Volume 3 Issue 6 - The Magic Issue by Free Lit Magazine

CONTENTS 4

A Motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Crime KATE CHARRETTE

Forbidden Spaces SIOBHAN LOCKE

Testament EUGENCE CORNACCHIA

The Broken Box ADELAIDE CLARE ATTARD

Change of Plans BETH GORDON

Kinder Hours ANNMARIE ROSELLI

Alexandra David-Neel MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON

Modern Miracle RICK BLUM

Magic Snowman JOHN DANDRIDGE

Poem-A-Day on Mars LARRY THACKER

Magic BRUCE KAUFFMAN

Gong VIVIAN WAGNER

In Between Miracles and Magic SUSAN KSIEZOPOLSKI

In the Name of Leviticus KYLE CLIMANS

Power of the White Witch LINDA M. CRATE

Healing from Trauma JUDY SHEPPS BATTLE

The Witch SOPHIA KING

Little Red ALYSSA COOPER

After the Magician: Before the Musicians

Magic DANIELLE MARTIN

September in the Attic JAMES H. DUNCAN

FEATURE

BOB MACKENZIE

The Flame E. C. FLETCHER

Front Cover

MELISSA K MURSCH

Back Cover

MELISSA K MURSCH

Inside Back Cover

DUSKA DRAGOSAVAC & JACLYN ACRE

FREE LIT MAGAZINE Editor-in-Chief Ashley Newton

Literary Editor Eunice Kim

Staff Writers

Kyle Climans, Alyssa Cooper, Adriana Green, Bruce Kauffman

Contributors

Adelaide Clare Attard, Judy Shepps Battle, Rick Blum, Kate Charrette, Linda M. Crate, John Dandridge, Duska Dragosavac & Jaclyn Acre, James H. Duncan, E. C. Fletcher, Meg Freer, Beth Gordon, Michael Lee Johnson, Sophia King, Susan Ksiezopolski, Siobhan Locke, Bob MacKenzie, Danielle Martin, Brian Michael, Melissa K. Mursch, AnnMarie Roselli, Larry Thacker, Vivian Wagner

Colophon

Free Lit Magazine is a digital literary magazine committed to the accessibility of literature for readers and the enrichment of writing for writers. Its mission is to form an online creative community by encouraging writers, artists, and photographers to practice their passion in a medium that anyone can access and appreciate.

Magic

Magic allows us to dream and imagine the things we may never see. It lives within the imagery of wizards, witches, and dragons, but its presence also extends toward the things we cannot see. There is magic all around us. It doesn’t just exist in fairytales and other stories. It’s in the seen and unseen; in the mundane and the extraordinary pieces of our lives. Even the slightest bit of magic shows up in love, in our relationships, in our experiences. Magic blooms out of the everyday miracles we witness and read about. Magic moves quickly and unexpectedly. But we must be vigilant in the illusions that are created, because magic can be misleading. In all of its grandeur and possibilities, it’s easy to get lost inside of it. Be sure to keep your allies close to help guide your way. All heroes need help to make it through in the end. And with a little bit of magic, of course. Ashley Newton Editor-in-Chief

Contact

editor@freelitmagazine.com

Next Issue

The Bildungsroman Issue January 2018

A Mother’s Crime KATE CHARRETTE

I say it, over and over again. The ‘m’ is smooth between my lips, the ‘d’ hard against my teeth. Murder. Murder, murder, murder. Murder. The word is heavy, hot and sticky on my skin, like blood. Through the barred window I can see where I’ll be executed. The poison is always chosen to fit the crime; adulterer’s hearts burst and break, witches burn from the inside out, and murderers leak blood, thick and red. There have been eight executions before mine. They blend together in my memory; bile spewed across the stage, tongues swelling, eyes bulging, bowels letting go, red and brown splattering. The wood of the stage is stained; vomit and blood, shit and tears. A single chair is in the center of the stage, a small table and vial beside it, waiting for me. My bones feel heavy, my muscles tight, and my skin raw. Someone scrubbed me down with cold water and gritty soap. By the time they were done the water was red, the soap scum pink; the blood of the man I loved poured down a drain in the center of my cell floor, gone. ••• The horse lies still, its leg twisted, bone exposed. Its throat was slit with mercy; the foal inside its bulging belly left for dead. A little girl sits close by, the edge of her skirt darkening with the horse’s blood. Red drips from the jagged gash in the animal’s neck. A branch falls with a crash; a petal drops quietly. Shouts fill the air, the villager’s anger and violence, closing in on the bodies in the clearing; only a few feet of trees and the tall planks of the protective fence separate them from the executioner’s stage. The horse’s swollen belly ripples, the skin stretching with a sudden kick. Another drop of blood, silver in the sunlight, drops. Where it falls a flower blooms, and the little girl quickly plucks it free, twirling the stem in her fingers. ••• It was my second request, the bundle of wildflowers. My first was to see my daughter, but they shook their heads at that, and laughed when they finally threw the flowers through the bars of my cell door. The petals are soft against my fingers, stems rubbery, squeaking softly as I weave them together. I wore a flower crown on my wedding day. My bride refused the one I made her, without looking at me, so it was easier for her to pretend I was the girl she wanted to marry. That girl had died a few months before; that girl never wove flowers through her hair, but her dress fit my body, and everyone agreed, we were a beautiful, convenient, coupling. The Priestess marrying us asked about love at the altar and we recited the practiced response: Our bond is our sworn duty and fills our hearts, forevermore. Women wed women; it’s always been this way and will always be so. My mothers were beautiful, kind and strong - my father was a consort, as all men in the village are, brought in to breed children, and sent out again to farm, hunt and protect. I wove a flower crown when I chose our consort, as well; Averx, standing tall and strong, took it from me, to wear proudly. Duty first and foremost, then love. People rarely speak about it; love left as an after thought only made me curious. I saw it, in the way wives would hold each others skirts as they stepped through the village mud, in the way consorts would hold their children before returning them to their mothers; I felt it, in my mother’s kisses smacking on my cheeks, their gentle fingers on cuts and bruises, in the stories they always told me, about a little girl and a unicorn, who she loved with all her heart. When the little girl gave the white nose a kiss, matched by their kisses on my own nose, a princess appeared where the 4

