Three Drops from a Cauldron - Issue 23 by Three Drops from a Cauldron

Cover image is ‘Fallen Short’ by Steve Toase Image copyright © 2018 Steve Toase (The photograph is of the Devil’s Arrows standing stones – where legend says the Devil threw the stones, aiming at the next town of Aldborough. He stood on Howe Hill and shouted, “Borobrigg keep out o’ way, for Aldborough town I will ding down!” However, the stones fell short and landed near Boroughbridge instead.)

Three Drops from a Cauldron Issue 23 / August 2018 The eyes on Hera

Forever-home

The Wrong Fairy Tale

The Lonely Tower

The Princess and Her Sensory Processing Disorder

Goddess of a Thousand Works

St Francis and the wolf

The Crow Demon of the Mountain

Dawn Raid

Cyclopseraph

Sending a Nude to Saint Mary, Mother of Christ, on Accident

Thuya

Taking the Shroud

The Maiden and the Water Horse

The Silence of The Sirens

Selkie

Lancelot’s Testimony

Arthur’s Testimony

The Lady's Testimony

Arianrhod

Faerie Freed

Night Shift

Da peerie eens

Boo to the Goosegirl

Torc

Dandelion, Spider & Dewdrop

Moth

Primordial Veil

Filling Station

The Naming of the Tumble Down Dick

Mountain Men

Leave your message after the tone

Madame Lenormand

The Close of the Day

Bursting

Biographical Notes

Previous Publication Credits

The eyes on Hera bore pomegranate retinas expanding in lapis lazuli ripples. In my dream the peacock was a white body of illness, a pandemic on plumes. And when I looked up, there was promise of gold coins from the age of the rich â&#x20AC;&#x201C; an inheritance from a Greek king â&#x20AC;&#x201C; there must have been some loss of interpretation in transition, for all I ever wanted from my worship was the choice to choose: a forest full of fickle footed male nymphs or a fertile womb.

Sheikha A.

Forever-home My forever-home is the top of a tower in a forest full of hemlock and wolfsbane. The breeze carries voices from the village speaking of witches, black magic and curses. The smell of offal, gravy and turnip soup drifts up to my window. My hair curls around me like a golden tide or noose, in a room where only she enters on her pogo-stick, bringing porcupine stew and nettles, a gourd of cold water for washing, twigs to comb my hair, pebbles to keep my spirits up. Her scent is of roast iguana, absinthe and enchantment. All day long, her halitosis wilts the ivy. She has replaced her heart with an alarm clock, so she can tick me to sleep. I am safe here, she says, from gorgons and basilisks, all the fanged beasts of the lower world, poisonous puddles and exploding mushrooms. She is famous among the sewers. When I lie, she shakes the truth out of me, like bright coins tumbling from a slot machine. Her voice is the honking of migrating geese, her skin the colour of earwark. Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s both cruel and kind, real and imaginary. She sews me clothes from sailcloth and cirrus clouds with barnacled hands so I can flap in the breeze. She says this will help me ripen. A glance from her tektite eyes makes me fade into the pines. When sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s here, night comes earlier, released from her crow-feathered cloak. When she goes, the dawn chorus detonates. I am so lucky to have her.

Annest Gwilym 9

The Wrong Fairy Tale I didn’t fit here: squeezed on the edge of a sofa in a stone cottage holding a book of Leonard Cohen lyrics, excusing myself from offered glasses of punch and feeling the crushed cotton fabric of the peach dress my mother had handed me that drained any remaining colour from my pale face. When I look up, the boy the cool girls had crushes on, is looking at me. If this were a fairy tale, he’d ask the girl who feels like Cinderella on a date. But the fairy tale I was drawn to was Rapunzel. The child whose mother craved the plant associated with hair growth that was the colour of envy, whose mother-role was taken by an enchantress who looked good, who provided food and shelter but locked her daughter in a tower deep in a dark forest so she could caretake her mother. I couldn’t sing. I had no means to communicate my prison. No means of saying I appreciated Leonard Cohen but wasn’t enough of a fan to want to read the book. I couldn’t see a book on the shelves I wanted to read. I felt grief but couldn’t explain what was lost. But this isn’t a fairy tale and he doesn’t ask for a date. Just sits with patient eyes probably wondering how long it will take for me to say something. He doesn’t appear to be laughing at me, doesn’t appear to be squirreling away the moment for a ‘this funny thing happened at this party’ story to recall to his cool tribe later in a bar when the one that looks the oldest is tasked with buying a round. In a moment, the spell will break, the chatter and music and jokes and comraderies will intrude. But, for a moment, he pushes a strand of my long hair aside and tells me whoever he was, he’s not worth it and I want to tell him it wasn’t a boy, but vocal chords used to muteness don’t move to produce words and I nod because I know disagreement, at least with my mother, means punishment and I won't be allowed to the next party. 10

I missed the last one because I was made to babysit because I’m not allowed to want for anything and the only thing I’m allowed to grow is my hair, because she can’t lose her Rapunzel, even though Rapunzel is already lost. This boy, who has recognised that, but hasn’t figured out the cause because I can’t tell him, is being kind and this moment, even though I wasn’t kissed by a prince, will stay with me forever.

