fable
FABLE LITERARY ZINE #2 INDEPENDENT UK PUBLISHING CONTACT FOR EDITOR HOLLIEFURNISS@HOTMAIL.CO.UK ALL ARTWORK UNLESS STATED IS BY HOLLIE FURNISS. WRITING IS BY HOLLIE FURNISS UNLESS STATED CONTRIBUTOR FOR ISSUE 2 KIRSTY LOGAN FOR MATRYOSHKA PAGES 12 - 25 2
FABLEZINE.TUMBLR.COM
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THE CONTENTS
fable issue two
INTRODUCTION
PAGE 5
KIRSTY LOGAN INTERVIEW
PAGE 6 - 7
INTRODUCTION TO MATRYOSHKA
PAGE 8 - 9
STORY: MATRYOSHKA
PAGE 10 - 25
AMELIA GREGORY INTRODUCTION
PAGE 26 - 27
INTERVIEW WITH AMELIA GREGORY
PAGE 28 - 29
POETRY BY KIRSTY LOGAN
PAGE 30 - 31
END
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fable issue two
INTRODUCTION For the second issue of Fable it was decided early on that collaboration with another writer would be inevitable. In the spirit of what Fable is and stands for, something bespoke and original but above all creative, the zine is turning into a sort of platform for other talent. The first issue was a stage for me to showcase my own illustrative talent and writing capabilities but now I want each future issue of Fable to shine the light on other creative individuals. To my great astonishment Kirsty Logan, professional and award-winning writer is collaborating with me on issue two. Prepare yourselves for literary delights and visual graphics that will bring the magical words of Logan’s world to life. To start, Fable delves into Logan’s identity and attitudes with an interview; discussing her work, new impending book and influences. Next Logan has provided Fable with her signature retelling of Cinderella, Matryoshka. A dazzling unique portrayal which will wet your inventive taste buds. The ideas behind the story are also explored with a short thesis from the author herself. Amelia Gregory from Amelia’s Magazine has always been for me an influential part of Fable as her magazine is also a successful place to celebrate creativity and talent. Therefore getting an interview with the lady herself was something I really wanted to obtain for this issue and you will find that I managed to do just that later on in the zine. Towards the end of the zine is poetry also by Logan which I feel complete the second issue of Fable with thought-provoking and inspiring content. So please, relax and indulge in what I feel is a more developed and established second issue of Fable. Hollie Furniss Founder and Editor
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FABLE INTERVIEW
fable interviews Kirsty Logan The reason Fable decided to collaborate with Kirsty Logan was down to the fact that her kind of work and ethos resonates with Fable’s. She tells fantastic retellings of fairytales and short fictitious stories that carry the same mythical and imaginative connections. Logan’s writing shows just how to do modern day retellings and after all, gone are the original greats - Brothers Grimm with their tales that form the very basis to all sequel fairytales and Angela Carter a feminist writer who had a gift for magical realism, so Logan’s new take on the traditional is refreshing. Her work strips back the fairytale principles taken from such very authors and builds on their foundations with new ideas, values and angles – that are more relevant to today. I like how you can read her work and not know exactly what story she is retelling, it isn’t about staying true to the fairytale structure but about bending fairytales to say something different, something unique. Her retellings force the reader to think about what she is trying to convey and depict how she has interpreted the original story, enchanting her readers into a land of discovery and enjoyment. Fable is built on the foundations of celebrating storytelling; all storytelling. But so far we have been specific and niche in our passions. Fairytales are where our current infatuations lie and why fairytales? Well for many reasons, they are accessible, short, full of life and description, the pinnacles of fiction and the portal to literary possibilities. However, one of the main reasons is that fairytales are at the root of literature; the idea that after drawings and music folklore was the core provider for entertainment – whether that was tribes gathered around a fire or Edwardians sat around a fireplace, nothing more than one’s voice and imagination was what it took to transfix people with tales and myths. Fairytales and folklore emphasise how storytelling is at the heart of our civilisation and communication and even though now there are new exciting ways of telling stories