unicorn once was, a curse on the princess reversed with the little girl’s love. At the end, they’d kiss over my head, and I was happy and jealous all at once. I tried to tell my own wife the story, on our wedding night, hoping she’d meet my eyes. When I finished speaking, her only answer was that the little girl was clearly a witch and that she should be burned – and as she dreamed that night, she cried the name of the girl she had hoped to marry. So when Averx kissed me, I wanted him to. I pulled him in, he held me close and the only name he said was mine. Blood and sweat, spit and tears; they don’t talk about what it will feel like, in the arms of a consort, either. Afterwards we talked about the child we hoped to have, the legacy he wanted to leave, the life I dreamed of – and when I told him that same story he listened, hands in my hair, kissing me when after little girl kissed the unicorn. I thought it must be love; it’s nice to say, that word, the ‘l’ flicking off my tongue, the ‘v’ tickling my lower lip. They talk about duty and how things are meant to be and they never talk about love. I was never pregnant; Averx conceived with my wife. He wove me a flower crown, the day they announced the news, but it fell apart in my hands. She’s beautiful, our daughter. Her father’s eyes, her mother’s smile. People used to say that she has my heart, but I imagine they won’t anymore. Murder murder murder murder. Murder. Aurelia. The name of the woman my wife was meant to marry, as the name of the child I couldn’t carry, meant to remind me of everything I wasn’t; she’s beautiful, my daughter. Every moment with her – the first time she wrapped my finger in her tiny hand, her soft skin and rosebud mouth, her little laugh, her angry cries, every smile and every tear, the way she said ‘mama’; everything was magical. Everything. She was three and sitting in the bath. Water slopped over the edge of the basin, soapy droplets mixing with the tears on my cheeks as she splashed. He never meant to make me cry. One sob – only one, burst past my lips, loud in the houses quiet, and Aurelia stared up at me, eyes wide. A tear suddenly paused mid fall. Droplets of water rose from the bath water, and she waved her hands in the air, soap sliding off her skin to hang, suspended. She laughed at the look on my face, and the bubble suddenly burst, water falling normally again. I told Aurelia a story about a princess turned into a unicorn, scrubbing her arms and her face, pretending I didn’t feel her magic still faint in the air. She was four and I was cleaning up. Glass and petals and dirt covered the floor; he’d been a consort to others and told me it’s never been like this before, that it must be love. Aurelia’s small hands were steady, mine trembled. Her eyes locked on the mess, her hands on mine; petals swished along the floor to fuse to the stem, dirt coated the roots, and the flower, reformed, floated in the air between us. The front door slammed, and it fell to the floor, coming apart once more, but my wife didn’t say anything about the mess. This time I told Aurelia about a little girl and her magic as I cleaned. She was seven, sitting at my feet. My cheek ached; I ran my fingers over it, and I thought I could feel the raised print of his knuckles. Blood and bruises and tears; love. She stood on tiptoes, lips soft in a smacking kiss. I could feel it healing, knew the purple skin, bloody scrapes were fading and closing. And I could feel her magic, hot and electric, bubbling beneath the surface. I told her about the little girl and the unicorn who once was a princess, and could become one again. I talked and talked, distracting her with a kiss on the nose when the little girl kissed the unicorn, until I couldn’t feel her magic anymore. Witch. The ‘w’ bounces around my mouth but the ‘ch’ is harsh, caught between my teeth. We were told about them, witches, and about the mothers and consorts who let the devils in to plant evil in wombs and hearts. Our village worked to eradicate magic; in ancient books it was explained, our duty being to prevent this evil from corrupting us, from destroying our world. I saw a witch executed only once; a boy, born to non-magical parents, as Aurelia was born to us. The boy’s mothers’ were punished for their failure to report their pleas for their deaths to take the place of his denied. He’d squished a field mouse playing in the tall grass, only to bring 5

it squeaking back to life with a stroke along its fur. They hauled him away, yelling that he was touched by the devil, conceived in evil – I caught the mouse, cupping my palms around it. I could feel the magic on it’s skin, faint against my fingers; I could suddenly smell my mother’s perfume mixed with wildflowers, my bones felt light, my skin tingled and my heart pumped quickly. Until the mouse was slapped from my grasp, tiny organs, bones and grey fur squished beneath the Priestess’s boot heel, normality a heavy weight on my skin. All I wanted was magic – even on the day of the witch’s execution. He didn’t make a sound, skin blistering and turning black as he burned - only smoke curled from his lips. The poison he drank was green and steamed in the cold air. The poison I’ll drink is red. Some people say its sweet; others say it’s impossible to swallow. Does it matter? Murder. I say it one more time, as I hear them climbing up the steps towards me. The flowers hang in my hands, the sweat from my palms making their petals limp. I ask them to give it to Aurelia and please don’t let her see me die, but I can’t make out their answer as they pull me down the stairs. My heart pounds in my ears. I did kill him, in a way, when I told Averx I couldn’t love him anymore because it wasn’t love, I know love, now. His hands were on my shoulders, and I thought he might kiss me, beg me for something - but then his fingers slid to my neck, hot and calloused. I couldn’t tell if the damp drops on my cheeks were tears or flecks of spit – he was yelling, eyes bulging as he cried and screamed, choking me. I pulled at his fingers; trying to be strong, to fight him. Someone else was screaming and I could feel her – Aurelia – and there was a brief moment of peace. Then I heard his skin split, a wet and sickening sound, and I felt his body jolt. Blood, so much blood, hot and sticky. It flowed from the gash in his neck, soaking his shirt, streaming down his arm, my fingers slipping against his. I could pry free of his grip, finally and he dropped to the floor, legs bent awkwardly, eyes glassy and blood bubbling at his lips. In the falling flail of his hand the mirror was knocked to the floor, shards of glass digging into my knees and cutting my palms as I crumpled beside him. I choked on the air flooding back into my lungs. Breathe. It stank of iron and sweat. Aurelia stood in the doorway, the flower I’d tucked behind her ear loose in the waves of hair. Her head was cocked at an awkward angle, her eyes locked on her father’s body, jaw clenching in time with his weakening pulse. His heart pumped the rest of his life through the gash in his throat, blood splattering onto the floorboards. Her magic was so strong in the air it made my skin crawl, like it might peel back from my bones. “Mama?” And then my wife appeared, pushing past Aurelia into the front hallway. “What have you done?” Murder. She pulled my daughter away from me, so violently the flower in Aurelia’s hair fell, white petals adrift in the mess of blood. The crowd yells her accusation at me now, ‘m’s’ smooth off their lips, ‘d’s’ hard off their teeth. The stained wood of the stage is beneath my feet, the wood of the chair rough against my back. The glass is pushed into my hand, liquid bubbling. I don’t see Aurelia in the crowd and I’m glad for it. Men stand around the perimeter, women gathered in the middle, my wife at the very center, supported and comforted. Silence, and the countdown rings out, the Priestess’s voice loud. 3… 2… 1. The poison is sweet, so sweet it clogs my throat. Did I feel my heart stutter? Is it happening, already? A drop of blood runs down my cheek, a red tear. I imagine I can hear her, Aurelia, calling me. Hi mama. ••• Flies land on the horses nose, crawling in and out of its nostrils. A burst of flowers has bloomed beneath its still dripping neck. No screams come through the air anymore; the village has gone quiet, and the little girl knows her mother is dead. Butterflies land in parallel lines down her arms, wings moving slowly. One lands on her nose, a soft kiss. She can feel it humming beneath her skin; she tried to bring the horse to life, 6

wrapping tendrils of pulsing magic around it’s heart, because maybe, maybe if it worked she could restart her mama’s heart too. But the horse remains dead, the magic only snapping off its still heart and back into her body, painfully pushing against the barrier of her skin, making her ache. So she whispers to herself, telling the story her mama always used to, and thinks of her - her smile, her hands, and her kisses. She thinks of her mama and unicorns, as magic courses through her veins and pumps through her heart. Slowly she leans forward, butterflies taking to the air as she kisses the horse’s cold nose. Silver blood gushes from the horse as its belly splits wide. A horn, pale and sharp juts from it’s swollen womb. A hoof, and a spindly white leg break free, trembling over the grass. Aurelia watches the foal emerge, flecks of silver in its horn catching the sunlight as it arches a slim white neck. “Hi mama,” the girl says to the unicorn.