Emma Lee

The Lonely Tower

Claire Loader 12

The Princess and Her Sensory Processing Disorder Agony was a Birds Eye frozen pea: a malignant mass captive between the pine ribs of her bed. They concealed it there, waited for night to shroud the sun’s brow, and prayed. Watched her sleep. The servants had piled mattress upon mattress, and her swansdown quilts were the thickest and softest in the land, yet still she woke with marks like fire opals along her spine. Still she cried. Only a Real Princess would feel a pea through all those mattresses and quilts, said the paediatrician. On his reports, he typed: Real Princess, handle with care. I wonder how he proposed this should be done. Earth’s turning is too harsh for a Real Princess. When she crept past other little girls, the violet veins below her skin would flicker until they broke. At the crescendo of a passing police siren, ghosts gushed from her mouth with her milk from breakfast. One morning, a tired sky’s light tears were enough to make her bleed. It was then they knew they had to keep her bandaged with love, alone in her turret, where she wound ivy from cracks in the pink plaster around and around the pearls of her ankle.

Olivia Tuck

Goddess of a Thousand Works The owl swoops, seizes women by the arms and carries them from a cold estate, more watchful than retired generals on their farms who pile spoils like fat bureaucrats to sate their virile vanity. She knows their rough lessons; a few inches of point will rate higher than any length of edge, enough to invade soft lots over and over and over again. Past a darkened bluff, her claws grasp with the strength of a lover. Panic dangles in a glowering sky â&#x20AC;&#x201C; women with nothing but clouds to cover the raw nerve of a shuddering hot cry as they clutch at the bastards born red wet to stain the military standard of authority. The screech, when it comes, owes a dread debt to the Banshees â&#x20AC;&#x201C; and just like that forlorn chorus, the women now see no more threat in the air than on land. The owl has sworn to safeguard their stories as a goddess might, nurse the tales for womb-bound hostages born of a lost war. This bird must hunt at night and the women keep her secret with theirs as she drops them back to earth in full flight, feathering her nest as she shreds and tears at a history that had its throat cut and left a whispered existence to the heirs of this land. She hunts from her eyrie, shut 14

out from all art to sing or play Muse to the poets who are told just what to include and what stories to refuse â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the pellets of women hoard the abuse.

Zoe Mitchell

St Francis and the wolf They say you could still smell the blood on him, still see the meat-lust in his rotten lemon eyes. They say the furnace of his breath was hotter than the blacksmith’s forge and his sheathed teeth were bone-handled hunters’ knives. His fur was the colour of the storm before it breaks and his tongue was as rough as pumice, they say. But when the man held out his hand, that graceless brute, as if he’d understood, just offered up one heavy, guilty paw. They say it looked like surrender, but even more like love. Then the man and the wolf walked through the weightless afternoon, side by side, down into town, for all the world as if they’d grown up together, dog and boy, hanging around the kitchen door, and off up the hill at the first sniff of a rabbit.

Susannah Hart

The Crow Demon of the Mountain On the final day, Cathy had a hiking buddy, who she’d met in the lounge of the backpackers’ hostel where Adele had been leafing through “Alpine Myths and Legends”. From the car park where the bus dropped them off, the trail began with a steep hike through the forest. Cathy charged uphill, with Adele following behind, panting. Around half an hour later, Adele complained of feeling dizzy, sat down in the dirt, and threw up. The roommates agreed that she should abandon the hike. “Make sure you’re off the mountain before dark,” Insisted Adele. Cathy knew that Adele hadn’t been referring to the weather. All around Tarvunac, there were references to the local legend “The Crow Demon of The Mountain”. Her name was on a restaurant, a bar, and clothing displayed in shop windows. There was even an exhibit about her in the local museum, where tour guides told stories about her life. By day, they explained, she took the form of a crow. When the sun had gone down, she retained many of its features. That was when her demonic powers were at their most devastating. “You don’t really believe in her, do you?” asked Cathy. “Only when I’m trying to get to sleep.” Cathy watched as her roommate began to stumble back towards the car park. Then she forged ahead, stopping only when she reached the first chalet to drink and take pictures of the crow on the windowsill. * Racing against the setting sun, Cathy almost ran down the dirt trail, crunching leaves and twigs in her stride. Confident in her body, like an off-road driver in a sturdy vehicle, she leaped and bounded down steps of rock, landing heavily on her feet and pushing off trees to propel herself forward. At this pace, she wouldn’t have to catch the last bus back to the village. 17

There was a flash of dread as her ankle rolled on the uneven ground, and a surge of pain as she tried to put her weight on it. She continued anyway, limping as fast as she could, and hoping that such abuse wouldn’t cause too much damage. When she reached the road, the sky was dark blue, with only a smudge of light visible between the mountains. Though she already knew that she’d missed the second last bus, she checked her watch, wishing that it would miraculously say otherwise. When she reached the car park, the sky was black and filled with stars. * Adele woke up cold and nauseated, horrified to discover that darkness had fallen, and she was still on the path where her vision had gone blurry. Finding a head torch in her backpack, she navigated to the carpark, where she saw Cathy amusing herself with a digital camera while waiting for the bus. It angered her when she remembered how her roommate had let her make her way back to the village alone. Adele watched in horror as feathers began to sprout all over Cathy’s exposed skin. In seconds, there was a little black crow standing on a pile of Cathy’s clothes. Adele came towards it, though unsure what she could say or do to help. The crow took off. Adele heard the caws die out, feeling even sicker than before. * The villagers came with their long weapons of steel, and she was struck by a primal anger. From high above, she looked at the men at the front of the pack, and one by one, sent them flying, until eventually, the ones still in human form retreated. Adele woke from the nightmare drenched in sweat. She made her way down the ladder, uncomfortably aware of Cathy’s empty bunk at the 18

