straightening its corners and puffing a small cloud of dust off its cover. “Like a bear, perhaps?” said the miller. “Precisely!” said the book with enormous satisfaction. “As of this moment, I am no longer a book; I am a bear.” “Oh,” said the miller. “Then as it’s nearly winter, you’ll be wanting to hibernate?” “Is it?” The book sounded excited. “I suppose I must. Yes, I will sleep the season away. And when I wake, I will be ravenous, and I will devour all who come near me. And perhaps I will start by devouring the princess.” It snapped itself tight shut once more, ruffled its pages once and then smoothed them, turned in a circle three times, and settled down on the table, where it promptly fell to slumbering. “And so,” the miller concluded, “I have been keeping watch ever since; for while I know my princess is safe so long as the book sleeps, I have been afraid to wake it, or even to touch it, lest she be devoured. And now you have woken it, and I do not know what we shall do.”
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“My word,” said the second old woman, plopping her grain-sack at her feet and sinking down upon it. “Is it spring so soon?” said the book, with all the surprise and excitement of a child given an unexpected sweet. “That’s rather fantastic. And I am feeling a bit noshy, come to think of it.” The princess’s head slithered out from between the pages. It was flattened and curling slightly, like a calling card left on wet grass. “Help,” she called out, in a thinnish sort of voice. “Get back in there,” snarled the book. It made a sucking noise, like a child slurping the last dregs of a bowl of soup. The princess’s eyes widened. As she was made of paper, the effect was curious. “Quick!” she cried. “Hold the covers open!” The book slurped harder. The princess began to slide back into the book. “He only wants you for your kingdom anyhow,” sneered the book. “He can tear you up like a leaf and cut you into a paper crown. How would you like that, princess?” “You be quiet,” said the man, standing up and shaking his fists. “Only a fool shakes his fists at a bear,” said the book. “How about a trade?” said the bricklayer, suddenly. “A trade?” said the book. “Yes,” said the bricklayer. “If you let the princess go, I will take her place. And instead of being a book about a princess, you can be a—bear about a bricklayer.” “You can’t be serious!” said the first old woman, scandalised.
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“But I am,” said the bricklayer. “I am tired of our village. To visit the inside of a tale—a bear, excuse me,” he added, with a nervous glance towards the book, “would be a great adventure indeed.” “But you’ll never be able to come back,” said the butcher. The bricklayer leaned in and whispered so that the book would not hear him. “I am a bricklayer, remember? Should I wish to leave, I have but to dismantle the princess’s tower and use the bricks to build a staircase out of the story, or at least to wedge the carriage-window open.” The butcher regarded him with a new respect. The miller looked at him with a wild hope. “Would you really,” he said. “Wouldn’t I!” said the bricklayer. “Bear?” said the first old woman. “What say you?” “Very well,” said the book. “A bear about a bricklayer! That will be most interesting.” “But we don’t know how to get the bricklayer into the book,” said the princess. “That’s right,” said the miller, remembering, “—and I tried with and without my stockings on.” “Oh, that,” said the book, “—as for that, all he’s got to do is imagine he’s climbing up into a carriage.” The bricklayer stepped towards the book. As he leaned towards it he reached forward as if to steady himself on invisible handrails. He lifted one foot up onto an invisible step, and as he pushed himself upwards he seemed to tumble and shrink and vanish like an ink-drop into the pages. “Hello,” said the princess.
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“Pleased to meet you,” said the bricklayer. “Now will you let the princess go?” asked the miller. “I don’t think so,” said the book, after a moment’s consideration. “I used to be a book about a princess, and now I am a bear about a princess and a bricklayer. It’s quite an improvement. I had rather keep on eating people. Hey, you there, you boy—do you want to go on an adventure?” “Now hold on,” said the princess, and she sounded irked. “We had a bargain.” “Too true,” agreed the second old woman. “Never you worry,” said the bricklayer from inside the book. He poked at some loose mortar at the base of the tower, and he drew forth a pair of bricks. He handed one to the princess. “Here,” he said, “you take one and throw it at one carriage-window, while I try and wedge another carriage-window open. On three!” He counted, and the princess flung her brick. The book howled. The bricklayer fiddled with an invisible latch, and wedged his brick below the window-rim. “There,” he said, “that’s an opening for good, now you’ve distracted the bear by cracking the other window.” “Thank you!” said the princess, who quickly slid through the window out of the book and into the miller’s waiting arms. “That wasn’t fair!” shrieked the book. “That was entirely fair,” said the miller, wagging a finger. “You ought to be ashamed. Be a book or a bear as you like, but you must keep your word. And now you’ve made your trade, but remember the bricklayer knows how to leave whenever he wishes, and you’ll find yourself with a belly full of bricks if you try to eat him.”
