Gossamer

Just like that, the two quickly became inseparable. Nightshade gave Blackberry a gossamer spider-silk dress of her own and a shared passion for the delightful art of fashioning garments together. In turn, Blackberry taught Nightshade the feeling of heart-palpitating wonder that comes with going on adventurous forays. But always within the vicinity of Nightshade’s home—a delightful creekside pebble-filled alcove that started to feel increasingly like a prison as the summer days wore on. But for reasons unknown to Blackberry, Nightshade refused to leave.

And suddenly, the last puzzle piece fell into place as Blackberry realized why the snake had run away at the sight of her and why Nightshade had no friends. Her mouth stung, her pupils dilated, her stomach was on fire.

Her vision blurred as she surrendered herself to the inevitable. “If I die, will you envy the Earth that embraces me for eternity?”

“The devil will cower when he hears my name after I’m done fighting with him for your soul,” Nightshade promised resolutely. And so it went, a summer spent side-by-side, full of stolen glances and touches that lingered for a little too long and a fascination with the lithe curving movements of one another’s bodies. Blackberry found herself fascinated by the thin tendrils of hair that would curl around Nightshade’s head in the morning fog, illuminated like a halo in the morning light.

Her hair was curling just right in the dying light on the last day of summer when Blackberry succumbed to the urge to taste Nightshade’s lips, leaning in to get drunk on wanton desires and a deep stirring in her chest that she couldn’t quite shake. But the entire fantasy was shattered with a horrified gasp when Nightshade pulled away after the barest touch.

“No!” Nightshade cried, “I’ll kill you.”

The rest of her days came to pass in a subconscious haze—encompassing a tale to be told at another time— during which Nightshade journeyed to acquire a blackberry, fed it to Blackberry, saw no noticeable change in countenance, and grew full of sorrow. As the days grew ever-shorter and ever-colder, she created her two final pieces: complimentary funeral shrouds woven of gossamer spider-silk.

Perhaps it was only fitting for Nightshade and Blackberry to end this way, sticky with blackberry juice as brittle leaves fall off trees with the barest gust of wind. In time, the fae disappear enigmatically, not too unlike the way they came.

Perhaps Blackberry will reappear. As will Nightshade, respawned and waiting by the creek under the early summer sun.

Writing: Grace Maneein

Copy Editing: Chanel Gaynor, Anna Albright

Layout: Nastasia Rozenberg