bottom, opened the dorm room door, and continued down the corridor to the bathroom. The face staring back at her in the mirror seemed unfamiliar. Her nose seemed to have become more beak-like, her eyes more rounded. Her normally soft lips felt hard. She spent the next day reading in bed, and though her head ached when the Panadol wore off, she tried not to drink too much water in order to to avoid the bathroom mirror. * The villagers came with their long weapons that made lead fly, and the fury that burned inside consumed her. From her vantage point, she watched all but a dozen of them scatter. Let them carry back the message that she should be left alone. Once again, Adele was soaked with sweat. This time, she made her way to the lounge area, where she found the book she had picked up when she’d first arrived: “Alpine Myths and Legends”. There have been records of The Crow Demon since Tarvunac was first settled in 1740. Although there have been numerous successful attempts to kill her, it is never long before she rises from the ashes to begin a new reign atop the mountain. “This can’t be happening,” Adele thought. * The villager came with his dark box that captured time, and she was overcome with curiosity. In the weeks that followed, she often landed on his windowsill to admire her image above the fireplace for as long as it took him to notice her and draw the curtains, until the day when he opened the window to let her in. In the fight that ensued when his wife entered the room, she hadn’t meant to harm either of them. But as she felt her power come back to her, frightened, she unleashed it on them both. 19

The dorm room suddenly felt suffocating, and Adele ran onto the balcony in desperate need of fresh air. She looked at the mountain, black, with snow at the top emitting a golden glow in the morning light. It calmed her. How wonderful it would be to return there and be free of all her troubles. She spread her enormous wings and took off towards home.

Kara Pogos

Dawn Raid

Sue Kindon

Cyclopseraph In prayer, watchful, open, turquoise eye, one, centered forehead vigil wide. Hulk hands a steeple, wings at rest, a mollified affinity for human flesh. Island, a beast, asleep, invaded cave; a blade to iris â&#x20AC;&#x201D; cannibal dismayed. Toward a cliff with giant gait, Aegean waves, a sarcophagus, awaits. Gods reward his singular gaze â&#x20AC;&#x201D; mortal appetites submerged in cerulean graves. Suppressed voracity for Homo sapiens, sight makes monster now their guardian. Obsessed observer of what was his favored prey, one eye on mankind even as he prays.

Kristin Garth

Sending a Nude to Saint Mary, Mother of Christ, on Accident I didn’t mean to remind you of it: the rapture of a body in wanton heat. It’s just, this was meant for my crucifixion at the altar of forsaken love. My arms knots around an anchor I sink with, my sackcloth around my ankles. Your son would forgive me, I’m sure. The wide pit of my belly filled with psalms and stale alms. I want to be wanted: I want the whipscratch of beauty beaten upon me; but old love often refuses to take sips from the communion chalice of this body. I pray, send me a number for any who might be like me: humbled, hallowed with ugly.

Samuel J Fox

Thuya Thuya, my co, you’re a seed airborne, then a fallen giant, demanding to be mourned, consumed right here. You wander, forgotten god, bitter, then liberated in strong human form, roots gone to feet, then squat to plant yourself in your mystified, gnarled opinion. You contort, give me whiplash—I’m dancing, I’m thrown to ground. We live motion, then the motion was a lie and we burrow for the frost line. Debate goes to action and a shovel. Somewhere, lifetimes ago, a tree got his wish. Now in regret and better wisdom you wander, look for that hole, a wounded surface that matches the line of your leg. Until then all your wandering and dancing are for a grave, dogging you on, threatening rot.

Wren Tuatha

Taking the Shroud Her hands were raw as she scrubbed the linen. The pool was grey and poorly animated with droplets that fell from a dying waterfall. Pale greens, yellows and browns marbled the water, boggy and infested with acrid scents and pus-filled pockets. The slightest misstep by a careless traveller would result in tumbling headfirst into freezing cold bile. Almost in the centre of the pool, stood the woman. It was twilight, she was stooped over, her face and shoulders cloaked. In her hands she held a cloth, a piece that could not be identified and she was washing it. Wringing it with withered hands, stretching the tapestry beyond recognition, tearing it with her clawed fingers She was weary, her hands ached. She soaked and scrubbed the death shroud. She did not know who it was for, only that she had to wash it until they came to her. She had long forgotten her name. She answered a silent call when her duties beckoned. By her reckoning, this had continued for centuries. She did not know how she still stood; how she yet lived but her bones ached to their marrow. Her skin was void of colour save the welts on her hands. Her skin was peeling and the held a painful heat despite their constant refuge in the cold water. She had no memories beyond that she was the washer of the shroud. Each day she rose she could not remember where she had lain the night before, if she had lain at all. She could not recall the beginning or the end. She did not know who her father was, who her mother was, she did not know her face. Only that she had to wash. Someone would arrive soon either to accept the shroud and follow her to beyond. Or to resist. They would try to take her shawl, reveal her face. She knew that this could not be allowed and yetâ&#x20AC;Ś she could not remember why. Her hands dipped in and out of the water, the soapwort lathering the fabric, the white suds increasing as the flowers disintegrated. 25

The flowers. The flowers of the Fae. Now the fae she knew well. The fae she could not forget although, the faces she knew were foggy now. They were terrifying. A flash of a memory pierced through the haze then was gone. When would they come for their cloth? Her hands were raw, aching. The pain was exquisite like sand grating on an exposed nerve. Surely as she thought it, a mortal appeared, creeping at the water’s edge. She stood, turning to him slowly. Only her eyes were visible; two silver slits glinting through the shawl covering her face. He was only a young man, twenty maybe. No more than twenty-five. His skin was puckered in a pattern from the welts of disease – blue, red, purple – bloodied and bruised he stood. He was between the realms. And he had not been able to reveal her face. She heard a sharp intake of breath and heard his whisper “Beannighe”. “Yes,” she thought. “That is my name.” The washer woman, the death faery who helped mortals cross over from the world of the living to the land of the dead. “Come child and I will see you safe.” The man waded into the water and took the soapy shroud from her slim fingers. In an instant, darkness gave way to twilight. It was twilight. She stood in the pool with a shroud in her hand. She dipped the dry cloth into the water, scraped the flowers into the weave and began to wash.