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The book muttered something under its breath. “I heard that,” said the bricklayer, from inside. “Well, just wait,” said the book. “I’ll trick you. I’ll surprise you. You watch out.” “I will,” said the bricklayer, amiably. “Are you all right?” the miller asked the princess. “Yes,” she said, unfurling, wavering in the breeze. “But I don’t think I want to be a princess anymore. I think I’d like to learn to lay bricks. I hope that doesn’t disappoint you.” “That’s okay,” said the man. “I like bricks, and besides, our village needs a bricklayer now. Will you marry me?” “I think so,” she said, “but I am paper and you are flesh; will that be a problem?” “For bricklaying, perhaps,” he said; “but not for me.” “Oh,” she said, “a few layers of mortar should stiffen me right up.” “Then that takes care of that,” said the miller. “And when I am old the wrinkles in my skin will match the crinkles in your paper rather beautifully, and so I do not see that we have anything to regret at all; for,” he added, “a heart is quite as fragile in the end of things as a leaf of paper, is it not?” “I think it is not,” said the princess-who-was-now-a-bricklayer; and then her nose crinkled as the corners of her lips turned up, “but I think I will marry you all the same.” They smiled at each other. “Oh, hurrah,” said the butcher, clapping his hands together. To commemorate their love, they opened the book and wrote their names inside the cover. The book bit off the tips of their fingers. Then, when their fingers healed over to scabs, they were married by the millstream under an arch of bricks, and they each could have sworn there was a bear lurking in the trees beyond that day. And as for how they lived afterwards—I believe you know how these stories end. Illustrated by Rebecca Holder
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“I’m going out,” Mark said, slamming the door behind
The Ice Candle
him.
by A.K. Benedict Mark couldn’t stand to look at Grandma, white tubes and wires coming out of her as if she were a potato that had been left in the damp. Head down, he trudged over to her bedroom window and stared down at the white garden. The branches of the trees hung so low with snow they looked like they were trying to put their palms on the ground to do handstands. That would be just the kind of thing to happen. Everything had turned upside down and inside out: he was the one comforting his Dad, he was the one going out to get more tea as Mum had used it up reading the tea leaves. There were cups all over the sideboard, tea clinging to the sides like drowned ants. He tried not to think about why Mum would read them again and again. It was growing dark and it wasn’t even half three. At least night-time meant bed-time and that was when he could leave the adults to their pinched faces and he wouldn’t have to feel useless for a while. Mark pressed his nose into the cold window. “There’s a light coming from the end of the garden,” he said, turning to his parents. “That’s good,” Dad said, stroking Grandma’s bruised hand. Her skin was tracing paper over bone. “You’re not even listening,” Mark replied. “That’s good,” Dad said again, his forehead crinkling as he checked one of the tubes.
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Wrapping Grandma’s scarf round his neck three times, Mark stepped into the snow. It came up to his knees, and his anger and frustration subsided each time his boots punched through to the ground. At the end of the garden, on the table where they ate dinner in summer, now covered by a snow tablecloth, was a flickering candle. Mark reached for it, then pulled away as his fingers touched ice. How could it be made of ice? Leaning in, Mark saw that it wasn’t wax dripping down the sides but icicles. It was beautiful. The ice was so clear that he could see through it to the snow-covered trees and the flames seemed to make it light up from inside, like he felt after the hot chocolate spiced with cinnamon that Grandma made him. As he stared into the black-blue heart of the flame, snow started to fall again, lightly at first then as thick flakes that he could catch on his tongue. They melted away like furry after-dinner mints. Mark cupped his hands over the candle flame, allowing it to twist and turn but protecting it from the snow. He didn’t feel cold any more; he felt as if he hadn’t been as warm in weeks. “You don’t need to do that, you know,” a voice said. A man wearing white overalls, white wellies and a long white coat was standing by the trees, leaning on a spade. “Who are you?” Mark said, backing away. "I’m the Ice Gardener,” the man said, picking snow from a bush as if it were a rose. “And you should know that snow feeds the Ice Candle. You don’t think you can extinguish ice with ice do you? It will make it dim for a
