New Fairy Tales Issue 3
Issue 3
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Contents Letter from the Editor
page 2
List of contributors
pages 3 & 4
The tales Dream Peddlers, by Flavia Cosma
page 6
The Mock Mother, by Vanessa Woolf-Hoyle
page 8
The Parrot Prince, by Caitlyn Paxson
page 10
A Most Ordinary Boy, by Amanda Carr
page 12
Yellow John, by Alison J. Littlewood
page 14
Wedlocked, by Charlotte DeAth
page 18
Creature from the Curiosity Cabinet, by Particle Article
page 23
Letter from the Editor Welcome to our summer issue. Here in North West England it always seems to be raining whatever the season - hence the umbrella! What another treat this issue is, the wonderful thing about editing New Fairy Tales is that every day I open my inbox and have no idea what I’m going to find. There are so many good submissions that we don’t have the room to feature or that just aren’t right for a particular issue; I consider myself to be very privileged to get to read them all and I’d like to thank all of the writers out there who continue to submit their eclectic interpretations of what a new fairy tale is. In this issue you’ll find a mix of the romantic, the disturbing, the enchanting and the intriguing and all of the tales have been brilliantly illustrated by the artists to a very tight deadline. The wonder of the internet is that a group of people from across the world can work together to produce a piece of work like this and it can be enjoyed by anyone with computer access anywhere. A massive thank you to all of this issue’s fantastic contributors, they have all provided their work for free and we would love it if you would show your appreciation by making a donation to our nominated charity, Derian House, which is a children’s hospice near where I live. You’ll find the donation link on our website. I hope you enjoy this issue, online or on a beach, in the sun, rain or snow - wherever you are. Illustration on front cover by Lily Mae Martin and on this page by Mary Harris
Claire Massey June 09 Issue 3
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The Writers
The Illustrators
Flavia Cosma www.flaviacosma.com is an award winning Romanian born Canadian poet, author and translator. She has a Masters degree in Electrical Engineering from the Polytechnic Institute of Bucharest. She is also an award winning independent television documentary producer, director, and writer, and has published seventeen books of poetry, a novel, a travel memoir and three books for children. Her poetry book 47 POEMS (Texas Tech University Press, 1992), won the prestigious ALTA Richard Wilbur Poetry in Translation Prize. A collection of her fairy tales has just been published in Roumania in a bilingual (FrenchRomanian) edition. In English these fairy tales have been edited by Charles Siedlecki.
Irina Borisova graduated form the National Academy of Arts Sofia, Bulgaria after that she followed her education with a Master degree in scenography in Central Saint Martin’s College of Art and Design. She worked on a number of theatre design projects including “Cobbo” by Theatre Alibi, Exeter and “The Psychic Detective” (and those disappeared) Bench Tours Company. Her most recent group exhibition participation was The Arts Show at The Arts Club /London/. Other works include fashion illustrations and storyboards. At the moment she is working as a theatre designer for a children’s play “The BFG” by Roald Dahl at the Space /London/. Some of her work can be seen at http://irinab.ultrabook.com/.
Vanessa Woolf-Hoyle lives in London and spends her time exploring the rivers, tunnels and sewers that run beneath the streets of her beloved Southwark. She has contributed horror stories to a number of magazines including One Eye Grey and Litro. This story was inspired by the tales told by her own awesome mother.
Caitlyn Paxson is a writer and musician. Her other work has been published in Shimmer, Goblin Fruit, and Dante's Heart, and is forthcoming in Cabinet des Fees. She currently resides in Ottawa, where she is the artistic director of a storytelling series at the National Arts Centre of Canada and is working on her first novel.
Amanda Carr is a thirty-something mother of two, wife of one, and writer of many stories. She has been published in several short story anthologies, magazines and ezines, and is a member of a large online writing community. Currently, she divides her time between family, writing, and as a creative writing workshop facilitator. She is one of the founding members of the Oldham Writing Cafe, based in Greater Manchester, UK, as well as being a Preferred Author at Writing.Com.
Alison J. Littlewood has been obsessed with fairy tales ever since she first began to read. She lives in a dark, twisted forest in deepest Wakefield, England, with a white knight, a secret library and several ancient mirrors that refuse to be dusted. She writes genre fiction ranging from fantasy through to horror, but is always trying to capture the magic at the heart of a good story. Her work has appeared in Black Static, Aoife's Kiss, Thou Shalt Not... and Midnight Lullabies, among others. Visit her at www.alisonlittlewood.co.uk. Issue 3
Lily Mae Martin is an Australian visual artist currently based in Berlin, Germany. Born in Melbourne in 1983 she has spent most of her life pursuing her passion for the arts; spending her childhood drawing and writing rather than playing with other children. Lily Mae's work is predominantly figurative and she often likes to explore the division between high and low art, taking her influences from renaissance painters through to contemporary graphic artists. She works mostly in the mediums of oils, ink and pencil. You can see more of her work at: www.lilymaemartin.com. Mary Harris graduated from North Wales School of Art and Design with a BA (Hons) 2:1 in Illustration for Children’s publishing. She has entered a variety of competitions for both writing and illustrating and won the Bronze award for the Randolph Caldecott Prize (UK) 2008. She has recently started writing her first YA novel Overshadowing Darkness and hopes one day to be a published author and illustrator. For further examples of her work please visit her website www.maryjoyharris.co.uk or contact her via her email createdbythestar@hotmail.co.uk. Joanna Loring-Fisher graduated from Norwich School of Art and Design in 2001 with a BA (Hons) Graphic Design - Illustration. Inspired by family life, nature and other artists and illustrators such as Lisbeth Zwerger, Georg Hallensleben, Sara Fanelli and Marc Boutevant, Jo has more recently concentrated on illustrating and writing for children and is currently working on three of her own stories. After recently moving from Norfolk to Wiltshire Jo is drawing inspiration from her beautiful new surroundings and her work past and current as well as a few musings can be found at joloringfisher.blogspot.com.