Cassie Hughes

The Maiden and the Water Horse He had seen her on the river bank A sweet thing, ripe for wooing Transfigured hooves to hands, Mane to head of wet-black hair And wrapped in a coat that once Was weeds upon the river bed, Approached her. Used his magic To seduce her. She had seen him by the river bank A salty thing, ripe for bedding Had taken him to hand, wound Fingers in that jet-black hair Drew herself to him. And after, as he slumbered in their makeshift bed. Unbridled him. Took his token To unman him. She led him from the river bank A strong thing, ready for working Standing fully twenty hands, Tugged from the inlet by the hair To be harnessed to the whippletree, harrow her land, prepare arable beds. Serve her. Break his spirit To impress her. One year passed, the same river bank Two gold rings, made for pledging They clasp their calloused hands Swear fealty, while their wetback heir Lies sleeping in that dappled spot That they once took to be their bed. She weds him. Converts their bastard To a son.

Charley Reay 27

The Silence of The Sirens Sweeter than spring-water to a salty tongue, inaudible vibrato of your aria; just a sip would satisfy. Jellyfish, molten chandeliers, light the way towards those bell-throatsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; dumb knells. Hypnotic as a whirlpool. Let me spin in voiceless vortices; a spell. Usual limpet-lips sucking melodies from God-wobbling cyclones, mute. Sometimes a shellâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s chamber is pregnant with pause. An empty shanty, unsung. An ultrasonic lullaby, becalming. 28

The nothingness of your maelstromâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sounded stillness. I await the calling hush.

Richard Biddle

Selkie Some people have scents that remind them of their lovers, like strawberries or a flowery perfume. I met you on a cold October day. You were stood on the seafront, shivering, gazing out into the body of blue beyond us like a sad sea fisherman's wife. Your eyes were like sapphire, pure crystal cut around your pupils. Pulling me in. Your husband worked in finance. You told me in the hazy afterglow, tears in your eyes. You hated him. He stole from you to keep you near, pulled back your skin, chewed and chewed, then threw you aside like a pit spat out. â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;What will you do?â&#x20AC;&#x2122; I asked. You stabbed him in the back, in the end. Used a kitchen knife, took what was yours and ran. You came to me before you left, red-handed, washed the blood off in my sink. I burned the half pink white towel you dried your hands on, while I asked you for an answer. You just looked at me, your long hair splattered with red like you'd been painting. You looked like a child whose favourite brush snapped in the middle of art class. Affected, but not devastated. In a shallow breath, you told me the truth. My mouth hung open, so you kissed me quick, lips wet and bitter, donned your skin as you ran from me, and disappeared.

I didn't believe you at first, but yes, that had to be it. Sometimes explanations are so absurd that they just have to be true; reality is never entirely banal. Some of us can never let go of certain lovers, the pull too strong, like a brutal current, dragging you in, until you're free to drown. She was always yours. Now every time I smell the salt on the gentle ocean breeze, I'm reminded of you.

Chloe Smith

Lancelot’s Testimony inspired by Tennyson’s ‘The Lady of Shalott’ I took a different route: the sun glared at the bright wheat and the barley fronds; the air swam in a heat haze, licking up stale river scent and the hot incense of lilies. I itched inside my armour; my head ached. I’d heard the reaper’s tales, soft-minded rumours of faerie voices heard at dawn and dusk when the world settled, still, and sounds carried over the water. But the island, willow-fringed, seemed derelict. Grey stone of ancient towers peered over the treetops; crooked crenellations stood, gap-toothed, against the blond, blank sky. I heard no mystic song, only the distant calls of market girls and peasants treading slow to Camelot, and the sly jangle of bugle against saddle – though there was a dislocated silence in the atmosphere, as if the air hung tense; seclusion cossetted the island like down; sounds slipped, collided, slid off downriver, edged out. Bird call and hoof against dirt path were blunt in the brittle heat. I felt like a bauble melting in the sun, exposed, a glossy tiger’s eye, garish shield blazing, red and gold; I felt I was pinned, observed, impaled by a javelin stare. The smell of

horse sweat, white froth on the mareâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s flanks; acid taste of heat on my tongue; breast plate cutting weals in my armpits. But I heard no strange sighing chant in the glazing noon, no soprano adagio over the fields. Just the silence, biting and austere in the dried clay heat.

Louise Wilford

Arthur’s Testimony inspired by Tennyson’s ‘The Lady of Shalott’ The arrow-slit was a black thread. The storm-polished sky, air river-ripe, was loud with lutes and violins. A shout had pulled me to the window. I heard the guests moving, laughter waning, glass voices breaking with a shiver. A boat had snagged on debris; prow tucked against wharf, stern river-tugged, hooked. Looking down, I could see her face like candlewax under the bleaching moon, long fingers trailing the water like a lover. Then the snare snapped, the boat sprang free, nudged by the thoughtless wind. A web of whispers rose off the water. I saw a woman cross herself, fingers genuflecting with a flash of diamond. I heard Lancelot’s voice uttering some platitude. I watched her float on, could see her eyes had shut out the stars and shreds of cloud, the loud tangle of trees twisting in the upriver squall like snarling ghosts. I fumbled for a memory: childhood rumour; wet nurse’s tale... but it was gone, and I turned away, thinking of her dead eyes.