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while and then it will dance higher. Watch.” Snow landed on the Ice Candle, flake after flake. The flame ducked at first then reared, reaching up for the grey clouds; the black and blue and purple and yellow and orange that made up the flame like the rings of a tree contrasted with the white lying over the garden. “It will also be wiser,” the Ice Gardener said, softly. Mark snorted. “Candles aren’t wise,” he said. “Then why do people stare into them? Why do they light them while placing a prayer? Why were you murmuring as you watched the flame?” “Was not,” Mark lied. The Ice Gardener smiled, his face cracking into wrinkles. “I don’t blame you. When the Ice Candle comes I have to stop myself staring into it all day. You are very lucky, you know. The Ice Candle doesn’t show itself to everyone.” “I don’t feel very lucky.” Mark looked back up at Grandma’s window. The curtains were drawn and the house blanked him. “My Grandma is really sick. And there’s nothing I can do.” “There’s always something you can do,” the Ice Gardener said, looking up into the sky. The snow was slowing, and the more the snow slowed, the more the Ice Gardener turned as translucent as ice. When the snow stopped, he had gone. Mark sat close to the fire that evening, but although he scrunched up paper and threw it on the flames and peeled roasted chestnuts until his fingers blistered, he could not stay warm. His thoughts kept on wheeling back to the Ice Gardener and the candle. He wanted to tell his parents, but
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he would just sound stupid and they probably wouldn’t listen anyway. He wished it wasn’t the holidays as at least there would be school to distract him, and girls to throw snowballs at. Grandma’s room was next door. He could hear her coughing and the machines beeping and wheezing. When it snowed the Ice Gardener would return and tell Mark what to do to help. Slipping into her room, Mark didn’t know what to say to Grandma, so he sat in the armchair and looked out of the window. The Ice Candle burned in the dark. It didn’t snow the next day, or the next. Mark wondered if it would ever snow again but then, on the shortest day, he woke up to white light beaming through the curtains, the kind of white that only happens after a night of heavy snow. Leaping out of bed, he grabbed his coat and boots and tumbled into the garden. Snowflakes filled his eyes. The air smelled of wood fires and was so cold that, when he breathed in, it was as if he were swallowing knives. He couldn’t see the candle or the Ice Gardener but then the snow was falling so fast that he could hardly see his boots. If the gardener wasn’t there then there was no hope. Reaching the table at last, he laughed. The Ice Candle was burning, eating up flakes of snow and next to it, leaning on his spade, was the Ice Gardener. “Good to see you again, lad,” the Ice Gardener said. An icicle hung from his sharp nose and Mark wondered whether it would be rude to tell him. “I was hoping you’d be here,” Mark said, shifting shyly from foot to foot. “I wanted to ask what I could do about Grandma.”
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The Ice Gardener tilted his head to one side and stroked his chin. “I’ve got an idea,” he said, “but it won’t be easy.” “Doesn’t matter,” Mark replied. “What you need is a lantern for the Ice Candle, but not just any lantern. You need to collect snow from three places you are scared of, make it into balls and position them in a pyramid around the Ice Candle.” “And this will help Grandma?” Mark said, frowning. ‘It will help your Grandma, I promise,’ the Ice Gardener said. Mark stared at the Ice Candle, then shrugged. “Okay,” he said. The Ice Gardener looked up at the sky. “You had better be quick,” he said. “The sun will soon melt the snow. You have until noon.” “Thanks,” Mark said, running back up the garden. Looking back, he saw the white arm of the Ice Gardener, waving. Mark found a bucket in the shed and tried to think of places that frightened him. The woods behind the playing field were really scary; the trees seemed to cross their arms to keep people out, and some people said there were wolves and wild boars in there, with tearing teeth and tusks. He always dared his friends to go in there, but had never been in himself. His heart struck against his chest like an ice-pick as he waded across the field, snow-caped trees towering over him. Mark hummed out loud; Grandma said that he should sing to himself if he was scared. The thought of her not being around to give advice and read him stories and bake him cakes made him more scared than any dark forest.
