Three Drops from a Cauldron: Samhain 2017 by Three Drops from a Cauldron

Three Drops from a Cauldron Samhain 2017

Edited by Kate Garrett with Becca Goodin, Loma Jones, Holly Magill, Amy Kinsman, Grant Tarbard, and Claire Walker

Three Drops Press Sheffield, UK

First published in 2017 by Three Drops Press Poems copyright © individual authors 2017 Anthology copyright © Three Drops Press 2017 Three Drops Press Sheffield, United Kingdom www.threedropspoetry.co.uk Cover image is used under the terms of the CC0 Public Domain license.

A Hymn for Samhain

Kiss the Summer Good-bye

The mushroom gatherer

Skin

WitchQueen Obscura

Fairy Tales

Wilhelm is Screaming

Vampire Girls

House of Horrors

School Nights

Pass

Punkie Night

Coffin Love

Consulting my oracle (Aunt Faith)

XII: Hanged Man

At Crossroads

Soul Sacrifice

Margot

Sylvieâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Inheritance

Witch of Flores Island

37 7

Inanna’s Descent – Samhain 1989

The Wild Hunt

I am Nora

I Met A Witch & She Gave Me A Name

Devil’s Bite

The Night of the Mothers

Trespassers, Beware

Wiggy Vann

Death

Mary

Pontefract Postponed

Her Unruly Hands

Gloria Hag

The Fall

Divination

Reveal

All Souls

Writers

Previous Publication Credits

Abigail Elizabeth Ottley

A Hymn for Samhain This apple bough is for our hearth where life must rest her bones and eat. Ripe pomegranates we have brought, and sage to burn, and joints of meat. With wine we’ll toast the darkness in. Our brooms will sweep its corners clean. With sprigs of mint and heliotrope we'll keep and bless Samhain. The harvest’s done. All that we own we’ve gathered in our store; and all that’s left we offer them who sojourn out of doors. This night a Darkness walks the earth. Blessed be her wandering kin. Praise be Great Mother and her Lord. Our hearts keep you within.

Spangle McQueen

Kiss the Summer Good-bye Virginia’s creeping wrapping herself around rusted barbs of wire dropping strings of rubies that clot like the entrails of her latest sacrifice. Virginia’s weeping. She’d loved the very bones of him.

Gaia Holmes

The mushroom gatherer We all wanted him to be our father â&#x20AC;&#x201C; this man with hands like shovels, this man that could strike a flame on a damp matchbox, this man who could stave off the rain. We all loved him dangerously and quietly, bit our knuckles in bed at night when we thought about him dusting the stars, rolling the fat, dry moon into view. Some of us prayed. He smelled of burnt sky and sawdust. The grass was singed in his wake. We all took photos of his footprints, pressed them to our chests when we slept. Each morning I felt my poems rotting in my throat as I waited for him to return from the woods his big fingers licked with dew, his pockets full of mushrooms, his words tasting of dirt. There was something of God in his voice. When he spoke, my wild heart lay down like a lamb and blood lost its meaning. My small name stopped beating in my chest.

Jackie Biggs

Skin A tiny sip of lichen slips through skin and creeps slow towards her wrist. Algae emerge from the purlicue web, epidermis writhes into green between the index and the next finger. Moss extends over the backs of her hands, a soft velvet caress across her desiccated skin. Anchored by rhizoids this slithering layer seeps out through pores, spreads like verdigris â&#x20AC;&#x201C; a tight-fitting glove. Around hair roots cerotodon begins, small and tight, and soon she is crowned with a mass of fire â&#x20AC;&#x201C; red and fertile in spots of light; orange embers glow under the forest canopy. Liverwort breeds in the fossae above her clavicle and tracks towards marchantia in the jugular notch. Below, cladonia sprout their tiny umbrella organs across her cleavage. Mood moss, wispy while dry is verdant and lush when moist between her legs. Spores spread. She flourishes. Her nails gleam with gloss from thorax of bluebottle. Her black eyes 12

glisten, reflect the green sheen of a magpieâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s nape. Wet leaves around her grow cold, slick in the shade. An odour of rot from rank weeds touches the ends of her olfactory nerves. Her mouth waters. She ripens out of the Earth as something Something

else. vivid.

Kailey Tedesco

WitchQueen Obscura Just before the fever the sky hardened alabaster

& pierced

the kingdom sick,

perished the queen of poison apple – blood pinpricked

with a comb

her face & up whirled

a briar patch, all roses dragging at the corners of her mouth – Once she looked square at the sun & then dragged her left hand first to one as though an alphabet exclusivity

at the moon & then the other

of mutual vandalized

the space between them – she asked if her body

would jaundice,

would glitter like a nightgown hunched in a tiny pile of its own veiny stardust after clinging to her small form for what must have seemed like a lifetime.

Matt Macdonald

Fairy Tales what no-one wants to say is that story is so much more powerful than teller no matter how hard you scrub the blood from it no fairy tale will ever be clean they were written down to trap them, these living stories are hungry the words reach for you want you skinned red, blood teeth puncture marks in the neck, shadows bleed from walls do not look under the bed the missing skin is binding the book together eyelashes and fingerprints butterfly wings, and wires from muscles you canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t keep your secrets hidden the stories will twist them out of your mind tell the right story press a bloody finger to the right hinge the world itself collapses

this is how the dream ends not with a scream but with slick teeth red lips, and the heave of breathing through blood