Louise Wilford 34

The Lady’s Testimony inspired by Tennyson’s ‘The Lady of Shalott’ Barley and rye twist in my web. Kaleidoscope flash of a girl’s market cloak; slow tread of donkey’s hooves; laughter of knights recalling jasmine embraces. Fumbling cadences reach, draw my gaze, but I resist, mesmerised by the slow creak of my long-fingered stitching. I catch the wild reflections. Warhorse striding through fields. Carmine and gold, brazen – bejewelled alembic in which I am distilled. He will come, the shape I fear. The web will arc in a parabola over the waves and the mirror’s crack will publish my release. Bow-string; mace; dagger; my undoing.

Louise Wilford

Arianrhod

Penny Sharman

Faerie Freed He loved his tropical aquarium, chair bound his gaze would drift to floating angel fish, watery elders, ethereal white fins shading darting chase of tetras, neon flashed with scarlet. There came the day when even this tranquil company drained his creaking frame. Heart sad the fish friends found a younger, stronger home, glass tank mournful, empty. Beloved garden out of bounds for shaky legs, dreamt bright idea of bringing green inside, to fill the lonesome glass with flowers, like childhood emerald garden globes. Helped fill the tank with earth, fresh dug, mixed with peat on confetti gravel stones, chose favourite flowers, small enough to feel at home, transplanted with greening care. Bedded down, water sprinkled, glass lid lowered to make the perfect terrarium. Or so we thought until he raised arthritic hips from chair, recoiling as explosion rent the air. The tank had cracked, the toughened glass designed to withhold gallons shattered, plush cushions iced with chips like sprinkled jewels on velvet, earth littering fluffed carpet. Shocked by sudden violence, in close escape, slumped with sweet tea to wait for help to clear the sharp remains of ruined garden, drifted, sinking into fitful dreams.

Awoke to tell an astral tale. Unknown heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d carried in a hidden Faerie, sleeping wrapped in petals, from rusty bucket to flowered tank, dozy Fae now trapped within. Poor Faerie, crazed in frantic fear raised raged vibrations, glass smashing, stomping mad, just glad she cared to wait till old Fae friend was safely moved away. Gloved hands gathered splinters, gems picked, each earth crumb, each stolen plant returned, made Faerie peace with guardians of the garden, a timely gift of chocolate, dark and rich.

Jacqueline Knight

Night Shift or Why We Need Unions I hate this night job, one grumbled. We deserve time and a half, said the other. The embers are cold, the walls are damp. The least he could do is leave us warm ale. The needles are dull, the pieces donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t match and nobody wears velvet shoes with tassels. Letâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s make wingtips and strappy sandals and lizard skin boots with platform soles. Maybe then that old geezer will reconsider asking us elves to do all his work.

Nancy Scott

Da peerie eens Dragons on da bedspread, pictsies ootbe da door. Dunna be fairt o a uncan laand, du’s bön here afore. Dere’s trolls anunder da brig, an trows ida hills, an doon da beach da birsie witch waits fir dee still. Life, hit’s aften braaly herd, idder times aises a grain, bit nivver, nivver hiv I loved hit as weel as whin I wis a bairn.

The little ones Dragons on the bedspread, pixies outside the door. Don’t be scared of a strange land, you’ve been here before. There’s trolls under the bridge, and trows in the hills, and down the beach the grumpy witch waits for you still. Life, it’s often really hard, sometimes it can be mild, but never, never have I loved it as much as when I was a child.

Maxine Rose Munro 40

Boo to the Goosegirl The island is retreating from the tide and its designs on sinking the causeway. Not halfway across, a goosegirl adrift behind her flock: freckled feathers in her hair, barefoot and songless, wilfully vacant as though she’s forgotten what was lost. I want to shake her from her dream state; wake her to her best parts exiled to silence, compliance, self-denial; take her to task for a lame faith she’s best at tending small things – (notice that gaggle of unruly thoughts never yet stick-beaten into flight). I want to face her like her own livid twin: pinch her, punch her, scratch her and holler about the dangers of her torpor. But then I want to hold her, to buoy her, reassure her she’ll be sea-changed for being woken and ushered off this flooding causeway.

Kaddy Benyon

Torc Those gleaming pools of mud, like a bracelet around the mound, hook a muddled mind. Perhaps that lace of runes across his back opens a book, kneels him to dig. He found a Celtic Cross last year in a car boot sale; studied the mother tongue; became Welsh. Those scrolls within his head – I’d burn but I’m married. We dig. For love, I find.

Phil Wood

Dandelion, Spider & Dewdrop

Andy Miller 43

Moth [Exam question] What is a myth? [Student] A myth is a female moth. Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s on the window of the tourist centre, moon- or streetlight-lit, worldly or ethereal. Outside looking in, or inside looking back, her wings are tattooed eyes of black and grey, their black: the black of folded centrefolds, their grey: the vellum grey of backlit black. Guidebooks brim with Menehune, Water Sprites, Green Ladies, Moâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;o, Walkers-of-the-Night. Locking up, he caught her in his torch beam, looked into her wingtip eyes, and was drawn to her, recollecting through his misting mind that ancient Polynesian sailor trick: you set your vessel still against the stars and let the islands come to you.

T.L. Evans

Primordial Veil Near endless plains swaying and tossing, Husks and stalks of corn and emerald Dancing and singing under the twilight Moving in unison â&#x20AC;&#x201C; a cult of dance and Consciousness. It grins as the plains wake-stirring, Igniting and pulsing and twitching Radiant colour and thrumming on the gale From beyond the hill It blinks and the maples sway Ineptly rippling toward the candlelight Crunching and linking from stalk To blade, footsteps and roots Cutting toward cabin smoke Lidless, steaked with crimson From above, ancient and forgotten A great celestial eye.