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Mark swallowed. “Just a few little snowballs,” he said and walked into the forest. Mark swung the bucket of pine-studded snowballs over the playing fields gate and grinned. He wished someone had been there to see him rolling snow between his gloves as if he went into the forest all the time, wolves or no wolves. One fear down, two to go. Rounding the corner to the seafront, Mark stared at the concrete pier jutting into the sea. This one was going to be tough. One section had fallen away years ago and every young person in the town had jumped over the gap, apart from him. He always had some excuse: he had to go home for tea, his shoes were too slippy; anything to cover up his fear of falling into the sea. The waves reared up, crashing onto the end part of the pier and stealing away the snow. Mark had to leap, now. Placing one welly in front of the other, he edged his way onto the concrete. “I can do this,” he said, but his words were snatched by the wind and tossed to the seagulls. Standing on the edge of the broken pier, Mark hugged the bucket of snowballs, closed his eyes and jumped. One more place that scared him, that was all he needed. The bucket was heavy now but it was gone eleven and the sun was coming out from behind the clouds. He hurried away from the sea towards the Witch’s House. Everyone called it the Witch’s House but no one knew if it was. It looked like it should be, even if it wasn’t made of gingerbread: it had a broken gate and blackened windows and a garden full of weeds and brambles and dog-roses
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and ivy plants that strangled the house like rumours. Mark nudged the gate and it swung open on its remaining hinge, creaking. A face appeared at the window. He felt himself turn red but did not run. Gathering snow in his trembling fingers, he made snowballs and placed them in the bucket. The door opened and a pale face appeared. “You’re Annie’s grandson, aren’t you?” the lady said. She was wrinkled as an old apple but her eyes smiled as she reached down and made a snowball. The sun glared overhead. Mark ran and ran through the melting snow, the path peering up at him. Out of breath, he stumbled into his garden. The snow had stopped and the Ice Gardener was not there. His spade was though, jammed into the soil. Mark picked it up and shovelled wet snow under the shadow of the trees. Packing it down, he piled the snowballs into a pyramid, leaving a gap in the centre. He lifted the Ice Candle from the table and positioned it in the gap, then rested the last snowball on top. The Ice Candle burned in the snow lantern. Mark clambered up the stairs. He couldn’t hear Grandma coughing; she must be better. He had saved her! Bursting into her room, he found his parents sitting either side of her. Their eyes were red. Grandma looked like she was thin ice and the sun was coming out. “She’s better, isn’t she”’ he asked. Mum shook her head and held out her arms; Dad made the scrunched-up face Mark made when he was trying not to cry. Slamming the door, Mark marched back out into the garden. Snowflakes melted on his forehead like kisses from Grandma. The Ice Gardener stood by his spade.
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“You promised I would make her better,” Mark shouted, slamming his fist into the hard chest of the Ice Gardener. “I said you would help her,” the Ice Gardener said, gently. “But I haven’t,” Mark said. “She’s going to die.” He walked over to the snow lantern and kicked at it. The pyramid broke up and returned to snow. “You can help her by telling her your story; tell her about how you’re not scared any more.” “But I am scared.” “How do you think she is feeling?” the Ice Gardener asked.
bent and kissed her forehead, then curled up in the armchair by the window. It was still snowing when he woke the next morning, but the candle had burned away. All that was left was a puddle and a wick. Grandma was still facing it, a soft smile on her face. “Morning,” Mark said, sitting down next to her. When he reached for her hand it was as cold as an Ice Candle.
Mum and Dad left the room with dark smudges under their eyes. Mark rested the Ice Candle on Grandma’s bedside cabinet and held her hand. “I’ve got a story for you,” he said, “like the ones you told me. Only this one doesn’t have wolves or witches in.” She squeezed his hand and he tried not to cry as he told her everything: about the wind whipping snow from the trees in the forest, about leaping over the gap in the pier, about gathering snowballs in Mrs Williams’ garden. “It was like when we went scrumping for apples together,” he said. “‘Only cold. And even though they were scary places, I wasn’t scared one bit. Well maybe one bit, but it wasn’t as bad as I thought. I was more scared thinking about those things than doing them.” She smiled despite the tubes in her mouth; he stroked her paper skin. When he had finished the story, Grandma reached towards the Ice Candle. Mark moved it closer so she could see it flickering and melting. Her eyelids drifted down so he
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Illustrated by Samantha Davey
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Fairy Tale by Graham Burchell
I can scare children as the Victorians aimed to do even on an August beach tell a fairy tale woven more cruel than castles turned to sand and washed into oblivion by the evening tide
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I can think a tale in sea forests black haemorrhoid weed where pebbles become life form or unfortunates petrified by the moon eyes of fish portents of doom cruel just as shell is made from the powdered bones of man
I may tell of anti-tides that snatch at fool child toes those that venture further than where they are meant to go kids yanked open-mouthed into water babies minds maddened forever in that perennial wilderness
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I see your children Kingsley Hans Christian Brothers Grimm in silly striped or frilly costume about to test their altered wills with ghost ankles in the small surf and imaginations bleeding
Illustrated by Oona Patterson
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A Birthday Wish by Emma Hardy One year ago, a boy made a wish as he blew out the candles on his birthday cake. As he cut into the cake, the sun was turned off and the town was left in darkness. * Each day begins and ends in the way it has done for a year. Things have started to change to fit the new sun-less town. The people have changed. They walk closer together and hold on to each other, be it day or night. They are more alert, more aware; they look out for one another. But they still hope that maybe the sun will rise in the morning. * The townspeople wait as the boy stands in front of this year’s birthday cake. He feels the pressure of what they want him to wish for, but he knows that everyone will be colder in the daylight.