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The Writers (cont.)
The Illustrators (cont.)
Charlotte DeAth hides in the heart of Suffolk countryside learning the lost arts of hedge mumbling and clod watching. She spends most of her free time playing with the Clueless Collective at: www.cluelesscollective.co.uk.
Sam Rees comes from the Malvern Hills but is currently living in London. He graduated from Interactive Arts in 2003. He’s a freelance illustrator and you can see his work online at www.ycnonline.com/profile/show/58673/s am_rees. As an artist he also publishes his own books and products which can be found at www.samsworld.org.uk. Sara Nesteruk is a designer based in London. She works on illustration and moving image projects for TV and print. You can see more of her work at www.saranesteruk.co.uk. Particle Article are sisters Amy Nightingale and Claire Benson. Together they create intricate, quirky sculptures of winged creatures from abandoned and reclaimed materials, both organic and manmade. Their fragile figurines often resemble insects, fairies, angels, or hybrids of these. They have exhibited their work across the UK. See their website www.particlearticle.co.uk for more details, stockists and forthcoming exhibitions.
Important Copyright Notice Copyright of all the work contained in this magazine remains with the individual writers and illustrators. The magazine is intended for personal and educational use only. Please respect copyright; all enquiries about the work contained in the magazine should be directed to editor@newfairytales.co.uk We will pass your enquiry on to the relevant writer or illustrator.
Illustration by Irina Borisova Issue 3
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Dream Peddlers by Flavia Cosma
Once upon a time, in long lost times, two dream peddlers got stranded on the rocky shores of a blue sea. These two were older people, a ragged old man, his white beard and his unkempt locks tossing in the wind, and an aged woman, her big eyes bright and deeply set, so it seemed that the whole world had been mirroring itself into them even since it began.
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No one knew where they’d come from - from which distant corner of the world - but it was clear that they must have originated in the two most opposite corners of the Earth. Because, if the little old woman came from the East, then it was absolutely sure that the old man came here from the West, or maybe it was the other way around, though this still remains to be debated… And as they were sitting on two big boulders on the shore, and as local people, curious about these two apparitions, had gathered around to listen, each of them started emptying their bags full of dreams. But for each dream they brought forth, the locals had to put a copper coin in the man’s hat, which rested on the sand between the two, because, as I said beforehand, these two were dreams peddlers, and from the very beginning everyone agreed to pay in order to listen to them spinning yarns. “I,” started the old man, and as he spoke he became taller and taller and even younger, “I, can make any woman happy.” “Ah,” sighed all the women, adorned with headkerchiefs and crimpled skirts in many colours. “Because I”, continued the old man, “I understand everyone’s care in the world, and know what to promise each woman, so that they would instantly feel loved, respected and happy.” “I,” said the old woman in her turn, “I left behind in the country where I come from, a vast forest, teeming with wild stags and playful does, magnificent lions and tigers, bears and foxes, www.newfairytales.co.uk
wolves and rabbits, badgers, partridges and pheasants, and even turtles as big as a carriage wheel. You may want to know that each of these beasts loves me dearly and can hardly wait for me to return home, so they can present themselves before me and pay me homage. “Ah,” sighed the men too, pumping out their chests and beginning to dream of great hunting games, and of rich prey with silky furs. “I,” the handsome old man continued, “I have, where I come from, a room equipped with four engines with which I can thread dreams. As soon as I sit in front of one of these devices and press a magic button, the machine will start telling me stories about the wonderful places where I have wandered in the past, about stately castles that I visited, and about kings and emperors who bestowed their friendship upon me, and invited me as a guest of 5
honor to their great festivities. And just to convince the people that he was telling the truth, the old man stooped to the ground and gathered from the shore a fistful of round stones, beautifully chiseled by the waves. In his large hands with their long fingers, those little stones changed at once into minuscule, multi colored booklets. The women, seeing these, rushed up to grab them, hid them in their bosoms and took them hurriedly home. Then, as soon as night had fallen and every one was asleep, each woman would take her magic booklet from under her pillow and start leafing through it in secret. As they did, a divine music filled their ears; and as they closed their eyes, they instantly changed back into the joyful and beautiful girls they had once been long ago. At this point the old man appeared before each of them as if by magic, transformed into a Prince Charming, riding one of his dream spinning engines, and, taking each of them by the hand, would walk with her through a mysterious town, known only to himself, with large and imposing silent houses, with lawns full of Issue 3
fragrant flowers, with white marble fountains from where water was dancing and singing under the sun’s rays, and with large parks in which one thousand stately palm trees reigned. “Choose for yourself a house that you would like to live in from now on,” whispered the old wizard, “and I will give it to you as a present. Tell me where you’d like to nestle on hot summer days; name your favorite silks, and all these wonders will be yours.” It was a beautiful and touching dream, far from everyday worries and the household’s needs, far from sickness and the tiring work of daily routine. The women awoke each morning enwrapped in an unknown joyfulness, and the stars of the previous night would be mirrored for a while in their eyes. They were much more beautiful now. Even their respective husbands took notice of this, and seeing their wives happy and content, they started competing with each other to make their spouses even happier. Joyfully the women would start humming the songs from their youth, songs that with the passing of years, they had almost