Matthew D. Laing

Filling Station I skim a little something off the top. What’s wrong with that? Won’t break the company. They dumped me 75 miles the wrong side of Carlsbad where nothing grows but tumbleweed and cholla so they owe me – like a cost of living allowance for living, so called, in the middle of the freaking Cheehoowaahoowaa Desert. And, get this, my kind of compensation don’t show in the books, therefore they save on accounting. It ain’t even theft. Like people say, exchange is no robbery. Something else. I hold them responsible for the waste, personally responsible. When I pump twenty-five, thirty gallons into some sports utility monster designed to climb up canyon walls that the kid in charge would never risk a coupla feet off road ’cause of the fancy-nancy paint job, I get mad. Same’s when I gas up a rocket ship on wheels that’ll do a hundred fifty when, even in New Mexico, the cops won’t give you more than ninety. Who’s to blame for all this despicuous consumption? The consumers for sure, but don’t forget these Arab Kings and Texas barons who’ve sucked up too much oil and got to dump it somewheres. I say both kinds ought to pay. If a kid with a gold watch drives up, or a heart doctor, or a realtor, or a fat leech lawyer, I’m the toll collector. They want high test, wanna put some oomph into their tank? Yessir, Bob, me too, me too. Sure is a hot one, I might say, hot as Old Nick’s toaster oven, or mebbe I say the wind’s real wicked, mind it don’t blow your toopay off. Step into the office why doncha? So they give at the office. The nozzle’s in the tank, pumping in high octane, and my teeth clamp down into a white, a red, a brown neck irregardless of the color, sucking at that neck, pumping out universal donor.

Laurence Davies

The Naming of the Tumble Down Dick I A quiet night in the saloon. At the other end of the bar a queer little chap with a jackdaw keeps falling from his stool. Don’t look at me or I’ll call upon Patty Smallcheek, he said and she’ll level yer head with her mother’s rolling pin. I help Dick from the floor hear the jackdaw’s ruckus Dick Thrupples! Dick Thrupples! and the banging open of a door II Richard comes as an obscure farmer with his wooden crook to talk about the good book, seeds for corn, wheat and God, of course. They like him, he spends money listens as they talk of the royal succession, his respected father, the Army’s revolution yet called him, Richard, a coxcomb and dummy. He never wanted to be England’s boss just a farmer with his crook who can talk about the good book, seeds for corn, wheat and God, of course.

III The highwayman Jerry Abershaw met his eventual accomplice, Galloping “Dick” Fergus, when they both felt the allure of a barmaid, Nancy Pepper, who used to leave a light in her window that could be seen from the meadow if it was safe from the Bow Street Runners. Jerry and Dick were throttled while Nancy fled to Camden Town and was transformed by Dickens into a much-loved character in a novel. IV It has a quaint sign that shows a man fallen drunk from his seat and sprawled on the mat while his two jovial companions look on. It’s an allegory of the fall of Richard the Third at Bosworth Field. Henry the VII himself caused this individual hostelry to be erected and this sign placed before in commemoration of that important event in history. Whether you feel inclined to believe this theory or not will be at your discretion.

Rodney Wood

Mountain Men

Jude Cowan Montague

Leave your message after the tone Sylvia? It’s me darling. Listen. I want to ask the most enormous favour. I’ve heard from Big Mac again! Yes! He wants another seance – still has issues around his career development plan going forward. He wants to come round tonight! Just a little kitchen supper like before. Could you have a word with Susie? See if she could make it as well – and tell her to bring her leotard. That Progressive Dance thing she does really gets the spirits going. No. My real problem is the food. I’ve got some fenny snake in the freezer and there are some newts’ eyes and frogs’ toes left over from last time. But I’m totally out of wolfs’ teeth and bats’ wool. I don’t suppose you’ve got any, have you? And if you haven’t could you teeter down to Waitrose and get some? They have some lovely artisanal stuffed bats and you can pluck a bunch of fur whenever you need it. I’d go myself but I have to collect Piers from his playgroup. Be a darling. Bye!

Ian Stuart

Madame Lenormand Madame Lenormand, netting over her face, wearing cashmere and lace. She carries her amber globe, her Ouija, and her apothecary jars of arsenic, hemlock, and belladonna. All the ingredients for the â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Widowâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Kissâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;, concocted, and placed in a poison ring. Each of three services provided for a price. Each woman choosing her need from Madame Lenormand.

Linda Imbler

The Close of the Day At the close of the day, she stops doing what sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s always done. Opening the door, she tiptoes into the quiet house. At the close of the day, she sips nettle tea, writes a shopping list, calms the whining fridge. At the close of the day, she shuts her fears in a box, walks between the rooms, saying goodnight to the walls. At the close of the day, she learns to breathe again, slow and deliberate. She strokes the cats and listens to their tales, like she used to. At the close of the day, she stops. Turns the mirror to face the wall, slips out of her skin and dissolves into the cold bed of night.

Raine Geoghegan

Bursting Purple petals shout with glee and contagious exuberance, Welcoming the return of their Mother. Daisies loll in languid breezes, Eyes closed in contentment, Inhaling the scents of the Summer. Forget-me-nots forget the cold Which troubled seeds in weeks past And furrowed brows are soothed. The Motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s embrace is wide, Encompassing all of the world: The burst of rampant Life. Yet the Old Ones are cautious. They smile at the seasonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s happiness But hear Winter on the wind...