through film and photography for example - they are all based on the original innate desire to tell stories. It is Fable’s aim to celebrate, showcase and keep them alive - mainly through pint. It is so lovely to have collaborated with you on this issue of Fable, it wasn’t a hard decision to invite you on-board as you are a very talented individual. It is obvious from your website that you have your fingers many of honey jars from journalism to short-fiction, book reviews to magazines - even tackling your first novel but which has been the most enjoyable so far? I enjoy everything I do! It’s taken a few years for me to arrange my life in a way that suits me – I didn’t just wake up one day and become a freelance writer, I spent many boring years working in cafes and call centres while I established my voice and reputation as a writer. But now my days are spent making up stories, which has always been my favourite thing to do. I love every aspect of the writing life. When not actually putting words on the page I’m wandering around libraries, reading books and doing research for future projects. I spend the best part of the day in imaginary worlds. You have written a rather funny post online about how you had stopped editing your novel and generally do anything but. That was back in March, how is the novel coming along now and more importantly is the editing near completion? That post acted as a proper kick up the bum. After I wrote it I got back to work, and within a month I’d finished my second draft. At the moment it’s with my friend and critique partner, Helen Sedgwick, for her feedback. After that I’ll do another rewrite, then it’ll go back to my agent. I don’t know how long it’ll take to get the novel to the final draft stage, but I do feel that it’s moving in the right direction. You have started teaching too, providing advice, support and guidance to other inspiring writers and how they can crack the market by securing an agent. How difficult did you find entering and performing in the literary industry?
I found it extremely easy. Some people complain that the literary world is exclusive and cliquey, which is true to some extent – if someone asks me to recommend a good writer for a project, I can only recommend people whose work I already know. But most people in the literary world are friendly and supportive, so it’s not hard to get in. My advice to new writers is to make the most of every opportunity, because you never know where it will go, and never be self-serving. People know if you’re only talking to them in order to use them, and it’s just not nice. I’m a believer in karma, and I think that if you’re friendly and helpful to others then good things will come back to you. And always, always say thank you! Can you give Fable any sneaky information about the novel, a character’s name perhaps, the genre or even the title of the book? The novel is called Rust and Stardust and it’s a dark fairytale set on a Scottish island. The main character, Ardlussa, is trying to escape from the island while dealing with her little brother’s death by drowning. It’s got lots of magical elements like a sexy red-haired mermaid, a dangerous stranger, and a father slowly turning to stone. Who inspires you? Really gets your creative juices flowing and has influenced your career path? I’m inspired by the writers Angela Carter, Kirsty Gunn and Michelle Tea. They might seem very different, but in my writing I try for a mixture of all of them: Angela Carter’s lush feminism, Kirsty Gunn’s sensual connection with the sea and observations on growing up, and Michelle Tea’s honest, brutal, erotic explorations of queer women’s lives. Their work feels so real that I really think I’ve visited the places they write. Music is also an inspiration – Rust and Stardust was written entirely to the music of Kaki King. I must have listened to her album Legs to Make Us Longer hundreds of times, as it took six months to write my first draft. I’m currently working on a short story collection inspired by the Hole album Live Through This. Riot Grrrl is a big inspiration on my writing and on my life in general. I think that fairytales and riot grrrl sums up my writing nicely! Did you always want to be a writer and how did you begin your literary journey? I’ve always written, and it honestly never occurred to me that I wouldn’t grow up be a writer. My parents were always a big influence because they had such faith me in. They raised me in a house with a wall of books, none of which were off-limits to me – not even the