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The Snow Bride
The Snow Bride lives alone. Around her the stalactites lengthen as every droplet of water leaves its mineral laden trace. She watches the fragile shafts of light that penetrate the rock as they are caught by the surrounding ice, casting multicoloured shadows over by Jacqui Pack the motionless lake. Once, she detached a small stalactite, fascinated by its lustre, but its sheen dulled and the ice burned her skin. It began to melt. Tiny rivulets of water trickled over her hands, finding their way down her upstretched arms, falling like tears to the frozen floor. For hours she sits by the lake, staring down. Immersed in thought, she sees nothing. If she looked she would see a young woman, slender and fair, her gown, with its intricate embroidery, sparkling just as the ice does. It is the reflection of The Snow Bride, given as companion to the Winterlord; sacrificed. Finally, she raises her hand and her fingers sweep across the water, shredding the image into blurred ripples. By the time the lake has regained its stillness she has gone. The Snow Bride lies in her sealed chamber. Time loses its meaning in constant winter. There is no day or night, only existence. When she sleeps the Snow Bride sleeps alone.
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Around her neck is a gold chain with a small locket that she clasps in her hand as she waits for unconsciousness to claim her. No sound disturbs the hollow chime of the dripping water, but tears gather around her frosted eyelashes until one flows, unchecked, down her cheek.
When I was little I would ride on my father’s cart to Culhollow Market. Yawning, I would nestle among the sheepskins; the eggs and milk, still warm, beside me. The back of the cart would carry the animals we took to sell. Such was our way of life. Childhood passed quickly. I met Ferdy in Culhollow. He came from over the mountains to work on the land. It was six months before we finally spoke, but by that time I knew. I think we both did. Of course, I insisted our meetings were unobserved. But Ferdy hated such secrecy and wanted us to leave Culhollow. He took on extra work whenever he could. In the summer we would lie together in the moonlight and I let his voice and arms cocoon me, hearing how, when he had saved enough, we would have our own place. His words were a dream, an escape from a reality he wouldn’t accept and that I couldn’t evade. Ferdy had been offered a full apprenticeship in Culhollow Forge. He turned it down without telling me. I knew why. The responsibility was overwhelming. On that last night we met in the forest clearing. The trees were bare, their fallen leaves forming a thick russet carpet. The air tingled with the first breath of winter.
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The High Elder had called to see my parents during the day. I felt his eyes on me as he passed the dairy and I knew the time was near. After he had gone my parents beckoned me into the kitchen. I had always been aware of the circumstance of my birth and yet, while my father explained the great honour to our family, his voice faltered and I saw the moisture in his eyes. My mother remained silent while he spoke, her head bowed, her hands clasping mine across the wooden table. When I rose to leave she released them, whispering, “Child, I am sorry,” and for the first time I realised the burden she carried; one I could ease but not release her from. Tradition and custom are the religion of Culhollow. For us there is no other way. I felt no bitterness. No rebellion surged within me, only acceptance and the wish to relieve my parents of their suffering.
I did not hear him approach. Ferdy put his arms around me, his kiss stifling my gasp. Breathless, I prayed for the moment to be etched upon my memory. “Ferdy, I ...” “Wait, don’t speak. I have something.” He produced a locket strung on a chain and held it before my eyes. Pride lit up his face. I wondered if the greater pleasure was in the locket’s creation or bestowal. Its surface was smooth and the fine links slipped through my fingers like liquid. Giddiness seized me and I imagined myself stood on a precipice. “Who is it for?”
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“Who do you think? Here, let me put it around your neck.” He brushed aside my hair, his fingers skimming my skin. I stayed his hand, trembling. “I can’t accept this.” “You can easily accept it. All I have done is shape the metal.” I turned the locket over in my hands and moved away. “I have good news for you,” he said, following and catching me by the arm. “Old Man Skift has finally paid me and I think that with the money I am owed for Harvest I have almost enough.” “Enough?” I tried to sound puzzled, though my insides leapt. The news came too late. “Enough for us. Enough to leave.” I laughed, “You’re serious? I thought our talk only a game. Surely you knew as much?” My words came easily, but every one tore at me. He opened his mouth as if to speak and I knew that if he did my resolve would fail. “I never intended to leave with you.” I continued. “I don’t understand, why do you talk like this, of games? I love you. Listen to me, I have nearly enough for us to leave here and be together.” “Love? You think I could love you? You have no real trade, no land, no money ...” “I have nearly ...” “Nearly is not enough. Ferdy, I have enjoyed the times we have spent, but ...” my voice did not waver, but my words failed. His eyes searched mine and I realised that there was no going back.