Danielle Matthews

Biographical Notes Artists Steve Toase lives in Munich, Germany. His fiction has appeared in Aurealis, Not One Of Us, Cabinet des Feés and Pantheon Magazine. In 2014 Call Out (first published in Innsmouth Magazine) was reprinted in The Best Horror Of The Year 6. From 2014 he worked with Becky Cherriman and Imove on Haunt, the Saboteur Award shortlisted project about Harrogate's haunting presence in the lives of people experiencing homelessness in the town. He also likes old motorbikes and vintage cocktails. You can keep up to date with his work via www.tinyletter.com/stevetoase, page facebook.com/stevetoase1, www.stevetoase.wordpress.com and Twitter @stevetoase A writer and photographer, Claire Loader was born in New Zealand and spent several years in China before moving to County Galway, Ireland. Recently published in Crannóg, Dodging The Rain and Pendora, she spends her days seeking enchantment in ruins. You can find her work here: www.allthefallingstones.com Sue Kindon lives and writes in The Pyrenees, where she co-runs Valier Illustrated Books. Her first pamphlet, She who pays the piper, is available from Three Drops Press. Even though Penny Sharman is pushing the 70 mark, she’s young at heart. She’s been around, given birth, been a single mum, been a rebel, a kind of hippy chick. Penny is keen on taking photos and is an artist, but her passion for over 15 years is poetry, poetry poetry: words, images, the lot. She has participated in many workshops and courses to expand her knowledge of this Art and is currently in her final year of a Masters degree for Creative writing at Edge Hill University. She has had poems published in The Interpreters House and Obsessed with Pipework, and anthologies such as Beautiful Dragons. Andy Miller is a writer, artist and performer. His photography can been seen @andyjmpics on instagram. To find out more about his writing go to www.deepdarkforest.net 55

Jude Cowan Montague worked for Reuters Television Archive for ten years. She is a printmaking artist and one half of Montague Armstrong in St Leonards-on-Sea. She produces 'The News Agents' on Resonance 104.4 FM and writes for The Quietus. Her most recent book is The Originals (Hesterglock Press, 2017).

Writers Sheikha A. is from Pakistan and United Arab Emirates. Her work appears in a variety of literary venues, most recent being with/in Uppagus, Abyss and Apex, Peacock Journal, Auk Contraire, Eclectica and elsewhere. More about her can be found at sheikha82.wordpress.com Annest Gwilym's work has been widely published in literary journals and anthologies. She has been placed in competitions (winning one) in recent years. She is a member of Disability Arts Cymru. Her first pamphlet of poetry titled Surfacing is published by Lapwing Poetry in August 2018: http://www.freewebs.com/lapwingpoetry/ (go to Store). Emma Lee's most recent collection is "Ghosts in the Desert" (IDP, 2015), she co-edited "Over Land, Over Sea: poems for those seeking refuge" (Five Leaves, 2015), reviews for The High Window Journal, The Journal, London Grip and Sabotage Reviews and blogs at http://emmalee1.wordpress.com Olivia Tuck is twenty-one years old and lives in Wiltshire. She was a 2014 Wicked Young Writersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Award finalist, has had pieces published on Amaryllis Poetry, on Lonesome October Lit and in Three Drops from a Cauldron, and in Please Hear What I'm Not Saying, a poetry anthology with a mental health theme. Olivia was thrilled to be a guest poet at the 2017 Swindon Poetry Festival. She is due to start at Bath Spa University in the autumn, to study for a BA in Creative Writing. Zoe Mitchell is a writer living and working on the South Coast. Her work has been published in a number journals including The London Magazine, The Rialto and The Moth. She has a particular interest in mythology and is currently working on a creative writing PhD focussed on images of witches in poetry written by women.

Susannah Hart is a London-based poet who is on the board of Magma and is the co-editor of Magma 70, The Europe Issue. She also works as a brand consultant. Her poetry has been widely published in magazines and online, and her first collection Out of True is due to be published by Live Canon later this year. Kara Pogos is a teacher of English as a Foreign Language. Originally from Melbourne, she has taught in Santiago and is currently working in Montevideo. Her recent writing achievements include receiving an Honourable Mention in the 84th Annual Writers Digest Writing Competition and having one of her poems on DeviantArt set to a melody by a professional composer. Kristin Garth is a poet from Pensacola and a sonnet stalker. Her sonnets have stalked the pages of Glass, Anti-Heroin Chic, Occulum, Luna Luna, Burning House Press, TERSE. Journal, Drunk Monkeys and many other publications. Her chapbook Pink Plastic House is currently available (Maverick Duck Press), and she has two forthcoming, Shakespeare for Sociopaths (The Hedgehog Poetry Press Jan 2019) and Pensacola Girls (Bone & Ink Press Sept 2018). Follow her on Twitter: @lolaandjolie Samuel J Fox is a bisexual poet and essayist living in the Southern US. He is poetry editor for Bending Genres and staff reviewer at Five2One. He appears in such places as Vagabond City, Horny Poetry, and Cahoodaloodaling, among many others. He frequents graveyards, coffee shops, and Twitter (@samueljfox). Wren Tuatha’s poetry has appeared or is upcoming in The Cafe Review, Canary, Peacock Journal, Poetry Pacific, Coachella Review, Picaroon, Baltimore Review, Pirene’s Fountain, Loch Raven Review, Clover, Lavender Review and Bangalore Review. She’s an editor at Califragile. Wren and her partner, author/activist C.T. Lawrence Butler, herd skeptical goats on a mountain in California. Cassie Hughes is a stay at home mother of two by day, and a superhero vigilante at night frequently correcting instances of poor grammar on the internet with her sister via Facebook Messenger. Between this perilous task and making obscure film references at her husband, she studies BA 57