Testament

EUGENE CORNACCHIA for a lifetime crow has been my spirit guide my totem but the topography of my world my living mythology is far more complex defying your delusional cartesian coordinates of x, y and z your delusional reality your normalcy your compass map and tick-tock clocks crow calls to me daily and guides my way trees are my family darkness is my cloak how could i fear the dark? even at noon of day i close my eyes embrace darkness if you fear to follow stay rooted in your puddle of light wendigo is my brother not by blood perhaps but by cold hunger shared in winter night more of a brother than any accidental birth logged in the family books crickets and beetles of the forest know me well serpents guide me to the abode of dragons while the moths of the night whisper messages from the dead the moon i follow best i can imperfect pilgrim that i am i wander but never am i truly lost for if i feel that i have lost my way then my eyes were distracted by the baubles of man but always my feet 8

tread upon this path this is my way i close my eyes wrap myself in blessed darkness place one foot in front of the other my silent steps whisper in the night i walk upon the dust and ashes of empires long ago fallen my eyes caress what others never see i feast upon that which feeds no other man i drink of a vintage not of this life or earth the vessel that my soul wears may seem old and frail to your eyes my path solitary alone but that is because you cannot see the throng that walks and flies and shambles by my side there be crows and dragons wendigo and a grey gathering of what you call ghosts to keep me company and many others that have no name in your lexicon of sanity this tattered vessel soon to be cast aside for vestments more ethereal has ever fewer needs my true brothers and sisters guide me ever closer to the sacred forest i have dreamed of there to finally rest cradled by roots my funeral rites performed by mushrooms sunset and darkness sweet balm

Change of Plans BETH GORDON

The blood-orange paint in my fingerprint whorls should make me unidentifiable, just for good measure I spit out healthy teeth, oneby-one, shave my head and bleach the stubble, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m transfering my soul to a new container, something with no bendable parts, more wet wings, scales or gills, fewer eyelashes, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s time to leave this tepid planet, halfdead, one step ahead of asteroids, singlecell invasive life forms, time to hitchhike my way back to my tribe, myself without greyish organs, radioactive fingernails or eyes, without clocks, birthdays, flashlights, somewhere overflowing with new songsoaked stars, dripping with blackhole daydreams.

Alexandra David-Neel MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON

She edits her life from a room made dark against a desert dropping summer sun. A daring travelling Parisian adventurer ultimate princess turning toad with agesnow drops of white in her hair, tiny fingers thumb joints osteoarthritis corrects proofs at 100, pours whiskey, pours over what she wrote scribbles notes directed to the future, applies for a new passport. With this mount of macular degeneration, near, monster of writersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; approach. She wears no spectacles. Her mind teeters between Himalayas, distant Gobi Desert, but subjectively warm. Running reason through her head for living, yet dancing with the youthful word of Cinderella, she plunges deeper near death into Tibetan mysticism, trekking across snow covered mountains to Lhasa, Tibet. Nighttime rest, sleepy face, peeking out that window crack into the nest, those quiet villages below tasting that reality beyond all her yearsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; vastness of dreams.

Magic Snowman JOHN DANDRIDGE

I told my grandchildren to stop eating snowflakes, but didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t tell them they were fake. They thought the electric tinge they felt as they fell to their tongues was the taste. And how the snowman moved about on his own, I let them believe it was by magic.

Magic

BRUCE KAUFFMAN not simply a word an idea it that thing that comes riding flying behind on and beneath impossible invisible wings magic it always knows itself ever-knew itself as here alive it always knew it was real always knew we were simply strangers to it it always there softly flying behind us beside us just out of sight out of view it had always been here just out of reach 12

magic magic we had talked often about you but were afraid to believe to question too much you just an idea we feared if we pondered too long delved too deeply into we would realize discover you were only illusion mirage until one day that day as we heard a whisper of wing looked behind us caught our first real glimpse of you caught you off guard caught ourselves guard-less yours and our eyes and spirit locked transfixed and in an instant you gently swooped inside us perhaps we into you as well and in that same instant 13

we now saw our old world different never again the same and we left seeing absorbing the full of you and ever then after sensing the magic in each second

each thing

in even ourselves

In Between Miracles and Magic SUSAN KSIEZOPOLSKI Magic lives in secret places Tucked away in discreet spaces Where whispered wishes In vanishing voices Speak of choices Choices born of imagination Wide-eyed wonder Spellbound with the hope Cast from waving wands Forcing despair to disappear Poets weld magic Dispelling disbelief Pens poised to offer escape With ink stained hands Etching mystical worlds Spinning miracles Woven with whirling words Found inside the blots For those that see to understand Inside the lyrical literary magic Sprinkling pixie dust everywhere Burning inside the flame Hands grasping in the air Hands clasped silently in prayer Unleashing the power of silence In the hush of the moment Eyes open, eyes closed In between the blink of an eye Poets dream with eyes open To capture where the magic lives At home inside the enchanted space Where secrets are set free Flowing in between the lines Speaking of words behind the wishes

In the Name of Leviticus KYLE CLIMANS

“Bring the accused forward!” The harsh order had to be yelled over the noises of those in attendance. The two burly guards dragged Calixta to the front of the makeshift courtroom. She was dressed humbly, in an old burlap smock that had been patched many times. Her long hair was lank and hung down to her shoulders. Her eyes were red, and her clothes failed to hide the marks of persuasion on her body. The crowd continued to call out words that blended into utter gibberish. A cacophony of baboons would have made more sense to Calixta in that moment. The sergeant-at-arms slammed the butt of his halberd on the ground several times before the judge read out her name. “Calixta Raspail! You stand accused of witchcraft and heresy against the Holy Church!” The proclamation brought on more jeers from the crowd, even as Calixta shuddered. “Do you deny the charges laid out against thee?” The crowd’s fervour ebbed for a moment to hear her response. “I deny them.” The response was feebler than she’d hoped it to be. Her voice had caught in her throat, and when it finally came out, she had stammered. The crowd fed upon her weakness, shouting with a rage that Calixta had always feared with every waking minute, and a rage which had fuelled her darkest nightmares. The judges sneered at her pitiful attempt at defiance. They had seen her fear in a hundred other people, and they knew that no amount of courage could withstand this place. It would have filled Calixta with anger if she was not so terrified and ashamed of that terror. The judges began to ask her questions. They asked her whether she had been baptized, how often she attended church, whether she was a virgin, and a dozen other questions which often had to be asked over some sort of noise from the attendants. And yet for all the interruptions, as far as Calixta could tell, nobody was ejected from the courtroom. All the while, Calixta tried to answer their questions as best she could. Yes, she had been baptized, in Gascony where her family had always lived. Why had she left? Her father had been a merchant who had gone bankrupt, so they had wandered over the mountains into the south, seeking a new beginning. As she spoke, Calixta turned to look upon the faces of the crowd. Most had gone silent as the interrogations began, but it brought Calixta no relief. She saw shining eyes, sparkling with malice, as well as deep frowns and ugly grimaces. Eventually she recognized some of the faces. There was Cesar, the handsome blacksmith who leered at her breasts when he didn’t think she noticed his gaze. And there was Signora Casco, the withered old widow who spat whenever she crossed Calixta’s path. Calixta was not surprised by their presence, but other faces in the crowd filled her with a sense of betrayal and made her want to weep. Signor Cuesta sat with his daughters, none of them older than seventeen. A young mother, Teresa, was looking away from Calixta as she sat next to her husband, cradling her infant. Dolores Ochoa sat with her own husband and family, looking stone-faced and grim. Two of her children looked fearful, while the others laughed along with the crowd at her plight. Some of her accusers came forward. She was a witch from the south of France, an outsider who spoke in tongues foreign to the people of Basque. She sang spells as she worked her magic by the light of the moon, and conspired with her fellow witches. 16