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“I don’t believe you. You love me. I know you do. Say you don’t. Say it now, plainly, to my face.” He gripped me by the shoulders so that I could not turn away. His intensity burned me, yet so did my desire for his freedom. “I have never loved you. I want you to leave me and take your worthless trinket with you.” I pulled away from him, throwing the locket at his feet, feeling myself falling into darkness as his arms released me. I watched him stagger and gaze at me, pain and confusion in his eyes and movements. He picked up the locket. At the edge of the clearing he turned, shaking. “Take it. I give it to you as freely as everything else.” He threw the locket aside and stumbled away through the trees. I waited until I could no longer restrain my sobs and ran to where the locket had landed, my hands scrabbling among the leaves.
I was born as the clock chimed midnight and the moon followed the solstice. My first breath coincided with the icy breath of winter as it came down from the mountains, wrapping us in the new season. The long awaited birth of The Snow Bride.
Illustrated by Karen Davis
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This is the story of a girl named Carmen and a magic garden. It is also the story of a bumblebee and a song and a princess and a refrigerator and a whole bunch of garbage and some have even by Phil Corrigan said it is a story about a pearl, but your eyes must be very good if you want to see the pearl. Carmen lived in a long row of tall houses. All the houses had round attic windows and five steps up to the door and a little bit of grass in front. Carmen’s house had a yellow door. Behind the houses there was a stream that started somewhere Carmen did not know and went somewhere she had not been. One day Carmen was playing in the stream when she saw a bumblebee floating on the water. Even though it looked drowned, Carmen was afraid. Bees are very serious insects, and Carmen knew you could never be too careful with them. As the bee floated past her its wing suddenly twitched, sending out a fan of ripples. Carmen felt sorry for the bumblebee because his fuzz was soaking wet, but because he had a stinger she was afraid to help him. Her dad always told her that there were lots of things that it was good to be afraid of, but you had to know when that fear was making you afraid of yourself. She watched the bee float by, with his wings paddling slowly like the fins of a fish out of water. Carmen decided to try to save the bee.
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Using a big green maple leaf, she scooped the bumblebee up and laid him on a flat stone in the sun. Carmen sat down next to the stone to see what would happen, though she was ready to run the moment the bee began to buzz. The bee began to dry out and crawl around the stone but his wings were waterlogged. They hung like soggy tissues on his back. After trying and trying to buzz, the bee sat down and began to cry. Although Carmen was afraid of bees, especially big fuzzy bumblebees, she was not so afraid of bees that could not fly, and she felt sorry for bees that were crying. “There, there,” Carmen said, feeling silly. Comforting was hard work, and she sounded like a grown up in her ears which made her feel ridiculous. The bumblebee noticed her for the first time and became very embarrassed. He tried to stop crying which is a difficult thing to do. He looked up at her and in exactly the deep, honey voice you would expect, said, “You must forgive my crying. I don’t know what to do. The stream carried me a long way from my home and if I can’t get back, I’ll never get my wings dry and…” He shuddered and began to cry again. “Maybe I can help you,” Carmen said. “Would you?” The bee asked, cheering up. “You are so nice. I would be very grateful; I could even offer you some tea when we get there. Would you like some tea?” Carmen hadn’t realized that she was offering to carry the bee home, but she didn’t see how she could back out now. Besides, tea was a great mystery to her. Carmen’s mother had beautiful china teacups that she never let
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Carmen touch and tea always reminded her of the delicate dishes with intricate paintings and designs. “We shall drink tea the very moment we get to my home,” said the bumblebee. “My name is Mordecai.” Carmen introduced herself, and Mordecai lifted one of his slender, black legs. Carmen stared at him for a moment before she realized that he wanted to shake her hand. She did not want to seem rude, so she took a breath and touched the tiny leg with her finger. Of course, it was perfectly normal. Mordecai told her that he lived a long way up the stream and so they started off, Carmen carrying Mordecai on the leaf. “You are doing something very noble,” Mordecai said. “You aren’t, by any chance, a princess, are you?” Mordecai’s question startled Carmen and made her laugh. “I don’t think princesses have to go to school and eat vegetables and only get twenty-five cent allowances.” “I think you might be a princess,” Mordecai insisted. “My daddy calls me a princess sometimes,” Carmen allowed. “But he doesn’t mean it really. He’s not a king, so he knows I can’t be a princess.” “Maybe your father is a king,” Mordecai said. “You have a royal bearing, Carmen. Only a princess would have been brave enough to save me and carry me all the way back to my home.” Carmen changed the subject because Mordecai really seemed to believe what he was saying. He was serious and that worried her. It proved to be a very long way indeed. Following the stream, they walked through many neighborhoods like Carmen’s and began to burrow into the city. The buildings