ones with monsters or naked ladies on the cover. I read George Orwell’s 1984 and JG Ballard’s Crash when I was far too young to know what they were really about, selected purely because the covers looked like something I shouldn’t be reading! Although they shocked and disturbed me, I’m glad I was given the chance to read them. I had a loving, supportive childhood, so I felt safe being unnerved by fiction. While I didn’t appreciate it at the time, I see now how my parents’ trust and belief in me helped me to have faith in myself. Fable would love to know what is your all-time favourite story or stories? My favourite stories are in the collections Kissing the Witch by Emma Donoghue, Stripping and Other Stories by Pagan Kennedy, The Bloody Chamber by Angela Carter, and the anthologyGenderqueer. I also adore Amber Sparks’s story ‘The Ghosts Eat More Air’ in the anthology Shut Up/Look Pretty. You’re only 28 and yet you have managed to accumulate a lot of success already including award-winning publishing and a novel on the brink of finalisation - what other milestones do your see yourself accomplishing in the future? A book, hopefully! I have so many short stories published, and I’ve done commissions and performances and radio work and visual art, and I feel that it’s getting to be a bit silly that I don’t have a book yet. I think the problem is that I have such a short attention span, and I get excited about every new project and throw myself into it. I find it hard to sit down for a long period of time and work on a book, which is a huge project. But I feel that things are getting close to being complete. So maybe 2013 will be the year I’ll have a book. Fingers crossed... 7
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MATRYOSHKA
KIRSTY LOGAN ON MATRYOSHKA Kirsty Logan’s personal introduction to Matryoshka; a short analysis of her story which is a retelling of Cinderella that was first broadcasted on BBC Radio 4 in January 2011 The story of Cinderella is a simple one, and versions exist in just about every country in the world. Cinderella is French, and in English there’s Tattercoats, in German there’s Aschenputtel, in China there’s Ye Xian. At its heart, Cinderella is the story of a motherless girl who is treated like a servant by her cruel sisters – but through some magic (a pumpkin carriage, a white bird, a fairy godmother), Cinderella attends the royal ball in a beautiful dress. She has to be home before midnight, but as she leaves she loses her glass slipper. The prince falls in love with her, and she is finally identified because only her foot is tiny enough to fit into the slipper. I did away with almost all of those elements in my version – the only motifs I kept were a servant girl and a shoe. But because the story is so familiar to most readers, they make a strong enough connection. I love a bittersweet ending, somewhere between utter tragedy and happilyever-after, because I think that life is like that: it’s rarely terrible and it’s rarely perfect, but usually it’s somewhere in the middle. Often we get what we want and realise we don’t want it any more, or we don’t realise that we had what we wanted all along – as the heroine in ‘Matryoshka’ discovers. Although Cinderella gets her happily-everafter, but her happiness means someone else’s sadness.
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Matryoshka BY KIRSTY LOGAN
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MATRYOSHKA
Chapter 1. Elimae was a magician with a key in her mouth, a foreign language, a matryoshka doll: uncomplicated on the surface, but with a dozen secret selves hidden inside. She thought I didn’t notice her, but she’s all I did notice. All day I’d ring for iced water, sugared pastries, pots of blossom tea. Then I’d ring in the middle of the night just to see her stumble to the foot of my bed, hair twisted in rags and nightgown sleep-rumpled. I’d whisper my request so she would have to lean closer; so I could almost feel the heat from her skin. She’d bring me the extra blanket or glass of warm milk, then disappear back to her room, so tired she’d forget even to curtsey. I liked to think that my face, being the last thing she saw, smudged into her dreams. I did not know what I was to her – a tyrant, a grasping child? – but I knew what I wished to be. Elimae was a matryoshka doll, and I did not want her surface: that painted design everyone could see. I wanted to pull apart each doll until I got to the one at the centre – the tiniest doll, the only one that couldn’t be split in half.