Half-truths, all of it. Yes, she was not from Basque, and yes, she had grown up speaking a different language. Though she protested in vain that they had been songs of her people which she had sung to herself. The judges dismissed her protests as quickly as they were uttered. More and more accusers took their oaths and spoke words which condemned her. She had lured people to her hut and had won them over with the Devil’s tricks and magic. She had used her womanly wiles to enter the thoughts of good Christian men. Nobody spoke of how people had come to her by night, seeking cures to ailments that she had been able to cure. Not a word was said to support the fact that Calixta had been a midwife many times to these people. Calixta had learned many of simple remedies from her mother and grandmother. Wanderers needed to rely on themselves before anyone else. When she had begun to live on her own, she had met with others and learned more natural facts. She spoke with midwives, widows, and old wanderers with a fervent curiosity to learn all she could. And as word went around in the villages, people had quietly approached her with requests, in exchange for payment. Calixta had found her means, and so she had obliged. Now the relatives of these people, and even some of the very same people, stood before their fellow countrymen, the judges of the Inquisition, and sought to condemn her. Teresa, the young mother, had come to Calixta when her infant was taken with a chill, and it would not go away. The infant’s coughs had been far too ragged to justify a mere chill, and Calixta had recognized the symptoms; she had happily provided the mixture of herbs to cure the poor boy, even refusing a payment from the wife of a poor farmer. She had called her a saint, instead of the witch that she cursed her for now when it could seal her doom. Others had come to her. Signor Cuesta’s eldest daughter had sought a potion to prevent a pregnancy out of wedlock. The priest’s sister was injured and the would had received an infection. Now Signor Cuesta spat in her direction for daring to corrupt his children. The eldest judge stood up, with no small degree of difficulty. Almost against her will, Calixta wondered if this was due to his having what most derisively called “the rich man’s disease”. “This woman has been found guilty of practising spells within our midst, and conspiring with other servants of the Devil. Therefore, we must find the suitable punishment which shall best fit these crimes against God and His flock!” Calixta wept openly now, and the crowd cheered all the louder to see her tears. The judge paid her terror no heed as he went on, “We must act by God’s words, as they are recorded in the book of Leviticus!” This quieted the crowd somewhat, for none of them knew what those words would be. The judge frowned, and motioned to his fellow judge for a Bible. When one was provided, the judge carefully made his way to the correct page, and read the desired passage aloud. “A man or a woman who is a medium or a wizard shall be put to death; they shall be stoned with stones. Their blood shall be upon them!” Calixta wailed as the cheer sounded once again upon those words of Leviticus. She did not hear the judge declare that her sentence should be executed immediately, nor did she feel the guards drag her out of the courtroom. She only barely felt the spittle and insults hurled towards her in equal measure from the crowd. When she broke from her stupor, she was in the village plain, and the crowd had come out to surround her. Her guards tied her hands and feet, so she could not run, and abandoned her to the crowd’s mercies. The local priest, Father Zigor, stepped forward and led a prayer. Calixta stared at him. He was a short, broad man, with a cheerful demeanour. But now, he looked solemn, cold, and unmerciful. His low voice spoke the words of God’s mercies, and his protecting the good and the meek. 17

And in that moment, surrounded by the crowd who hated her yet claimed to love her, she found her courage again. She stood up, and spat at Father Zigor “Who will cast the first stone!?” Father Zigor paused, but soon resumed his sermon. Others jeered at her, but she would not be stopped now. She glared at them all, fuelled by her own anger, “Who among you is without sin?! Who?!” Calls sounded for her to be silent, while others denounced her as a witch, among other names. She would not be silenced. She screamed louder, and it seemed to her that she was louder than the crowd. “I healed your baby boy!” She spat at Teresa, who fearfully looked away. “I saved your sister’s life!” she screamed at the priest. Father Zigor spoke louder, and Calixta heard a hint of desperation in his voice. The crowd’s screaming grew louder, but this time, Calixta refused to be cowed. She looked them in the eye, shrieking her accusations of hypocrisy as loud as she could. Her words failed when a rock struck her forehead. The spell was broken, and the crowd cheered as more rocks flew. Many of them missed, but enough found marks on Calixta’s body. She wailed with pain as she felt each one hit her. She could not cover herself with her arms, nor could she run away or dodge the hailstorm. All she could do was proclaim her agony as the remorseless mob killed her by the orders of Leviticus. Slowly, Calixta felt herself growing numb to the rocks hitting her, and she saw that her sight had blurred. She saw the familiar faces still, but they had changed. They were molted into demons and gargoyles. Some wept, like Teresa and Dolores, but most were laughing loudly or else were contorted with savage blood-lust. Were these the demons she would meet? The thought was very brief, and only barely thought before another hail of rocks removed any thoughts from her mind. Father Zigor turned to look at Cesar, the handsome blacksmith who had thrown the first stone at Calixta. He watched Calixta stop twitching, and go limp, as the life left her body at last. Cesar turned to his companion, “We should have burned the bitch.” Father Zigor shuddered, and caught the eye of the one judge who had borne witness to this punishment. The judge nodded his head, but pointed back to where the court was being held. Father Zigor sighed, and nodded in return. Another trial was due to happen soon.

MEG FREER

Power of the White Witch LINDA M. CRATE this cruel magic you’ve used to strangle dreamers and their dreams i will stand for no longer because i am the queen of dreamers a magic so deep and ancient only the moon knows my true name, and with these bones i will defeat you because i refuse to allow your acts of deceit to go unpunished; you are a nightmare dressed as a dream a day mare that pretends to be a child of sunlight— you turned every promise into a lie constructed fallacy as if it were truth ran from me because you thought you could put problems behind you, but that’s not how the universe works; i could tell from your solemn face you knew you were wrong unable to meet my eyes you scuttled away with good reason i think you finally recognized my strength and power. we are all who we are and who is anyone to judge us for it? i refuse to allow anyone to define me because i define myself, and anyone who tries will be shattered by the thorns of the savage garden that is my heart because whilst i prefer to be the softness of petals i can be the champion of artemis if i must be turning my eyes to arrows and my tongue to the fangs of wild wolves and bears.

Healing From Trauma JUDY SHEPPS BATTLE

My dearest youngest self I am here for you and promise we will never remain in unending pain or explain why we are not guilty or struggle to understand the whys, lies, sighs, or byes or drink/drug/shrug the memories of double-meaning hugs. Our healing lies in not becoming them not begging one more time for recognition or scampering for scattered crumbs. Our healing is a sober surrender to the Infinite a love story between all parts of self a sharing with those of like spirit

BOB MACKENZIE

a celebration of radiant freedom a rebirth danced freely in Aprilâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s warm sunshine.