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forgotten. The days went by easier, and work didn’t seem so tiring anymore. But during this time the old woman was spinning her flock of dreams too, by the seashore. “Tell me,” she would taunt the fishermen gathered around her, “wouldn’t you like your nets to catch shells containing the most precious pearls, or some bigger oyster-gems, or other great treasures that sank, long ago, to the bottom of this sea?” “Of course we would,” the men answered, and closing their eyes let themselves be guided by the old woman. But, wonder of wonders! The old woman, walking hand in hand with these young men, became herself again suave and young, swaying like a green reed in the breeze. In her palms she gathered round pebbles from the shore, and laughing, she threw them far off onto the scintillating surface of the sea. Then the fishermen would rush to collect the stones in their nets and taking them home, they would watch them now and then in secret at night in the candles’ light, and miracle! The stones would transform themselves into precious gems and the men would fall asleep dreaming of being rich, donning expensive mantles, being surrounded by countless servants and pampered by dancers with
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undulating bodies and sparkling eyes. So day by day, as soon as they finished their assigned tasks, the women, the men and even the children of that region, crowded around the two old wizards at the sea-shore, avidly listening for hours on end to those countless dream-tales. “And please don’t forget, my dear friends,” the old wise-man advised them from time to time, “that the only condition for your dreams to become reality, is that you have to truly believe in them.” But as they appeared on their shores - one fine day the old man and the old woman disappeared without a trace. Some say that one night, during a terrible storm, a giant wave came upon them and taking them away, drowned them. Others were of the opinion that the wizards left on their own, one after another, taken by some giant birds with large steel wings and ember eyes; yet other locals say that in fact the wizards never really existed, except in the imagination of the local people, bored stiff by their uneventful lives - although most of them like to think that the two wizards had found in their bags a dream that would fit them both, and regaining finally their other half, so long searched for, held hands and wandered together to a fairy tale country, where they still live happily to this day, and where they whisper to each other those fantastic dreams, each one more fanciful than the other. The people of that region continued to dream and be happy and content with their lot in life, even after the old wizards had disappeared, Issue 3
because now they were able to build their own dreams and thus smooth their foreheads so burdened by life’s cares. During full moon nights, the girls would braid fancy wreaths from lilies of the valley, to adorn themselves the same way the old she-wizard did; and the boys started building rapid engines, with which they started cruising the roads of the island at high speed, imitating the old dream peddler, who, riding on his miraculous engine, had already entered the realm of legend. But, it happened that one time, a morose king took the helm of that country, a king who was never satisfied with anyone or anything, and who couldn’t understand why his subjects were so happy. Extremely curious, he gave an order to his servants to enquire through the crowds about this matter and to come with an answer right away. The servants brought back news that, in the region, there were some enchanted stones that made people dream the most beautiful dreams and allowed them to be full of good will and joyful always. The king, who had never, ever dreamt one single time in his entire life, and didn’t have a clue about happiness, ordered that all these stone be gathered and be thrown back into the sea. Afraid of the king’s wrath, many obeyed and gave up their stones, or threw them themselves into
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the water. But many more didn’t listen to the royal command and carefully hid the magic stones, which, truth told, weren’t different in any way, shape or form from the ordinary pebbles of the shore. They bestowed the stones as a precious inheritance to their children – for the joy and happiness of their descendants - together with the fantastic tale of the two dream peddlers. This tale would be passed on from father to son and be told at length by grandmothers to their grandkids, during the long winter nights when they sat by the fireplace and spun their flocks of dreams, until the little children, tired by the day’s fun and games, fell asleep with smiles on their faces.
Illustration by Irina Borisova
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The Mock Mother A Cautionary Tale by Vanessa Woolf-Hoyle
Stella and Harry were twins, and their flat was so small that their Mummy had to sleep on a sofa bed in the living room. However the great thing was that it was very high up, and out of their window they could see the London Eye, far away, slowly turning. When they looked directly down, the people walking along their street seemed to be as small as your thumbnail. Stella was a gorgeous little girl with brown eyes like chocolate buttons. Harry had green eyes and he liked fighting. Their Daddy was the richest, bravest, most exciting, most handsome man in the whole of England, but they didn’t know where he lived and they never saw him. Mummy wore a long blue skirt right down to the floor, and her long brown hair hung loose over her back, except when she was working at Asda, which was most days. She was as skinny and floppy as an old stick of celery, a coincidence, because celery was her favourite food. Every evening, she would pick the twins from After School Club, kiss them, take them home and cook their dinner. Then she would clean and tidy. Every evening, Stella and Harry would ask her for chips, and she would say no. They would ask for Alien Battle Guns and Princess Lipstick and new shoes with Issue 3
toys in the soles and a trip to Thorpe Park, and she would say no. Then Harry would smack her as hard as he could and Stella would scream until her eyes went pink. But Mummy never got angry. She just wrung her pale hands and said, “Oh my dears, my dears! Please don’t be naughty or I shall have to go away and the Mock Mother will come!” The children didn’t listen. They just thought Mummy was stupid because she kept her books in the bathroom, ate vegetables and never ever got in touch with Daddy. One day Harry was feeling so angry, he dropped her favourite book down the toilet. When Mummy saw it, all covered in wee, she didn’t get angry, no. She just wrung her hands and said, “Oh my dear, my dear, please don’t be naughty, or I shall have to go away and the Mock Mother will come!” Harry stuck his tongue out.