English Literature and Creative Writing while writing music reviews for a production company website. Charley Reay is a Newcastle based writer from the Lincolnshire Fens. Her poems are published by Obsessed With Pipework, Ink, Sweat & Tears, and Prole among others. She also performs on the North East spoken word scene. You can find her on Twitter @charleyreay Richard Biddle has an MA in Performance Writing from Dartington College of Arts. His written poetry and visual poetry has appeared online and in print in numerous publications and anthologies. Most recently with Riggwelter and Burning House Press. He teaches Creative Writing at Chichester College and is a member of Chichester Stanza. He tweets as @littledeaths68 Chloe Smith is a Foyle Young Poet of the Year 2015, and her poetry has been featured in anthologies including the Great British Write Off: Whispering Words anthology and various Young Writers anthologies. Her first attempt to write a short story, ‘Plenty of Fish’, was published in ‘Harmonious Hearts 2016’ by Harmony Ink Press. You can find out more about her and her writing on her website, chloesmithwrites.wordpress.com, and you can also find her on Twitter: @ch1oewrites. Yorkshirewoman Louise Wilford is an English teacher and examiner. She has had around 50 poems and short stories published in magazines including Popshots, Pushing Out The Boat and Agenda, and has won or been shortlisted for several competitions. She is currently writing a children's fantasy novel. Jacqueline Knight has lived in Spain for 28 years. She is a writer, mother of 4, committed activist for environmental protection, gender equality and voting rights and Deputy Mayor of her small village. When not trying to save the world, she gets lost in nature and folklore and is often away with the faeries. Nancy Scott is the author of nine books of poetry and most recently, Marriage by Fire, a novella of short stories, poems, and prose poems. She is also the managing editor of U.S.1 Worksheets in New Jersey, USA. Her 58

work has been widely published in the States and abroad. www.nancyscott.net Maxine Rose Munro is a Shetlander adrift on the outskirts of Glasgow. Her work has been widely published, including in Northwords Now, Glasgow Review of Books, and The Eildon Tree. She was shortlisted for the SMHAFF Award 2017, and recently has a poem selected to be part of the My Time project by VAS and The Scottish Poetry Library. Find her here www.maxinerosemunro.com Kaddy Benyon is the author of Milk Fever (Salt, 2012), winner of the Crashaw Prize & The Tidal Wife (Salt, 2018). She was born in Cambridge and grew up in Suffolk. A former television scriptwriter, she currently works for the University of Cambridge mentoring students with disabilities. She is a Granta New Poet and her poems have appeared in various magazines and anthologies. Phil Wood works in a statistics office. He enjoys working with numbers and words. His writing can be found in various publications, including: Allegro, The Open Mouse, Nutshells and Nuggets, London Grip, Ink Sweat and Tears. T.L. Evans lives in Hertfordshire with his wife and three young kids. He writes poems on his iPhone during his commute to and from London. In 2017 he placed third in the National Poetry Competition and second in the Poetry Society's Stanza competition. His first stab at a proper pamphlet, We're All Going, was longlisted in MunsterLit's Fool for Poetry Competition but remains tragically unpublished. He is working on a full length collection. A friend once asked Matthew David Laing why he wanted to write fiction. He looked at his friend, thought carefully and responded, “Why wouldn’t I?” Now he writes for enjoyment, up here in Canada, the land of polar bears and igloos. He takes an avid interest in history and historical folklore while also delving into the realms of fantasy and science fiction. Matthew has had fiction published by Bewildering Stories, The Corvus Review, and Three Drops from a Cauldron, to name a few.

Laurence Davies was born in Wales to a family absorbed by uncanny tales. After an long and enjoyable spell in Australia and New England, he now teaches comparative literature at Glasgow University, edits the letters of Joseph Conrad, and lives just south of the Highland Line. His flash and other fictions have appeared in the USA in venues such as Contrary, Bound off, Café Irreal, and StoryQuarterly. He is wary of deserts, lonely tarns, and sirens. Rodney Wood lives in Farnborough has recently been published in Magma, Amaryllis, Morphrog and Envoi. Last year he published a pamphlet, Dante Called You Beatrice, which was published by The Red Ceilings Press. He also jointly runs WOL Woking. Ian Stuart is a writer/performer living in York UK. He has had poetry accepted by several outlets - Obsessed with Pipework and Dreamcatcher and has recently published a collection, Quantum Theory for Cats. He lives in a small burrow with his wife, dog and two cats. Linda Imbler is the author of the published poetry collections Big Questions, Little Sleep, Lost and Found, and The Sea’s Secret Song. She is a Kansas-based Pushcart Prize Nominee. Her work has appeared in numerous national and international journals. Linda’s creative process and a listing of publications can be found at lindaspoetryblog.blogspot.com. Raine Geoghegan, MA, lives in West Sussex. Her poems and short narratives have been published both online and in print with Romany Routes Journal; Fair Acre Press, e-book on Maligned Species; Words for the Wild; Ink Pantry; The Travellers Times; Fly on the Wall Poetry. Her poems have been featured in a documentary film, ‘Stories from the Hop Yards.’ She has been profiled on the Romaniarts website as part of International Women’s Day in March and read at the Ledbury Poetry Festival in 2018. Danielle Matthews is a published writer from Manchester, UK. She lives for the written word, and, despite being a city girl, loves nature and the outdoors. Danielle lives with a vast hoard of books and her fiancé near Manchester and gets out to touch the bark of trees as often as she can.

Previous Publication Credits ‘The Close of the Day’ by Raine Geoghegan was first published in Anima: Poems of Soul and Spirit (Issue 1, Summer 2015). ‘The Crow Demon of the Mountain’ by Kara Pogos was first published on the author’s blog Kara’s Cove. A slightly different version of ‘Thuya’ by Wren Tuatha was first published in Arsenic Lobster.