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MATRYOSHKA
When my brother Laurent turned 21, our parents decided it was time he found a princess – or rather, that one was found for him. At 17, I still had a few years of grace before I too had to be married off. To find Laurent’s princess, our parents invited every lady in the land to a masked ball. Invitations were sent, the gold leaf indented into every letter by hand and delivered by a servant on a white horse. Responses were not necessary; no lady would miss a chance to become the next Queen. I gathered my maids a month before the ball to plan my dress, my hair, my shoes. I asked them all what they thought, but the only opinion I cared about was Elimae’s. She was excused her usual tasks to work on my slippers, stitching pearls to the soft upper until it was too dark to thread her needle. While the castle slept, I crept out of bed and pulled out the shoes, lining them up on my knees. I kissed each smooth, warm pearl, imagining I kissed her fingertips. All I could think about was the night of the ball: Elimae dressing me, arranging each ribbon and ringlet, then standing back and seeing how beautiful I looked, my delicate feet in the slippers she made. I planned to send her to bed after that, carrying my image straight to her pillow. I’d have one of the other girls undress me after the ball, so that Elimae wouldn’t see how my powder had smudged or smell the stale wine on my breath. Just for that night, I wanted to be beautiful for her.
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MATRYOSHKA
Chapter 2. Three days before the ball, and I was almost ready for display. The hairdresser had prepared a creation for my head: a cage of spun sugar around which my hair would be twisted and pinned, and which would disintegrate through the evening, scattering ringlets and glittering sugar-shards onto my bare shoulders. The dressmaker had sewn three dozen jewels onto the bodice of my gown in the stylised curls of a peacock’s tail. But the shoes remained half-stitched. I rang the bell for Elimae with every turn of the clock’s hands and asked about the shoes. The shadows under her eyes fascinated me, cinder-grey darkening to foxglove-purple. The night before the ball they were the colour of charred wood, but my shoes were almost finished. I paused before dismissing her, watching the way she swayed in fatigue, wishing more than anything that she would collapse. Then I could take care of her: tuck her into the empty side of the bed, lay my hand on her sweat-itching brow, press my lips against her needle-swollen fingertips. But I could not touch Elimae, so I had to content myself with the last thing she had touched. I slept with the shoes cradled to my chest, dreaming of her fingers on the pearls.
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MATRYOSHKA
Chapter 3. Three hours before the ball, my dressing-up game began. My serving-ladies made me into a mannequin, an invalid, a work of art. They passed in a blur, powdering and tight-lacing, but Elimae was nowhere to be seen. Finally I was almost complete, perfect from my head to my ankles. I was standing on a wooden block to allow the dressmakers to re-stitch the hem of my gown, so I had a clear view of each tired head bent over its work. I was sure that Elimae was not in the room, and I couldn’t bear the thought that she would miss my moment of beauty. I closed my eyes to hide my tears and stepped off the block – straight into my shoes. Without opening my eyes I knew that those were Elimae’s palms pressing against my heel, Elimae’s fingers easing my toes into the shoes. And, just as surely, I knew that these were not the shoes Elimae had been working on for the past month. I’m sorry, she was saying, my mistress, I could not finish. I’m sorry, I did try. Her hands were hot and dry against my ankles as she slipped my feet into the soft blue slippers I wore every day to shuffle along the polished floors of the palace. The gown is long, I thought; it will hide the shoes. I can make an excuse, I thought; tell my mother that I did not like the gleam on the pearls. I did not say these things. Elimae, I said as I stood there in my worn blue shoes. And she would not look at me.