One night, Stella was sick of coleslaw. She threw it on the sofa, splat! As the sofa was also Mummy’s bed, you might have thought Mummy would lose her temper this time, but she www.newfairytales.co.uk
didn’t. She just wrung her hands and said, “Oh my dear, my dear, please don’t be naughty, or I shall have to go away, and the Mock Mother will come!” The twins had their eighth birthday at Surrey Quays bowling. They had pizza to eat, and all their friends from school came. Mummy had made them a cake shaped like a heart, and they both had piles of presents. Only one thing was missing. There was no Daddy. Stella and Harry were outraged. They glared. They sulked. They stamped. They didn’t say ‘thank you’ one single time. On the bus home, Stella gave Mummy such a kick that she got a bruise as big as a potato under her blue skirt. When they arrived at the bottom of their flats, she said, “I hate you Mummy!” “So do I!” Harry yelled. Mummy didn’t reply. She just carried the bags upstairs, let the children inside and then she turned around and went straight back out of the door. Stella and Harry looked at each other. Together, they ran to the window and gazed down. Fairly soon they saw the tiny figure of Mummy, with her long hippie hair and her floor-length skirt, walking quickly out of the flats and away down the streets. “Yay!” Stella shouted. “Good riddance” Harry cheered. Luckily for them they weren’t hungry that night. They stayed up late. They didn’t have a bath. They didn’t even bother with pajamas. The next morning Mummy was still gone. Stella and Harry turned on CBeebies and lay around, feeling rather sick. 8
“I wonder when Mummy’s coming back?” Harry said. “I think I need some of that pink medicine.” “I’ll have a look” Stella went to peer out of the window, but the street below was empty. “I’ve got a bellyache!” Harry moaned. “And I want some clean clothes.” Stella and Harry tried to work the washing machine, and they looked for the medicine, but they had no luck with either. All they did was turn their flat into a greater and greater mess. By the afternoon, they were both sitting with their noses pressed to the window, looking at the street below. “I’m going to make Mummy a card.” Stella said suddenly. “I’ll say ‘welcome home’. When she comes.” Harry agreed. So they found some pens and paper and made the most elaborate cards. But Mummy didn’t come back. It was starting to get dark before they saw a figure coming up the road towards the flats. “Look Harry!” Stella called. “Look- I think it’s Mummy! She’s coming back!” Harry went to fetch the card he’d made, and Stella started jumping up and down happily. Meanwhile, far below, a figure walked up the street towards them. A figure with long brown hair, and a floor length blue skirt. A long tail stuck out from under the skirt, dragging along the floor. The figure clacked its big wooden teeth as it went into the block of flats and began to climb the stairs…
Illustration by Lily Mae Martin
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The Parrot Prince by Caitlyn Paxson
Once upon a time, in a land where the trees grew tall and housed all manner of strange creatures, there lived a girl. She had no father and no mother, but lived with an old witch woman, deep in the forest. The witch woman had found her in the hollow of a tree when she was no more than a baby, and was kind to her. She taught her how to make oils that would cure burns, and how to charm fat green snakes down from the trees and twine them about her arms. Behind her hut, the witch woman kept a cage which was woven out of vines and branches. Every so often, she would take the girl out into the thick forest, and tell her to sing. When the girl sang, rainbow feathered birds of green and blue and yellow flew down from the tree tops and settled on her shoulders. They kept the birds in the cage until the bone men came to take them away. The bone men frightened the girl with their spears, and they often wore bright feathers, which made her think that they must kill the birds. This made her sad, and she often Issue 3
watched the birds at their play, and wondered what it would be like to fly. But she ate the wild pig meat which the men brought, and continued to lure birds with her song. The witch woman herself never went into the cage. She was afraid that the birds would curse her, and steal away her powers. She always sent the girl to take food to the birds, and sing to them so that they would not scream through the night. One day, when the air was heavy and green, the girl went out into the forest to dig for roots. Without thinking, she hummed to herself as she ground at the dirt with a stick. The sound of wings fluttering made her look up, and there before her was a man. He was young and strong, and at first she was afraid that he was one of the bone men. But the bone men all had hair of the darkest black, and this man’s hair was bright red like jungle flowers. She offered him her hand, and they passed the day together in the forest. He told her that he had travelled from far away in the forest, where he lived up in the tree-tops with his people. Once when he was small, he went up to look out over the canopy, and he saw forest that stretched out to the ends of the earth in either direction. One day he decided to try to find the place where the forest ended, and he had been travelling ever since. The girl told him that she would be afraid to climb so high, for fear that she would jump and try to fly away. Then she laughed, and so did he, and she saw that the inside of his mouth was as black as the earth under rotting logs. When the forest grew dark, and the night creatures www.newfairytales.co.uk
began to come out, the man said that he must go, but that he would remain nearby and see her again the next day. The girl ran home, and the witch woman scolded her for staying out so late. She warned her that if she stayed out in the forest at night, the Jungle Man would catch her and take her away to be his bride. But the girl only smiled. She met the red-haired man as often as she could, and she grew to love him. He had a way of clacking his tongue when she made him laugh, and he could crack kenari nuts open with his teeth. He told her stories of the sky, and described the clouds he had seen from the tree-tops. Once day, when the wild pig meat was almost gone, the witch woman told the girl that it was time to sing-in the birds. The girl had hoped to see the red-haired man that day, but she could not disobey the witch woman, and so they went off into the forest together. The girl opened her mouth to sing, and she could not help but think of the redhaired man, and the thought of him filled her song with
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joy. Even the witch woman found herself drawn to the girl, and remembered a time long ago when one of the bone men brought her a necklace, which he said was carved from the bone of a fish that was as long as the trees were tall. From high up, a single bird began to make its way down towards the girl. She gasped as she saw it flying towards her, for it was unlike the the birds she usually caught. The rainbow birds of the jungle were yellow, and green and blue, but this bird was a brilliant red, that caught the light so that it shone like flame. He landed on the girl’s shoulder, and nestled close to her neck. She reached up her fingers to stroke his feathers, and he hung down into the crook of her arm, tangling in her long hair. The witch woman was pleased. The bone men would give them many pigs for a red bird. This made the girl sad, for from the moment she had seen the bird, she had wanted to give it to the red-haired man. The witch saw her expression, and tried to take the bird away from the girl, and carry it on her own shoulder, but the bird snapped at her, and she let it be, for fear of its magic. The girl did not want to put the bird into the cage, but the witch woman threatened to put a spell on her, and make her turn into another red bird, and sell her to the bone men, too. The girl was afraid of the witch woman’s powers, so she put the bird into the cage. It fought to stay on her, climbing from shoulder to shoulder, and then tried to fly away. She hummed to it, and it finally settled onto a branch. When the girl left the cage, the bird flew to the Issue 3