The Witch

SOPHIA KING They say, “Don’t go into the woods, for there you will find the witch She will use her sorcery and turn your body into sticks In the night, her whispers travel with the wind She calls you in your sleep, ‘...come with me, my friend...’ She sits with the devil and practices the black arts A temptress...beware of her seduction, she will eat your bloody heart We have burned her sisters, so she lives alone Those who have seen her have never come home When the moon is full, screams are heard in the night Her ritualistic frenzy escapes our sight.” I know those who condemn her fear her all the same She walks towards the darkness, they need someone to blame. ...and in my dreams, the witch keeps calling my name Am I going mad? “Walk with me,” she says, “You will never be the same” I know she hears my sobs, when the wolf’s howls join my cries The aching in my chest, thoughts of my demise... I drown in sadness and feelings of insignificance Many voices beckon to me...none are mine, yet they are all within. The witch sends the raven, messenger of the void To show me the magic of darkness, those lonely spaces I have sought to avoid The raven leads me to the trees for it knows I fear the woods I can no longer stay as I am – I must follow unfamiliar roads. Raven by my side, I walk towards the witch To discover the secrets of the occult ...and the mysteries deep within. “Come into the fire, there is nowhere left to turn Enter the flames – I will make your soul burn...” From ashes I re-emerge – to enter the dark spaces, once unknown The person I leave behind is nothing but cinder, glass, and bone.

DUSKA DRAGOSAVAC & JACLYN ACRE

The Flame

E. C. FLETCHER Kadin was squirming in his seat, trying to focus on the book and the notes before him instead of the lure of the window to his right. His feet swung back and forth, rhythmically hitting the legs of his chair, as he twiddled the quill perched in his left hand. It helped steady his mind, and allowed him to focus on the words on the page so he could then work on making his hand copy what was in his head onto the parchment. Better to focus on his studies and the school of theoretical dimension magic than the outside world just on the other side of the glass. Focusing on his studies would make his father and teacher happy, even if looking out to watch his brother train would have made him happy. He could only keep his attention focused for so long when he could still hear the sounds of swords clanking together and words of instruction and taunting travelling through the glass. He wasn’t surprised to find himself turning towards the window anyway, letting the black ink drip onto the paper. Why would his teachers sit him by the window if they didn’t want him to look out it? It’s not like they gave him anything of interest to study. It was all so basic and boring; he was sure he could do this in his sleep. The view from his window, however, was not boring in the slightest. Servants were running back and forth from the castle to the stables, or down the road to the town by the castle walls. Their bare feet kicked up the sand from the ground as they walked, their arms held clothes or enchanted items to barter. Some would start and stop, recognizing each other. They would talk, but Kadin didn’t care to know what they were saying. He was more interested in the training grounds. Only other students and teachers stood in the training grounds. The students were nobles, like Kadin, but that’s where their likeness stopped. If they were more like him, they would have been learning with him up here in one of the royal libraries. Kadin supposed that fact didn’t exactly make a daemon worthy like him. His siblings were up here with him after all, and they were imposters. Except for Sepharoth. Sepharoth was currently in the center most sparring ring. The other students had formed a circle to watch the fight taking place. As they should, Kadin thought. His brother was currently facing the general of their father’s army and holding his own. He wasn’t winning, but Kadin was sure Sepharoth would be able to turn the tides in his favour soon. He’d have to, his Proving was in a few weeks. They were fighting with two handed swords, circling and dancing around each other as they swung. Metal clanged as the two swords met. The general would push Sepharoth away to negate any further press forward one time and Sepharoth would dance under the general’s arm to avoid a hit the next. Kadin felt himself sitting taller in his chair as the fight progressed until he was sitting on his heels and leaning into the window to get a better look. Attack him, Brother. Show him his place. Kadin internally cheered when Sepharoth ducked under the long blade, the sharp edge cutting close enough to slice at the stray black strands of his brother’s hair. On hand dropped its grip from the blade to reach for his hip. The next second it snapped out at the general’s abdomen. Kadin grinned, waiting for the blade to hit true. It stopped suddenly an inch from the metal of the general’s armour by an unseen force. Kadin watched as his brother froze momentarily, surprised. The next second, the blade was pulled from his grasp and tossed to the side by invisible hands. He flew backward after his blade, landing prone. Kadin snarled. The general had used magic on his brother. The attack had been perfect, Sepharoth deserved that win and the general selfishly stole it from him. The general had wanted to 24

rub Sepharoth’s lack of magical ability in his face. His anger burned deep in his gut. A flame stoked higher and higher within him as he watched his brother struggle to stand as the general stalked towards him. The pressure began to build, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Steel glinted in the sunlight as it was raised above the general’s head. A spark lit the flammable pressure that had built within Kadin. A burst of raw magic pulsed from Kadin’s body mere seconds before the general disappeared from sight, mid-swing. The magic continued to pulse within Kadin as the students’ heads flung back and forth. Some turned in circles, looking for the vanished general. Sepharoth stood slowly, staring at the place the general had once stood. Just as slowly, his head turned up toward the castle, looking in Kadin’s direction. Kadin couldn’t tell for sure, but he had a feeling his brother was looking right up at him, lips turned down. Kadin’s hands clenched into fists. He heard a quiet snap, but ignored it. Another pulse of magic escaped him. The general reappeared outside of the training grounds with a scream. Metal armour had torn and warped around his body. Below him, the sand began to bleed. Almost as suddenly as the magic had burst forth, it was smothered. Kadin recognized this just before he felt a hand slam down onto his shoulder, squeezing tightly. The tension released from his clenched fists, only to travel up to his shoulders. “Your Highness.” Kadin flinched. His lip curled up in disgust at such a reaction. “Teacher.” “That doesn’t look like work on describing the dangers and pitfalls to dimensional travel.” Kadin glared out the window at nothing. Idiot. I just put into practice the magic you’ve had me learning over the last week when it takes others months, and you want to chide me for not focusing on a stupid book? He turned to glare at his teacher. “He was going to hurt my brother.” The teacher took a deep breath, eyes glancing up briefly before focusing back on Kadin, staring at him levelly. “His Royal Highness is perfectly safe in Sir Kaveth’s experienced hands.” His teacher spoke slowly. Kadin wanted to hit him. “They were sparring. No blood would have been drawn.” It was never a matter of physical harm. He hated that all the adults talked down to him. He hated that he had to pretend it was necessary; for the sake of their sorry pride. “Now, I think it’s time we got back to work, Your Highness. I want you to write a hundred lines for each risk for using dimension magic. I also want another hundred lines for each way to avoid such risks.” His teacher pushed down on Kadin’s shoulder, forcefully guiding him back to the proper sitting position on the chair. Resentfully, Kadin played along. Glancing down, he found the halves of his quill hanging from his hand, and an ink splotch that covered the previous lines he had written. Wordlessly, the teacher replaced the broken quill in his hands and put a fresh sheet of parchment in front of him. The teacher raised their eyebrows expectantly. Clenching his teeth, Kadin flipped to the correct page in his book and began to write. The teacher walked around Kadin to stand by the window. Glancing out, they made a tsk sound. “His Majesty will hear about this.” Father will understand, he thought, even as he glared heavily at the work in front of him. A muffled cough caught Kadin’s attention. His head snapped to the side, glare still firmly in place. Both Noct and Echo’s heads snapped back down, focusing in on their own books. Kadin snarled. Of course the bastards would have the gall to mock him, to stare. He felt the anger flare again before he harshly stamped it down. They weren’t worth his time. They only took joy in his 25