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moved closer together and stretched up on their tip toes. The banks changed from grassy slopes to muddy shores to cement walls. Carmen was getting very tired, but she didn’t want Mordecai to know that she was unhappy—she told him she would carry him to his home and she was determined to finish what she had started. Luckily, she was a very stubborn girl; otherwise she would have turned back, especially when she began to notice that there were little bits of garbage strewn about. Torn grocery bags, bits of broken plastic toys, even a huge rubber tyre that looked like it belonged to some kind of giant machine. It began to smell bad too. Pretty soon Carmen found herself in a dump. If you have never been in a dump, just imagine a place where things like cockroaches and flies and rats and snakes would be happy. Carmen wondered if they had gone the wrong way, but Mordecai said they were almost there. The garbage was piled up in great mountains so high they cast long shadows even though it was the middle of the day. They came to a small, flat place amidst all the garbage and Mordecai said, “Here we are!” Carmen did not see anything that looked like it could be a bumblebee’s home. “Where is it?” She asked. “Right over there,” Mordecai pointed at an old refrigerator, half-buried in the garbage. “You live in a fridge?” Carmen asked. “It’s very cosy.” Carmen brought Mordecai to his house and he crawled in through a small hole in the door where the handle used to be. There was a tiny welcome sign hanging
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above the hole. In a little while Mordecai pushed out two drops of honey stuck on two blades of grass like popsicles. “Would you like some tea?” He asked. There were no china teacups. Carmen was confused but guessed that this was how bees had tea, bumblebees, at least. While they licked their honey popsicles, Mordecai told Carmen about all the wonderful things he had found in the dump. They had been talking for a while when Mordecai suddenly excused himself and disappeared back inside his fridge. He was gone for a long time, so long, in fact, Carmen began to hum and then to sing to herself. The song she sang went like this: Brown is browner and almost black When it’s a spring twig holding green Brown is browner and almost yellow When it’s the page of a book, weathered. Brown is browner and almost red When it’s the robin’s breast, fluffed. Brown is browner and almost purple When it’s a budding blossom gilt. Brown is browner and almost orange When it’s the dust, dried in sun. Carmen liked to sing and imagine that she was wearing the most beautiful dress with her hair done up on top of her head and — she stopped imagining everything very quickly because the fridge started to quiver and shake and change color. She stopped singing. After a little while she felt brave enough to take a closer look. It had gotten taller and narrower and had turned a pale green hue. The fridge,
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already half-planted in the ground, looked as though it had burrowed deeper. Two shoots were beginning to protrude out of the top. Carmen timidly touched the fridge with her fingertips. It was warm and its surface was rougher than it had looked before, almost like treebark. “Do you believe that you are a princess now?” Mordecai asked, poking his head out the door. “What is it?” Carmen asked. “Why don’t you keep singing and find out,” said Mordecai. Carmen began to sing again, softly at first, unsure of herself, but with growing confidence. The fridge started growing, too. It soared up, higher and higher. It was not just growing in the ‘getting-bigger’ sense, though; it was growing like a plant, or a tree—but much, much faster. It wobbled and shook and sprouted and stretched and thickened and became a gigantic tree. The fridge-tree towered over them spreading out thick limbs with broad jungle leaves. Blossoms appeared, great big yellow poofs of delicate thread opened on every branch and tiny fruits appeared in some of them. The fruits looked like little green building blocks. They ripened and turned white and got very big. Even though it was far above her head, Carmen could tell that the fruits were refrigerators. They were so heavy and there were so many of them, they weighed down the branches. Suddenly there was a pop and one of the fridges fell. It crashed into the ground next to Carmen, startling her so badly she screamed. “This is the proof that you are a princess!” Mordecai said. “Your singing makes it grow! You can make anything grow here!”