door, and hung there, staring at her. She went away to do her chores, and when she returned, the bird still hung from the door. Days passed, and the red-haired man did not meet the girl in the forest. She decided that he had grown weary of her, and had once again set off to find the forest’s end. She sat in the cage, holding the red bird in her arms, wishing that the man had asked her to go with him to find the end of the forest. The red bird cackled and muttered, as if it wished to speak to her, and she sang songs to calm it. On the day the bone men came, the air was wet and heavy. The bone men looked at the red bird, and drew back in fear. They told the witch that they would not take the red bird into the forest with them, for it carried powerful magic, and would turn against them. The witch woman flew into a fury, and told them that they would take the bird with them, and that they would give her many pigs for it, even if she had to kill it herself. The bone men agreed, and the witch woman went into her hut and fetched her magic stick, with which she could kill the bird without fearing its powers. The girl began to cry, and begged the witch woman to let her keep the bird. The witch woman told her that unless she wanted to starve and die out in the forest, she would hold the bird still. The witch woman swung the stick to hit the bird, but just before she struck, the girl turned with a cry, shielding the bird with her body. The witch woman’s stick hit the girl across the head. A blossom of red began to form on the girl’s head, www.newfairytales.co.uk
and as the blood ran down her hair, it changed color, turning her hair from black to the bright red of jungle flowers. The witch woman and the bone men watched as the girl began to change. She grew smaller, and her arms spread wide as the blood ran down them and fanned out, red across her skin. Then she was gone, and in her place was a red bird. The two birds took to their wings, and flew off into the forest, far away from the bone men and the witch. They flew together in search of the forest’s end, and perhaps they are flying yet.
Illustration by Mary Harris
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A Most Ordinary Boy by Amanda Carr
walls about where it came from, how big it was and what minerals it was made up of. He would use coal and soot to write on hides at the tannery about how many heifers were led to market, and how many cows. If he found a stick he would write in the sand about silica, rockpools, flotsam, and jetsam. Do you know what else he wrote?" "I know! I know! Well, I know what he didn't write -he didn't write spells!" "You're a clever boy, Hesmoth. That's right. He wrote such wonderfully ordinary things: things about the weather, about what seasonal vegetables were ripe, what the hunters were
catching, who was marrying who, who was the most important person in the village and how many sheep he had." "And what time the tide came in and went back out again -- don't forget that one." "I won't -- and what time the tide came in and when it went back out again." She patted Hesmoth's tail with her own to quell his excitement before continuing, "Now, one day a fairy princess from a far off land came sailing over the sea to pick a husband. The boy was now a young man, but no one thought that he would present himself to her court as he was not in the slightest
Hesmoth, the baby dragon, dreamed of being human. He asked his mother to tell him his favourite fairy tale again. She smiled, the grey scales around her eye creasing at the corners. "Okay, little one, but you must drink your lava and eat your coal first. Then, come and snuggle up to me in the nest and I'll tell you all about The Boy Who Wrote." He dutifully gobbled up his coal and settled down to wait for sleep in the crook of his mother's paws. "Once upon a time there was a little boy --" "Smaller than me?" "Much smaller than you. He was no higher than your flanks. This little boy was very special; there was nothing magical about him, whatsoever." "Couldn't he even breathe flames?" "Nope. And he couldn't even fly. He was the most ordinary boy in every way, except... he could work words on any subject." "Anything?" "Anything! If he found a pebble, he would scribe on Issue 3
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bit magical. But when the day came for the handsomest bachelors to attend the princess's ball, he arrived in stately fashion and joined the suitors' table." "Could he dance?" "Atrociously. He stood all over the princess's dewdrop slippers and smashed them to pieces." "Could he sing?" "Like a crow. All the ladies fainted." "Could he recite poems?" "With no passion and much stumbling. The fairy king had to leave with a headache. "But when it came to the close of the evening and the entourage made its way down to the boats in the harbour, he ran in front of the party and begged them to wait for one more hour. The guards made ready to dispatch him, but the princess was curious, 'Why should we wait, boy? The moon is fat, and the waters calm.' "'Aye,' he replied, 'they look calm now, but in a short while they will split with the tide; the great whirlpool will wake and smash your ship with more ease than I did your dew-drop slippers. Wait only an hour and you will be safely home.' "The princess looked to her father, her father looked to the wizards, and they looked to the townsfolk. Eventually, the town's chief nodded to the princess. 'If anyone would know the turn and twirl of wave and tide then it is this most ordinary boy. He has not one ounce of magic in him, but he watches, notes, and records the workings of the world around him.' "Upon this confirmation the princess took the boy's hand and declared him a fitting husband, much to the Issue 3
chagrin of the other suitors who had danced so lightly, sung so beautifully, and recited so diligently. 'Why him?' they cried. And the princess answered, 'He has saved my life, and so it is his to keep. A day will come when my feet ache from dancing, my voice creaks with age, and the words of poems leave my memory, but at least I will have a husband who watches, notes, and records the working of things.' "And they lived happily ever after." "Can you tell it to me again?" "Tomorrow night, little one. Now is time for sleeping and dreaming." "I hope I have the most ordinary dreams in all the world!"
Illustration by Joanna Loring-Fisher www.newfairytales.co.uk
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Yellow John by Alison J. Littlewood The valley folk knew something was wrong, although they did not speak of it: not in words. They spoke about it in the look that passed between them as they drank a new child's health. Green eyes, the look said. Yellow hair. Traits that ran in the valley. Something to do with old blood and fields and rivers and trees and the mines, where some delved for blue john, a stone that looked black as pitch in the dark. The children with green eyes and yellow hair ran with the others in the schoolyard, laughing and playing. Anyone watching might have thought that a good many were related. But no one spoke about that.