apparent set back because they knew, deep down, that they never stood a chance against him, against Sepharoth. They were the mistakes. The teacher continued to hover over Kadin’s shoulder for the rest of the lesson. They would lean over his shoulder every so often to judge his progress and hum in a noncommitting manner. Kadin wanted to turn around and hit him. Or teleport him outside of the castle in the same bloody way he did to the general. Sometime later, a set of heavy footsteps echoing down the hall pulled Kadin out of the monotony of his work. He blinked to ease the burn from staring at the pages below him for so long. Letting go of the quill, he stretched his hand as the door opened with a slam. Noct and Echo flinched at the sound. Kadin glanced up, disinterested. He suspected, without looking, that the wood of the door had cracked. He supposed to the inferior daemon, his father cut an imposing figure in the library’s doorframe. He was a large daemon, not from a life of excess but a life of battle. Kadin had seen him wield a broadsword like a knife. The tightly curled black hair and narrow, suspicious eyes were a common family feature. The most notable and important thing, in Kadin’s opinion was the swirling red markings staining every part of his body. They pulsed a blood red in time with his heavy breathing. It was the only thing that could be consider beautiful about King Malik. His father cast a quick glance at the others in the room as he entered before narrowing back on Kadin. “Leave.” Kadin’s siblings and the teachers present in the room scattered, leaving books and parchment where they were. A single quill rolled and fell to the ground. Kadin stood slowly, ready to follow. “Stay.” Kadin froze in a squat. He could feel the power in those words vibrate the air around him. A familiar childish fear flooded him. “Sit.” Kadin sat. “Explain to me why my meetings were interrupted today by my advisors. They told me that my general had been rushed to the infirmary after a rogue teleportation spell had been cast on him during Sepharoth’s training.” Kadin glanced up at his father from the corner of his eye. Malik had sat next to him at the head of the table, hands clasped together in front of him. Sepharoth stood behind his left shoulder. His brother was staring straight ahead, avoiding Kadin’s gaze. “Don’t keep me waiting boy.” “Father, Sepharoth had been—” “Don’t blame your brother. We all know his magic is crippled.” Sepharoth winced. Kadin seethed, the flame of his anger battling the ocean of his fear. Let me finish! He would never blame Sepharoth. Sepharoth was the sword and Kadin was the magic. They balanced each other well. If only his father would see that. “He was losing and he deserved to win.” Sepharoth turned sharply on Kadin. “That isn’t for you to decide. If I cannot win on my own, it isn’t a victory. I have to be able to account for anything in a fight, despite my…limitations. That includes learning to counter magical attacks.” Kadin opened his mouth to respond, but Sepharoth cut him off. “Are you planning on interfering in my Proving too, Kadin? Would you dishonour me like that? I thought we were brothers.” Panic swelled in Kadin’s chest. “We are! I just thought—” “That is your problem. Not everything is about you.” Malik stood from his chair and looked down at Kadin as he pulled something from his pockets. “Be lucky Kaveth will fully recover in a few months, or I would be much angrier with you Kadin. This is your first and final warning. I will not be so gracious the next time. Give me your wrists.” 26

BRIAN MICHAEL

Wordlessly, teeth clenched, Kadin did so. Two engraved leather cuffs snapped around his wrists. Black mist swirled around them before dissipating. In the same puff of air that dissipated the black mist, Kadin felt his flame extinguish. His heart thudded heavily in his chest. His magic… Without a word, Malik turned and began to leave the room, Sepharoth a few steps behind him. “Wait! When are you going to take them off?” He couldn’t be without his magic. He couldn’t. It was like his father had cut his heart out and told Kadin to live without it. Malik didn’t pause, speaking over his shoulder. “When you earn it.”

Little Red

ALYSSA COOPER Lost in the woods in a little red hood, and I can hear wolves snapping at my heels – fairy tales were dark before we made them kind; they taught lessons with poison, and shadows, and blood. Fairy tales were dark, and this is the darkest one of all – there will be no happy ending. There will be no handsome prince, no glorious wedding, no strong huntsman, to cut me free of this wolfish belly. I will melt into sea foam – I will flavour the ocean with the memory of my pain, will sleep forever, in a crystal coffin. I will be digested, I will seep into animal bloodstreams, will leave a trail of blood, weaving through the forest – a cautionary tale to little girls everywhere.

After the Magician: Before the Musicians BOB MACKENZIE

For about the space of half an hour in silence I wait for the rite to begin, sipping my tea Until the priest arrives at the altar with incense And calls the seven trumpeters to play their part The greatest show on earth or anywhere I know Has only just begun and the house is packed: I do not want to miss the end for anything So I sit in silence rather than lose my place Although I am awed by the special effects And by the skilful staging I am waiting Myself for the call for volunteers to come Forth from the audience so I may play my part Show me that show but give me that secret book And give me that reed like a rod and let me see The magic at work and show me that shining city And show me also behind the scenes after the show.

Magic

DANIELLE MARTIN glue and tape and strings and tacks couldn’t hold up the tattered cardboard heart rips and tears and shoe prints told a bitter tale as time too wasn’t all that kind it was no use the only thing left was to say good-bye grieving no more battered heart cupped in her hands it was tossed aside with the lot But hearts are magical and just when she thought she had nothing to fear nothing more to share her eyes locked with his and then she said, “Fuck!” As her heart began to beat again

September in the Attic JAMES H. DUNCAN

cusp of autumn evening dim and up into the attic where boxes and crates have waited for me for 10, 15 years covered in dust and silent heartache leaves now pepper the lawn, yellow and red and lonesome brown and up here thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s middle school love gone wrong in old journals, names of girls now women with families and names of teachers now retired, or worse, and beneath the journals are envelopes of love letters from college and adulthood on paper thin and crinkled as the wind ebbing gently through the trees outside the small porthole windows, the cool air seeping through slats and broken glass thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a place where sunsets never quite go away and dawn doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t come, a place on ruled paper, history scrawled in pencil in cursive, swirling eagerness for future destinies dreamed about in homeroom and on the bud ride home, journals and papers boxed away as journeys began, never knowing all that waited beyond the sunset fire and now, knowing, feeling it all like slivers working under skin, I fold the paper away and close the lid, descend to the lawn for cool comfort, erasure calm, merciful nights to help me leave that scent, that place, behind

Forbidden Spaces SIOBHAN LOCKE

While the choir members draped their robes over their shoulders and warmed up their voices in the church basement, I, small enough to hide in a cupboard and still enough to blend in with the static paintings of saints and pitchers of stiff fake flowers, climbed the stairs behind the altar. In my quiet curiosity, I eagerly explored the seemingly forbidden space behind the stage, the backdrop to the weekly performances which I had always wondered about. This simple wall with its dated pine wood paneling gave a glimpse of what stood behind it through an angular cut-out revealing a gallery where baptisms took place, elevated for the entire congregation to see. Despite never having witnessed this ceremony, my imagination was sparked by this suggestion of an unseen passageway. With everyone preparing for the service and no one in sight, I made my way up the narrow stairwell swallowed by shadows only briefly interrupted by small shafts of light illuminating the particles of dust swirling in the stale air. My small silhouette drifted up the wall as I walked, drawing closer to the top of the stairs. I stopped at the window to observe the graveyard of sun-bleached ladybugs scattered in the thick layer of dust. Transfixed by the unnerving sight, I remembered learning how they got their name from the Virgin Mary hundreds of years ago when grateful farmers praised them for eating the pests that were destroying their crops. The shells of these creatures, drained of their rich crimson hue reminiscent of Maryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cloak, now served only as a reminder of emptiness and absence. My initial excitement began to shift to uneasiness as my eyes searched in the dim light, but I persisted and reached the last step where I was met with a long narrow hallway. I tentatively paced further until I saw the open frame of the balcony designated for baptisms, noticing the drain on the floor and envisioning the holy water trickling down the pipes and joining the cityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s water, losing its sacred meaning. Hearing footsteps below and feeling the weight of the emptiness, mundanity, and austerity of the space, I rushed down the stairs, swung around the corner and burst through the door into the backyard of the church. Suddenly surrounded by the lush and fragrant lilac bushes and the warm late-morning sun, I regained my bearings. Back inside, as the service commenced and everyone took their places animating the space with their sonorous voices and their purposeful presence, I resigned to leave behind the ghosts I had imagined in the shadows of the stairwell behind the altar. Imagination is not that easily quelled, however, and the contradictions and mysteries of this place lingered on long after the lilacs and ladybugs cycled through the seasons of my childhood.