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It set her heart dancing and she felt sand running through her veins to her fingers and toes and the top of her head. She, a little girl in a red dress who hated spinach, thought dolls were okay, but liked basketballs and plastic army men better, she could be a princess? She saw a light bulb on top of a nearby pile of garbage. She stuck it in the ground and began to sing. Nothing happened. Her stomach leapt up and almost swallowed her heart. Mordecai started to chuckle. “Oh princess, didn’t anyone ever show you how to plant bulbs? You can’t expect something to grow if you don’t plant it right, no matter how much you sing to it. Bulbs have to be buried if you want them to grow.” With Mordecai’s help, Carmen planted her light bulb and began to sing once more. Small, sharp shoots poked their way out of the ground. They were clear as glass and shiny and grew twisting into long blades and three delicate stalks. Each stalk budded with goldfish shaped wires that looked like they were wrapped in cellophane. Each had several sharp wire-like thorns protecting it. As it blossomed, the thorns fell away and there were new clear light bulbs. Carmen was delighted. She spent the rest of the afternoon signing the garden to life. She planted a television with a broken screen and it sprouted thick vines that were so fuzzy they almost prickled. The vine tumbled about the ground, branching flat pointy leaves and bright yellow cloth flowers. In the middle of the flowers were hard cubes with two points on each of them. These grew and grew and turned into televisions, some of which were so big their antennas reached high above Carmen’s head. She planted ripped and torn paintings that grew tall on slender
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stalks with bright green leaves until at the top they blossomed like a sunflower into a huge painting framed in green leaves. Mordecai’s wings dried out and he flew about telling Carmen where all the most exciting things to plant were. Carmen and Mordecai worked all day without stopping until it was late in the afternoon and almost time for dinner. Carmen stopped and put her hands on her hips like she had seen her mother do. She was tired, but it was the most comfortable, pleasant sort of tired she had ever felt. It was the first time in her life that she had worked all day long. “Didn’t we do a good job, Mordecai?” She asked. “Yes we did, Princess,” he agreed. And it was true. There were silverware trees that shimmered when the wind blew and long twisting vines of balloon ivy that washed in the air like seaweed in the waves. There were thickets of soda-can bushes and scissor plants. There were bicycle trees and whole slopes of garbage covered in hammer and wrench and screwdriver reeds. Carmen felt very pleased with herself. Her tummy growled and made her think of home. It must be late; she couldn’t see the sun any more behind the steep mountains of garbage. She would probably be late for dinner and her parents would worry. “I have to go, Mordecai, but I’ll come back tomorrow morning and we can plant all sorts of other things. Mordecai looked at her in surprise. “But, you can’t go!” He said. “If you leave, everything will die!”
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“What do you mean, Mordecai? Look at how strong and healthy all the plants look.” “That’s because you have been singing to the plants all day long. Your singing is like water—the plants need it to grow, but they also need it to stay alive. As soon as you stop singing, they start to die.” “But I’m not singing now and they look fine! Can’t they stay alive until I come back tomorrow? Normal plants don’t need to be watered that often.” “These plants aren’t normal, they grow faster and they die faster. Look, I’ll prove it to you,” said Mordecai. “Plant that teacup but stop singing when I tell you.” Carmen pushed a chipped teacup that was missing its handle into the ground and began to sing. Just as the green shoots appeared and delicate leaves painted with elegant patterns began to unfold Mordecai ordered her to stop. The plant stopped growing instantly. But it didn’t look like it was dying. Suddenly a tiny white leaf with red polkadots came loose and tumbled down to the ground. Then another leaf. And another. One of the stalks turned brown and dry. “You see, Princess, when you don’t sing to them, the plants start to die. The garden will die without you, Princess. You can’t leave, not even for an hour.” The princess looked at the colorful leaves already fading to brown. The wind caught one and sent it spinning into the air. She looked at all the beautiful plants that covered the garbage around her. She saw all the things she wanted to plant but hadn’t had time for—dolls missing legs and arms and hair, sleds with bent runners, torn pants, and empty pens. And she saw all that the garden
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could be: the whole wide range of the dump, all its many mountains of garbage covered with exotic plants renewing the broken pieces of refuse. She saw the dump grown into an oasis with lofty copses of fishing bobber trees that sparkled with lures and hooks and red and white needles. The slopes of garbage were covered with the fine waving stalks of shoelace grasses—all sorts of patterns and colors, and coke-bottle bamboo could be seen in the low valleys. Bright yellow pads of rubber ducky lilies drifted in the creek and in the pools of dirty water, capped with the most beautiful pearl colored pods that looked like tiny old bathtubs and that broke open to reveal fresh rubber duckies of all colors. There were fields of bright colored play-dough sprouts. And there were hedgerows of chewing gum brambles with soft gum of all flavors poking out of crisp waxed paper. And in the center of the garden, near the gargantuan fridge tree, in the most perfect glen of Jurassic sized feather ferns, she saw a girl in a red dress; she was all alone and her dress an old worn rag. The girl was sitting with her arms around her knees; she looked cold and lonely. She was singing.
How could she stay? She was just a little girl. If princesses had to stay in gardens and make them beautiful without even a bed and without someone to hug them and never go home, she couldn’t be a princess—it was too hard. “I’m sorry Mordecai, I can’t. I have to go home.” Carmen turned and began walking back to the stream. Mordecai tried to speak but couldn’t. Carmen was already out of the dump before he caught up with her. “But you’re a princess!” he said, almost shouting. “You had the magic to sing the garden to life. You wouldn’t leave. You’re too good.” He stopped, stuttering, trying to find some way of convincing her to stay. “But you’re a princess!” He said again. But Carmen kept walking. She didn’t even turn around. She didn’t want to see Mordecai or the garden. So Carmen went home and the garden died and nothing like it was ever seen again. The garbage piled up in the dump and never grew into anything. Carmen grew into a lovely young woman, but not a princess.
Illustrated by Cate Simmons
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