Kathleen already knew Gill's intentions. It was in the way he glanced at her at church, a will-I won't-I look, like drizzle that can't quite decide to rain. Gill had been in her class in school. She always noticed his broad hands. His father, Don Mayhew who owned the river farm, had hands like spades. But Gill's were sensitive too, the bones finely turned like stairway spindles. When they left the church and the women gossiped about how the cheese was coming, the quality of the corn, and the fineness of the summer, Kathleen said she was going for a walk. "Don't go far," her mother said. "Not in your best." Issue 3
Kathleen strode up the rise to the woods, without looking back, her heart thudding. The woods were sweet. Bluebells had finished flowering but here and there Kathleen caught their scent, like the ghosts of flowers. Beech trees rose like grey pillars, solid and yet graceful. If they had spirits, they would be maidens, she thought. Strong ones, with bows in their hands. She heard the distant cries of sheep, the trill of the river pouring over the crags at Sour Milk Fosse, and the sweet sound of birdsong. When the birds stopped singing she knew he was standing behind her. "Gill?" She whispered, and her arms prickled. Boots rustled through the grass. Hands reached around and covered her eyes. "Gill?" No reply. Above, the single, sweet note of a blackbird. Kathleen felt his touch, listened for his breath. His hands were clumsy. He had bumped her nose when he reached for her. "Not Gill," she said, shaking him off. She whirled and saw the son of Smithson, the tanner. Her mouth fell open. He held something out. It shone in the sun, dangling on a silver chain. "It's from Gill," he said. She held out her hand, palm flat, as though feeding apples to the horse. He dropped the chain into it and walked away. It was blue john, the stone that was found here and nowhere else. Some said it was put here a gift, although they never said from whom. Sometimes it was blue, sometimes purple, and sometimes slate grey. www.newfairytales.co.uk
Sometimes it was yellow, and sometimes all the colours at once. "They should call it purple john," children would say. "Or stripy john. Or yellow john." "Stop it," Kathleen always said. "That's not its name." Yellow john. Where had she heard that before? She didn't like it. This stone had delicate threads of grey and yellow, like sunshine peeking through storm clouds. She closed her hand over it, the rough edges scraping her palm. She didn't care. It was hers, and soon she would be his. Later he came knocking, to speak to her father. Kathleen skipped to the door wearing the necklace. "It's all right, Dad," she said. "We're going for a walk." She slipped her hand into Gill's arm. "You don't mind, then?" he asked. "You're foolish, Gill Mayhew," she said. "But nothing I can't put right." "Is that a yes?" "It may be, when I'm asked. And when you've explained your silliness. Shyness, was it?" "I just wanted to be sure you knew it was me." "Who else would it be?" she exclaimed. "What do you think I am?" He swallowed. "There's a legend," he said. "Yellow John. He's supposed to come out of the forest at Midsummer Eve, only he doesn't look like himself. He takes the shape of someone from the village, someone who's about to wed. And he goes to the lady, and - well, they don't know, do they. They can't tell the difference. So-" his voice tailed away.
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Kathleen shook her hand free. "What are you trying to say?" "It's not that I doubt you. It's just - how many bairns do you see with green eyes and yellow hair? They say it's the valley, it's what we're like. But do you think that's true?" She snorted. "Lots of people look that way. And they have children, and so their children look like that. I never took you for fanciful." "So why is it always the first?" "What?" "Always the first child. Never the second or the third. And it doesn't matter what the parents look like. It's as though..." She raised her hand to slap him, then the anger faded. "That's ridiculous," she said. "But it's true, I think. He comes out of the woods. And it's nearly Midsummer. I just wanted to be sure you'd know the difference." She tutted, put her hand on his arm, and pulled him back towards the house. "Are you angry?" "No. I'm going to tell my father I'm getting married. Then I'll start knocking some sense into you.�
It wasn't like Kathleen to worry, but worry she did. What worried her was the shape of Gill Mayhew's hands. It was the only thing that betrayed his friend to her. And if the man of the woods could look like anyone, how would she know? Hands could be copied. Of course, if he came to her before the allotted time, she should refuse. But it troubled her all the same. If the creature could mimic anyone, what other powers might it have? What if she Issue 3
could not bring herself to turn him away? And so, on the day before Midsummer Eve, she packed a dress, a comb, and a towel. She put them in a backpack and set out. The woods were fresh and green, and leaves danced in the breeze. But Kathleen did not pause until she reached the Peak, where Sour Milk Fosse thundered over the crag. She set down her pack, feeling the cool spray wet her face. Then she strode into the water. It was as though she had been struck deaf. She could no longer hear the cries of sheep from the valley, or the lowing of cattle. Everything was drowned out by the roar of the water. Kathleen edged closer to the waterfall, braced herself, and put her head under. Soon she was shivering from head to foot. She made herself stay a while, though, thinking of Gill, and her wedding, and the shape of his hands.