SIOBHAN LOCKE

The Broken Box

ADELAIDE CLARE ATTARD I press my ear up against my wall and listen. “All of the animals loved her, especially two mice named Gus and Jaq. They’d do anything for the girl they called Cinderelly.” I hear Mum’s muffled voice in the next room. For the past two nights, Mum has read my little sister, Lexi, a story. “Cinderella’s stepmother, Lady Tremaine, was cold, cruel and jealous of Cinderella’s charm and beauty. She enjoyed giving Cinderella extra chores to do, such as bathing her cat, Lucifer.” I sit and listen until she stops reading. My bum goes numb. “The end!” She declares. I hear the spine of the book crack as Mum closes it. I sprint from the matted beige carpet and onto my bed. I bury myself underneath the covers and block the light from the crescent moon that hangs outside my window. I force my cough to stay in my throat. I don’t want Mum to know I’m still awake. “Night, Lulu.” Lexi’s door creaks as Mum closes it. ~~~ The next morning, I roll around in bed. My pink tie-dye sheets stick to the back of my neck. I walk to my bathroom and turn on the light. The three lights above the mirror illuminate the lilac colour on the walls. I look at my reflection. My eyes are pink and itchy and I can’t breathe through my nose. My bangs stick to my forehead as if I just got out of the shower. My Beauty and the Beast nightgown clings to my back. I peer into my room from the hallway and glance at the blaring red numbers that shine from my Lizzie McGuire digital clock. 9:38 AM. My heart drops. I run downstairs as my hand skims the smooth, pine banister. “Hello?” I yell, as I power down the stairs. I get to the bottom step. My heart stops racing and clear snot drips out of both nostrils. Mum sits at the kitchen table and reads the Toronto Star. She holds the news in one hand, and a white mug with the Irish flag on it in the other. Mum looks up over the rims of her purple glasses after sipping her coffee. Wispy steam escapes from the top of the mug. “Well don’t just stand there! What’s all the fuss about?” I walk over to her. The floor is sticky and crumbs cling to the bottoms of my feet. “Mum, what are you doing here?” She laughs, “Well this is my house, isn’t it?” I climb on to her lap. Mum’s hair is in a messy bun. Auburn strands stick out in every direction. She wears a navy sweater that reads “University of Guelph” in yellow capital letters. Her green-checkered pajama bottoms fall past her feet. I can vaguely smell coffee and toast in the kitchen. I wipe my nose on my frilly yellow sleeve. “No Mum, I mean, why aren’t you at work?” She puts her purple-rimmed glasses on top of her head, revealing her blue eyes. 34

Usually they look like the sky, but it’s raining today. “Well, sometimes grownups go through times where they can’t find a job. It isn’t easy to get a good job nowadays.” “Does that mean we’re going to be poor?” She brings the Ireland mug up to her mouth and blows before she sips. The rim covers her slender nose. She puts the mug down. “Not exactly, Ad.” She pets my damp bangs back with her palm. “You see, as long as Daddy works, we will be okay. He can support us for a bit. Married mummies and daddies support each other in all the ways that they can.” “I guess. But does this mean you’re not going to have a job forever?” “No, silly girl!” She uses the napkin from her peanut butter toast to blow my nose. Now all I can smell is peanuts. She crumples it up and puts it on her plate. “This is only temporary. Maybe a few weeks, but Mummy’s not going to be out of work forever.” I look at her gentle eyes. There are dark circles underneath them. She looks away from me. Mum pats my bum as a gesture to get off her knee. “Well, enough adult talk. Let’s make the most of this rainy day! Obviously, you’re not going to school today. No one wants your stinky germs.” She stands up. The black plastic chair rumbles against the tiled floor as she tucks it in. She leaves the remains of her breakfast on the table and walks down to the basement. I follow her. We walk down the unfinished staircase. I step lightly, feeling for any pointy slivers. The wood stairs creak with each step I take. Mum gets on her tiptoes to reach the light string at the end of the staircase. The naked bulb flickers on. The basement smells of concrete and laundry detergent. Like a cardboard city, boxes of all sizes pile on top of each other. I reach the last step of the stairs and move onto the cold concrete floor. Mum steps over rolled up posters and my once-loved toys. Old Barbies, Easy Bake oven supplies and dollhouse furniture block her way. She kneels in front of a tower of boxes. Her thin arms struggle to lift the two boxes on top. “Need help, Mum?” “No sweet girl, Mummy’s got this.” She hugs the first box. Her sweater rises and reveals her pale tummy. Her skin looks like a thin white blanket over a rack of bones. “Ah, here.” As she lifts open the cardboard flaps, dust flutters off like snowflakes. Mum kneels at the broken box and starts pulling out books. I run over and kneel beside her. “How about you choose a book? Then we can go upstairs and read!” Mum says as she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Okay, but aren’t these books for grown ups?” She laughs. “Books are stories that take us into different worlds! Now how could that just be for grown ups?” “I guess.” I wipe my nose on my damp sleeve. I slowly reach my hand into the box of books. These aren’t the kinds of books we have in Mrs. Cameron’s grade three class. “Mum, what’s this one? That’s a scary cover.” “Oh this?” Mum brushes dust off the cover of the book with her bony hand. “It’s called Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. It’s a pretty scary story. Dr. Jekyll transforms into Mr. Hyde by using a 35