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MATRYOSHKA
Chapter 4. I waited, alone in my room, until the vibrations from the ballroom started to shake my spun-sugar cage loose. The sounds of the orchestra and a thousand dancing feet got steadily louder as I walked along the corridors. Instead of parading down the wide arc of the main stair like the other ladies, I slipped through a side door, joining in the twirl of skirts as if I’d always been there. I made sure to take small steps to hide the scuffed heels of my shoes. I quickly found a man’s hand to hold – as long as I kept a pretty smile on my face, he wouldn’t notice my distraction. I did not even know whether I knew him – as this was a masque, his face was covered in that of a wolf. I rested my head on his shoulder, breathing in his smell of hair oil, starched cloth, and flower pollen. I felt it cloying on the back of my throat, but as long as I focused on him – the deep comb-ridges in his hair, his palm sweating onto my waist – then I wouldn’t think of Elimae. As was my habit, I was still searching every face to find hers. Silly, I know: she would be crying herself to sleep, or maybe still desperately trying to finish stitching my slippers. Perhaps I would visit her later. After the musicians had broken all their strings, after the dancers had hobbled home on tattered feet, after the whole palace was as quiet as a secret lover, I would tiptoe along the halls to Elimae’s door. The door would creak open to reveal the tableau of a wretched girl: a tear-soaked pillow, patched skirts spread out across the bed, her tiny feet poking out of the bottom. Thinking of Elimae, all ready for me to save, made me smile and pull my dancing partner closer. His sweaty hand gripped mine harder, his fingers on the bird-thin part of my wrist, making the bones grind. I pulled back, keeping my gaze carefully away from his. In the ballroom all the skirts billowed, all the bosoms swelled, but none caught my eye. The ladies’ faces were disguised as swans, deer, pampered housecats. The men had all chosen to be wolves or dogs. I kept my eyes down on the floor, watching the dull glitter of shoes twisting round one another.
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MATRYOSHKA
Chapter 5. A flash of gleaming pearl. I started, pulled away from my dancing wolf, but was dragged along by the force of bodies moving in sync. Had I imagined those shoes, those pearls I had kissed every night? I saw nothing but twirling skirts and straining backs, then – there! The gleam of pearl. I kept my eyes on the swift movement of the shoes, upwards to a froth of white skirts, a tight-laced bodice, a single pearl nestled in the swell of breasts, and a mask of pale dove feathers. As the dancer turned I examined the line of her jaw and the angle of her wrist, trying to put them together into the shape of someone I knew. Someone who would steal my most precious possession. No, I amended, my second most precious – Elimae was surely the favourite thing I owned. I kept staring at the masked dove, twirling gleefully in my stolen shoes. Belatedly I realised the identity of her dancing partner – my brother, the prince, Laurent. Dancing with the marriageable prince was surely making her the envy of the entire room. Laurent stretched out his arm to spin his mysterious partner, his smile obvious even under his lion mask. The dove turned under his arm, and as she pressed her body back against his she looked straight at me as though she had been aware of my gaze all along. I knew those eyes. Elimae. My matryoshka. Everything moveable in me rushed to my throat. I pressed my hands against the wall to keep from falling down. In the polished floor of the ballroom, the pearl shoes reflected to infinity. Had Elimae finished them and not been able to find me, and so had worn them herself only to show me how hard she had worked? Had she constructed two pairs, working double hours in secret, so that we might match? Was she dancing with my brother because he was close to me, was my same blood and flesh? I could not think. I kept my 22 back pressed up against the wall, the dancing figures blurring in front of me. The only shape I could make out was Elimae, shining clear as the north star in my brother’s arms.
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MATRYOSHKA
Chapter 6. The next day Laurent announced that he had found his princess. Elimae was displayed for the kingdom, paraded before the dukes and courtiers and footmen and swineherds. I watched from my window as she trotted through the courtyard. Her dress was so long it covered her feet, and a jewelled tiara pressed her curls flat against her forehead. I stayed in bed all that day, and all the next. Servant girls brought silver platters of boiled eggs and tiny cuts of meat from songbirds. The textures sickened me; I pushed them onto the floor. The servant girls bustled around my bed, glancing up at me when they thought I wouldn’t notice. I turned away from their faces: they all looked the same, all blank, all wrong. On the insides of my eyelids, Elimae’s pearl shoes reflected a thousand times. I heard the story carried in servants’ whispers through my door: a midnight tryst, a lost slipper, a chase across the county for the treasure of Elimae’s hand. Spittle-flecked horses and her heel sliding perfectly in. I rang my little china bell through the night, keeping my eyes closed when I heard the door open so that I could imagine her tired eyes, her sleep-rumpled nightgown. But the smell from her wrists was all wrong. I pulled the covers over my head. Two months later, they were married. As Laurent’s sister, I carried a bouquet and dabbed at my eye at the appropriate moment. Elimae wore an ivory dress and jewels in her hair. She glowed. Elimae was a matryoshka doll, and I had not wanted her surface. I’d wanted the tiniest doll, the one at the centre, the one that could not be split in half. There she stood in her snow-white dress: unbreakable. END