On Midsummer Eve Kathleen could not sleep. She waited by her window while the moon rose high. The farmyard was lit in silver, the stars were clear, and the man in the moon wore a look of mischief. She glanced towards the woods and saw that someone was looking at her. His blue eyes sparkled in the moonlight. In a moment he stood beneath Kathleen's window, and he called to her in a honeyed voice. It was deeper, richer than she remembered, and made her shiver. Such a voice. Who'd have thought Gill would have such a voice? He didn't sound like that when he sang in church. He beckoned. www.newfairytales.co.uk
Kathleen slipped out of her room, down the stairs, and out of the door. She put out a hand and Gill wrapped his own around it. His hands were broad but sensitive, and Kathleen wondered what it would be like to feel them upon her body, touching her secret places. She walked with him towards the forest. It was cool under the trees. It made Kathleen more conscious of the way their hands entwined, warm and snug like mice in a burrow. "You will soon be mine," he said. She knew that it was true. "Add you'll be bine," she said. He started at that but put out a hand anyway, taking her chin and raising her lips towards his. Kathleen shivered, not knowing if it was anticipation, or nerves, or the cool of the night. Really, Midsummer Eve or no, there was bitterness in the air. "Achoo!" she cried, showering Gill with spittle. "Oh," she said. "I'be zorry." He grimaced. "'S just a liddle cowd." Gill backed away. For a moment, Kathleen could have sworn that his eyes weren't blue at all: they were a deep, vivid green. "Look," said Gill. "It's a bad idea. We should wait for the wedding night, an' all that." And with three bounds he vanished into the trees. Everything around Kathleen grew still. Only the leaves over her head seemed to move in the breeze and whisper, "Fool...fool...fool." Then she realised something strange. When Gill had made his apologies, he hadn't sounded like Gill any more, at all.
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Kathleen lifted the bundle to her face and stroked the babe's cheek. He's solid, she thought. He'll be helping Gill on the farm before we know it. She smiled up at Gill. The child's nose was a little like his, a little like hers. He had Gill's eyes, though, and his lips. She felt the child's hands. Broad for a bairn's, but fine and sensitive. She smiled at Gill. It seemed they could never stop smiling. That night, while Kathleen dozed, she thought she heard a sound, floating in through the window. It was silvery and soft, and sent a shiver down her back. No, not a shiver, she thought. A chill. That's what it was. A chill. "My name is Yellow John," it said. "And I'm coming for your son." She sat upright, every nerve fixed on the sound. She fancied she heard the sighing of trees. And then there was only the steady breathing of her child. It calmed her. She rubbed her eyes. She was tired, that was all. After a while she lay down, buried her way into the bedclothes and closed her eyes.
Gill Junior grew ever more like his father. His cheeks were ruddy and his brown hair shone in the sunlight. But every year, on his birthday, Kathleen woke in the night to hear someone singing. "My name is Yellow John," it said. "And I'm coming for your son." "But when?" she thought. "And how will I stop you?" While Little Gill slept, she worried. While he played, she worried. When his sister Issue 3
came along, her clear blue eyes so like her brother's, she worried. Worry put white darts in Kathleen's hair and lined her forehead. She did not care, as long as he left her son alone. Then one day Kathleen went to call on her mother with the new child in her arms, and bade Little Gill come with her. "I won't," he said, and ran into the yard, snagging his trousers on the gate. "Gill Mayhew, come here this minute," she said. In a second her husband was at her side: but Little Gill was running around, chasing the dog's tail. "Oh, leave him be," said Gill Senior. "I'll watch him. Only don't be long: I need to mend the gate in five acre field." Kathleen nodded. It was almost Midsummer, and soon the farm would keep him too busy for such things. She set out. It was a beautiful day, the sun riding high. Her mother's garden was full of murmuring bees and bright, cheerful flowers. The baby reached for them, laughing. There was little wonder that they tarried. At last the sky faded, and Kathleen realised she should have been home long ago.
The house was still when Kathleen returned, her face red with exertion. "Gill?" she called. "Gill!" There was nothing. She glanced into the kitchen, and it was empty. She looked into the yard and saw a shape sobbing on the ground. She rushed outside. It was a little boy with brown hair, but it was wet and plastered to his head. He heaved with sobs and his whole body shook. Kathleen pulled him into her arms. www.newfairytales.co.uk
"What is it, Little Gill?" She said, but he did not answer. He felt heavy, and drenched through, and cold. She was drying the boy, turning his skin red with rubbing, when her husband came in. "Where were you?" she cried. "Why did you leave him?" "What do you mean?" Kathleen's cheeks flamed. "Why couldn't you wait? He's your son. Why did you leave him all alone?" Gill frowned. "But I didn't," he said. "You came for him. You said you'd left the baby with your mother. You said you were taking him for a walk." Then Little Gill tried to talk through chattering teeth. "W-w-went in the waterfall," he said. "Went in the wwaterfall with Mummy."
Kathleen pulled the veil down over her eyes. It was Midsummer Eve, and her son was dead. His chill had turned to fever, and finally stilled his breath. She crept downstairs and out of the door. The night was fine and clear. It was Midsummer Eve, and somewhere, Yellow John was walking. Kathleen felt in her pocket, fingering the blade she had hidden. She would find him and she would have his heart. She slipped under the canopy of the woods and found herself in darkness. Not knowing where she went, she began to walk. Trees rustled. There came the small death squeal of some creature, taken by an owl. And somewhere, before she realised it, someone had begun to sing. "My name is John Yellow And no matter where you go 16
You'll never catch me, no, ho-ho." The sound led her onward, although it made Kathleen feel drowsy and strange. It was as though the stars had come down and were swimming inside her head, making everything tingle. Still she walked, until she came to the waterfall where she had once bathed. She blinked, and a man was standing before her. He wore the colour of leaves, his hair was yellow, and his eyes were green as emeralds. He held out his hand. Kathleen, as though in a dream, went into his arms. "You cheated me once," he said, and his voice was like coming home. "Not again," she whispered. "Never again." He stroked the grey in her hair and it was gone. He touched his lips to her forehead and it was clear and unlined. Then he bent to taste her lips. She felt his hands in hers, the bony hardness of them, as though he had twigs beneath the skin instead of bones. And then Kathleen remembered and reached for her pocket. She took the knife and pushed it deep into his side. It crackled as though passing through autumn leaves. There was no blood. His side was open and there were layers inside like loam and clay, something that gleamed grey and purple and yellow. He began to sing. "I am John i' the woods And John i' the fields I am John i' the earth beneath your feet You cannot kill me."