special potion. It was actually written in 1886, over a hundred years ago.” I shudder at the image on the front of the book. “The cover is too scary to look at.” The cover has a picture of a man with a top hat on. On his shoulder is a man with a green face and rotting teeth. I place it backside up into the box. I dig deeper into the box and pull out the next book I touch. It looks like the name of the book is written in dripping blood. The letters spell D-R-A-C-U-L-A. I sound out the word. Dra-kyoo-laaaa. Mum looks over at me. “I see you’ve found my favourite book.” “What’s a Dra-kyoo-laaaa?” “Well, it’s a story about a vampire named Count Dracula. He sucks people’s blood with his sharp fangs. It takes place in a big castle in Transylvania. A lawyer named Jonathan Harker travels to the castle to help Count Dracula buy a house. Then, spooky stuff happens. Maybe you’d like to read it when you’re a bit older.” I ask about the book Mum holds in her hands. There is a picture of a queen dressed in white, and a king dressed in red. A single word pops off the cover: Mac-beth. “Mac-beth?” “Yes,” Mum flips through the pages with her thumb. “This is a play written by a man named William Shakespeare. This was written almost four hundred years ago. It’s about kings and queens and battles! Three witches tell one of Macbeth’s friend’s, Banquo, that he will one day be the father of boys, who will then be the Kings of Scotland. Macbeth doesn’t like that, so he sends people to kill his best friend. There is a lot of death and betrayal. There’s more, but I won’t tell you how it ends.” “Mum! Can you read that to me, please please please?” “Really?” She laughs. “You know I would never say no to reading you something. Let’s go upstairs then.” I dash up the rickety basement stairs on my hands and feet, sprint down the cold hardwood hallway, run up the stairs to my room and jump into my unmade bed. As I wait for Mum, I look out the window. The sky is gray and fog covers the tops of houses. The clouds are swollen from rainfall. Puddles on the road start rippling as the rain sprinkles the ground. The tapping of rain hums. My light blue walls become a deeper blue as the clouds huddle together. Mum finally catches up with me. She holds Macbeth close to her chest. In her other hand is a glass of water and a silver Tylenol Cold Kids package. I can see a single purple pill hiding inside. “Okay, before I read to you, take this.” She sets the glass and the purple pill on my nightstand, right next to my digital clock. I pick up the pill and chew it. It tastes like a fizzy grape potion. “Ehk! Yuck!” “You’ve gotta take it, Ad.” I scrunch up my face, drink and swallow. Outside my window, thunder booms and lightening flashes across the sky. Mum tucks me under the covers. The rain taps at my window. Mum kneels beside my bed the way she knelt beside the box of books. She smells like Hemp lotion, baby powder and coffee. Mum takes her glasses off the top of her head and puts them on. She pinches the corners of the first few pages, turns them slowly and studies the book as if she were flipping through old pictures. She clears her throat. “Act one, scene one. A desert place. Thunder and lightning. Enter 36

three Witches,” she changes her voice to sound like the witches on TV. She scrunches her nose to get in character, “When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain?” She changes her voice again to say, “Second Witch” and changes back to the Witch Voice, “When the hurlyburly’s done, when the battle’s lost and won.” “Third witch, That will be ‘ere the set of sun.” I close my eyes and picture three witches. Each witch looks like the one from Snow White, with a hooked nose, gray hair and a black cloak. “Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble.” Mum gestures in a stirring motion and sneaks out a witchy laugh in between the lines. The rain continues to tap my window. ~~~

Every night of the week, Mum read me Macbeth. I stopped eavesdropping on Lexi’s stories.

Kinder Hours

ANNMARIE ROSELLI Across the bridge where snow meets the sea, I comb my hair while wishing I were a swan. His broad hands stroke my delicate neck, gentle and curving on the point of a star. I wake. Those same comforting hands are strangling me in the emptiness of shadow. Moonlight gives him the power to see my neck breaking, my jugular turning deep violet like the purple bedsheets of his new lover. There was a time I would have gladly fallen beyond salvation. I’d have welcomed the pain. A tailspin drop to his bed, his mouth, his body. He touched my flesh and treasure books lost their gilded words. Warm gold lines melted into my bones. His shield of dragon horn turned silk upon our pressed bodies. He was magnificent. Those beautiful lips once whispered, “I love you.” The simple act of survival taught me to fight back. How many times must I do battle. I’ve grown weary. One weakness bests another. Pain rouses conviction, but I no longer possess the courage to face morning upright. If my wand held an ounce of magic, I’d demand my mind dismiss its owner of memories. Dreams collect in a thick midnight veil, and waking hours are cloaked in cold light, light we once practiced magic in. A barred owl screeches as it lowers for a kill on the dark flattened tracks. The silver train streaks across the sky, but I’m not in a railcar. Trapped in a place that’s damning me, I will not adjust to the light. The sun is much too bright. It scorches earth and steals water. Charred holes open up into blackness and I watch all the white rabbits disappear. In darkness, I might remember the moon in kinder hours. Gentle arms cross my body where we lay together. Gold melts into my skin. His hands caress my neck. I scratch at his eyes then fly away.

ANNMARIE ROSELLI

Modern Miracle RICK BLUM

She lies across the bed propped on bared elbows blue satin dress scooped at the neck stockinged feet in the air rubbing together lasciviously You stare at her plumped, pixelated lips filling the 60” flatscreen, barely hearing the persistent pitch wafting through the musty air to your threadbare recliner beside a smoldering cigarette and alcoholic anesthetic Beguiled by the swirl of her desire you are transported to a time when a brief glimpse of a well-rounded bosom was enough to stir carnal passions to a frothy fever I’m the fix you need, she insinuates, but she is lying – the fix is not in her dimpled cheeks or smoky grey-green eyes or honey brown tangle of locks cascading over smooth, tanned shoulders The fix is a pharmacological mix of chemicals that induce blood to flow to just the right appendage at just the right time – a miraculous juxtaposition of scientific genius and capitalist greed Tomorrow, you think, I’ll do it call ol’ Doc Warner pick up the script stop at the drug store on my way home – the one on the other side of town Then, later that night when Bert has returned from the night shift at Wal-Mart and is well along on his second Bud – the one into which you crushed a small blue pill – you’ll let your robe fall open just a trace, and flash the flirtatious smile that buckled his knees and straightened his intentions 40 gauzy years ago

Poem-A-Day on Mars LARRY THACKER

You learn to find prompts in gradation: stone size, sand up to boulders, all the in-betweens, guessing comet and asteroid size, meteorite speed before impacts. Or maybe how many novel shades you might find, and words created, for that thing. You determine, as an exercise, to utilize only new words for that dominate color that should not be spoken by virtue of its majority holding on all things present: beginning with alizarin, a favorite tone, you recall, of one Bob Ross, and commence categorizing what forms of happy little alizarin copses of trees might magically come into being on the hills by morning.

Gong

VIVIAN WAGNER For Eva Its sound contains all the vibrations of the universe, stretching and expending into future and past. Mallet hits metal, and the tremors begin, radiating out like starlight, rising and falling, shrinking and expanding, speaking a language that emanates from the center of black holes, from the space between space. I heard a poet speak once, a poet with cancer, a poet who would be dead in several months. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t remember what she said, exactly. I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t quote any of her words, but she talked about creation, about destruction, about salmon dying along riverbanks and giving life to spruce, about oil spilling and orcas swimming into uncertain survival, about planets spinning into oblivion, about stars flaring and dimming. Even now, when I think of that reading, of that manifesto, of her cancer so alive and spreading, of her body wracked by pain and promise, I think of her mouth as a gong, her syllables the quiver of original sound, her eyes those of bears, witnessing invisible waves.

BRIAN MICHAEL

BOB MACKENZIE

OUR CONTRIBUTORS... Without the submissions from writers, artists, and photographers, Free Lit Magazine would not be possible! Please take the time to visit other websites linked to projects our contributors have been involved in, as well as the websites/social media platforms run by some of this issueâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s contributors: KYLE CLIMANS - Twitter ALYSSA COOPER - Website, Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook DUSKA DRAGOSAVAC - Website JAMES DUNCAN - Website BETH GORDON - Twitter ADRIANA GREEN - Website, Instagram and Twitter MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON - Website, Poetry Videos, and Facebook Group BRUCE KAUFFMAN - Finding a Voice on 101.9FM CFRC SOPHIA KING - Instagram BOB MACKENZIE - Facebook, Amazon Author Page, and Reverbnation ANNMARIE ROSELLI - Website LARRY THACKER - Website

Wa n t t o b e c o m e a c o n t r i b u t o r ? Email editor@freelitmagazine.com to get involved!

DUSKA DRAGOSAVAC & JACLYN ACRE