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AMELIA GREGORY
AN INTRODUCTION TO AMELIA I first heard about Amelia Gregory’s art and illustration magazine ‘Amelia’s magazine’ when she guest lectured at my university, I was in awe of her accomplishments and ambition. Her journey to success sounded hard and stressful, similar to many business start-ups I have heard of (and probably every one in general) however, what was clear from her lecture was her enthusiasm and love for what she had created. I envied that and in turn it inspired me to create something different that was totally my own vision, uncompromised by the creative industry. Therefore, when the opportunity arose to make a zine during a university project I was excited by the possibilities. Consequently Fable was born. Fable was always meant to be a one issue run but I was encouraged by others to continue it. It is one of the greatest feelings to give life to a vision, enjoy it, love it and continue it with the support of others. The future of Fable is uncertain however, no matter how many issues I do, it will always be something that I did with pride and appreciation. Above all, its real success lies in its collaborators, contributors and readers who I offer my greatest thanks and love. Therefore, I need not explain how grateful I am to Amelia Gregory for taking the time to do an interview for Fable after unknowingly being such a big part of its creation. 27
FABLE INTERVIEW
fable interviews Amelia Gregory How important do you feel storytelling is to people and more importantly why? Stories are an immensely important part of the human psyche because they enable us to transfer sometimes difficult ideas in an understandable and often entertaining way. With the rise in technology there are more various ways than ever to discover creativity, whether that be in the form of the written or visual modes how do you feel about the merge of print and digital media? It’s inevitable, so the most innovative creatives are getting very good at making the best of every medium. Do you prefer the printed or the electronic versions of publications? I like both for different reasons - print for its tactile and long lasting, collectable appeal - digital for its immediacy and ease of sharing. Fable is a zine that has a passion for fairytale retellings, new folklore and fiction, what is your favourite story and why? I don’t think I have a favourite, but I love the classic fairy tales: great for illustrating! Are there any publications you read at the moment that you think are inspiring? I don’t get much time to read at the moment - although I do follow links to interesting articles that I find on social media… Finally, now you have a beautiful baby boy, what are your plans for the future, in terms of Amelia’s magazine and any other part of the work you do alongside the magazine? Amelia’s Magazine will continue as best I can whilst caring for my child: but he comes first now. I’m also starting as a permanent Senior Lecturer in the Creative Industries at Middlesex University soon, working one day a week to help connect students with their various industries. I’m looking forward to that!
www.ameliasmagazine.com @ameliasmagazine
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POETRY BY KIRTSY LOGAN
Sewing The Labyrinth She will sit and she will stitch. Penelope sewed for love; those unnamed girls – sister of swans, spinner of straw to gold – sewed for their lives. Sold into tangles made by mothers, the endless edge of the coin between women. If girls have keys for fingers then locks cannot hold them. Now Ariadne has her thread, golden as porridge, and she too must sew. For love, for life, to be another man’s wife, she forces fistfuls of gold into keyholes. The desertion of man makes a hero, but mothers must build their homes from birth-red dirt and branches sap-bled. A thousand pomegranate seeds will make a fireplace. A bull made of gowns, a beast stitched from slippers: this is the task that will make a woman a myth. Now she will sit and she will stitch because that is what girls must do.
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Leda after the Swan tick of ballbearings tack of spoons in a drawer clack of polished boules some mornings I lie too still for breath so still that they are still. I do not jerk up to sirens birds doorbell shouts hello hello through the letterbox hello those mornings I lie until I hear their applepip beaks tick tick ticking past my womb and my appendix my spleen and my cervix along tubes and funnels and meatlumps (my body a phonograph, a flowerpot) tick tick ticking to escape hush, babies. we will.
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