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"You took my son," Kathleen said. "And I shall kill you." Her hand sank deep into his body as though into wet, cold earth, and took root there. She tried to pull away but she could not: and so she pushed it deeper still, feeling coldness seep up her arm and into her flesh. Slowness crept up from the earth. It was dark and old as time. She felt the way the earth turned, causing one season to pass into the next, and the steady, ancient growth. Her body fell still, growing stiff and ungainly, until an age passed, and finally, she fell asleep.
Gill and his daughter left the church. She was tall and shapely, her cheeks blushed like ripe apples. The sun shone, and Gill noticed a young man watching her. He smiled. The village children ran past him, squealing. Their hair was black, or brown, or tawny. There had not been a yellow headed child with green eyes for many a year, though no one spoke of it. Gill's daughter pulled away. "I'm going for a walk," she said, and slipped her hand into the young man's arm. www.newfairytales.co.uk
Gill knew where they were going. He wondered if the lad would give her a gift. Blue john, maybe, streaked with grey or purple: but never yellow. They only found the stone in dark colours, now. They headed for the woods. After a while they would reach a waterfall, where two trees grew, each entwined with the other. Gill knew the place as Sour Milk Fosse, but it was called something different now. Lover's Fall, they called it, the young folk. Where two willows grew together, where no tree had grown before: weeping willows, trailing their leaves in the water, as though reaching after something they both had lost. It was a place only visited by the young, now. The old felt different when they passed by. Something cold, like a shiver. And they only glanced at it, a passing glance that said everything they needed to say, and nothing more.
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Wedlocked by Charlotte DeAth
canto 1
the midnight circus had come and gone like midnight but without the chimes
all the village had been there their wide eyes caught in the glances of silver glints of flashes and of shiny things the quickness of the hand the gestures to deceive they gasped they squealed they applauded they roared in all the right places
the circus then left disappeared in the mist no one now remembers the occasion or the flying girls as far as the village was concerned it had all never existed just a moment in time spun into candyfloss dreams when in their beds a sleepy blur sleeping
a dream of mystery making then day broke and the residents awoke in sadness some even climbed down from their beds crying no one was ever happy again
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canto 2
except john and mary stoves were not bewitched by the call of the circus they didn’t care to be entertained or astounded their empty hearts couldn’t bare it
it was the sadness of everyday things a tea cup with a broken handle leaking hot water bottle the barrenness of a never used room collecting the dust of dried tears year after futile year
that morning as those around them stabbed at their grey porridge with dull spoons dressed themselves in gloom fearing a smile because of the pain it brought john and mary were the happiest couple alive a child a baby to be precise left on their doorstep wrapped in a gypsy cloth with a note attached to mary and john please look after the boy love him as your own john and mary called him jack and jack became their son
canto 3
there was nothing but the ordinary about jack as the child grew to a boy and the boy grew to a man or at least so it would seem
from an early age jack had understood the it was his nature to understand part of his very being or even his heritage
lost hour
as if
at first jack would use the lost hour for amusement or mischief putting things in the wrong places helping himself to cakes and sweets then came the lure of shiny things
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canto 4
jack became the key collector in the dead of night in the dead of quiet down the dark lanes and in the woods jack would find dropped and forgotten keys he would creep through the cottages and search in the back of drawers climb into attics and crawl under stairs heeding the cry of a lonesome key like a wolf howl howl howling
canto 5
in his room he would listen to the stories the keys would tell of what they unlocked and what secrets were there and how they miss the locks that they were made for and so jack taught himself about locks their loyalties and reassuring presence but most of all he learnt of the intimacy they shared with keys and how the two relied on each other
no one knew of jack’s collection he kept it under lock and key under his bed
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canto 6
mostly the keys were from where he had expected the trinket boxes or old cupboards the door from a garden shed but one key one key felt heavy in his hand and when he held it his heart ached and became grey and he would echo and echo and echo and ech o from the inside out
for this key jack made many locks they all worked click click lock click click unlock but the key remained burdened and weighted and lay in his hand with an ethereal glow a sense of expectation
canto 7
it was little lizzie sitting by the village pond one overcast spring morning that click click unlocked something deep inside his being
she was watching her reflection ripple and ripple despondent her lover had gone to sea and with tears in her eyes she sang of a time when he would return to marry me
jack slowly became aware that that strange key warmed in his pocket he watched her he watched as her graceful movements charmed the space around her he watched her golden hair the colour of the key and by chance a stray glance her eyes locked onto his
that night during the lost hour he climbed into her room and watched her sleeping and he stole some softness from her hair to keep inside his silver locket
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canto 8
to lonely lizzie one day jack explained that he knew the mystery of happiness he told of his special friends who share many secrets and all kinds of private things he invited her to come and meet them
as lizzie entered the room all the keys started singing strange arias of ghostly eerie sounds spacious otherworldly and slowly hypnotically lizzie was lulled into a trance drifting somewhere else drifting into his smile into the light in his eyes as the keys sang her songs
with chains and the locks that he had made click click locked by that odd little key that felt warm and content lizzie was enslaved until the lost hour when they set off to join the midnight circus
in the shadows jack unfastened lizzie and told her click
click
locked
I have the key to your heart so you are mine and we shall live well on stolen happiness but I must have a son to whom the lost hour will belong tonight you are my bride I have unlocked your heart and let myself inside and I shall instruct you in the arts of a cut purse a thief an enchantress a seducer a not to be believed beautiful encounter for tomorrow you will become the hostess of lost loves at the midnight circus
Illustration by Sara Nesteruk
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Creatures from the Curiosity Cabinet by Particle Article
No.3
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