Barry Charman

Wilhelm is Screaming Todd tells me he’s never heard of the Wilhelm Scream just as we’re about to knock at the Witch’s house. I turn to him, already angry, because I know the Witch is more than a nickname, and this tips me over. “You’re kidding, right?” He gives me that blank look. “It’s in, like, every film. It's famous. It’s a stock scream. It’s famous.” He shrugs. It’s twelve minutes to midnight. The leaves have gone from yellow to red in the last week alone. Everything’s got a chill that’s practically a bite, and there’s a rotten pumpkin left from last year on the Witch’s doorstep. Todd’s dressed as Jack Sparrow, he makes me feel like a fraud just standing next to him, and he didn’t even recognize my costume. “Jack Skellington,” I’d said. Blank face. “Dude from The Nightmare Before Christmas?” Nothing. He doesn’t even know one scream from another. I wanted to trick or treat with Sasha. She was cool, proper geek about all the real neat stuff, but she’d skipped to go for a drink with some kid called Chandler. What sort of a name was that, anyway? Some couple got together during the first series of Friends, or something? Jesus. I’m miles away, or wishing I was, when Todd knocks on the door. “Hey, trick or treat!” He calls out, already unwrapping candy from the last house, and shoving it in his mouth between words. I sigh. This is my idea of hell. Nineteen and trick or treating means the town’s got too small for you. Or you’re too big with nowhere else to be. I dimly remember knocking on the Witch’s door when I was nine. She scared the life out of me. Never did knock again, always walked past her house, eyes down. She never comes out. No one ever sees her around, but they don’t seem to mind that. Sometimes I wonder why. Part of me wanted to skip the old house, but part of me wanted to face the fear. Right now all I can think of is Sasha. I feel bored, old and stupid. “She won’t come,” I mutter. Todd knocks again. “She’s a real witch, I mention that?” Todd grins. “Sure you did, Martin, sure you did.” His eyes are laughing at me. Nothing has any meaning to Todd. The night’s about candy and kicks, as

he’d put it. He wanted some sugar in him before the beers later. What he called his flirtatious cocktail. Whatever. He keeps knocking, I take a step back and glance up at the black house. Looks like something the pilgrims patched together. The wooden facade is gray, mottled. The curtains are dark red, like spilled wine. They’ve been drawn for as long as I can remember. She’s a witch. Such an idiotic thought, but it’s so clear, so true, I don’t know how to shake it. That day – when I was nine – went round and round my head for so long, then I just let it go. Had to. Thinking back, it begins to come back at me in sharper detail. I look at the faded sign to the left of the door. No treats. Tricks. God that scared me as a kid. Seemed so weirdly ominous, even provocative, when I’d first peered up at it, barely able to make out the words. I’d been with Maggie— Maggie? Jesus. I hadn’t thought of her in years. Whatever happened to— The door suddenly opens with a strained creak, like an antiquated, yet well used coffin. Todd lifts up his plastic cauldron and shakes it eagerly. “Yo, trick or treat!” A dense smell of dust hits me. It sends me back through the years. Washes over me like I’m breaking the surface of some dank bog, only to find myself inhaling something ancient and beyond sense. She lives in a maze of coffins. Has green fingernails and eyes yellow as pus. Everything within is draped with death. How had I forgotten? Every other year she opens her door and someone walks inside. Like Maggie. I see her face again, cherubic, bright, trusting. Head a crown of curls. Her hand so warm in mine. So young. When there was so much life ahead of her. And all of it poured into a scream. I open my mouth to call out to Todd, but nothing comes out. I am overwhelmed by sensations. Memories. That sweet stench. A dry cackle in the back of a calloused throat. The spiders that had hung themselves in their webs. The dim moans from dark corners that cried like skinned shadows... All things jarringly recalled from ten years before, when I fought my way out through a cracked window. The doorway is black like the open maw of a diseased mouth. The pale hand that reaches out is twisted like its one remaining tooth.

It’s over in a moment. The door is closed again. A second moldy pumpkin is sitting beside the first, which I realize is probably two years old. All the rest before have faded into mulch. Todd is gone. The house is silent. I swallow the scream I was too terrified to release, and walk away in a daze. I slowly remember thinking something about Maggie. She'd been a girl I’d known, many years ago. So random to think of her now. What had ever happ— My phone rings. Bud wants to know if we can still make the party. “We?” “You still with Todd?” Todd? I half turn to study the old house. God. I haven’t been near here in years. Why did I come here? Alone? Stupid. There’s an almost thought... An outline of something... I think of a boy called Wilhelm. Odd name. What does Wilhelm do...? I laugh, like a child. It feels good. Wilhelm is a silly name. “Martin..? You okay?” I walk home. Swinging my cauldron, thinking of all the candy inside.

Victoria Gatehouse

Vampire Girls They come late, after spangle-robed witches have ceased to swap Haribo at the end of the drive and ghost-pirates wielding plastic swords have howled their way from your door. Their silhouettes behind glass give you pause; strange how you’re unwilling to twist the key to find them languishing on the step. The tallest girl wears a skull-covered onesie and plastic barbed-wire at her throat; her friends lift kohl-ringed eyes – momentarily from luminous screens. Studs glint in eyebrows, in purple lips, black straps slide from scornful collar bones and all along the wall pumpkins sag, gutter-eyed. Nobody speaks. You offer up the trick or treat bowl; all at once they’re pocketing phones, scrabbling for the last of the sweets, that flash of silver-tipped nails, bitten to new moons.

Faye Boland

House of Horrors In Betty’s bloodbath eyeballs bob with chopped off hands and feet. She stirs her ragoût, dangles her husband’s matted hair, tells how she scalped him when he came home late for dinner. Next, the blood-spattered butcher wields his meat cleaver over severed limbs. Zombie schoolgirls grab at passers by. In a side room a gunshot shatters a skull, splatters blood and bone. In another, a caged beast grunts, is carted off by white-coated wardens, beaten. A sulphurous smoke fingers its way down the dark claustrophobic corridor where hooded ghouls jump out, terrorize. Next an exorcism. Welcome to the House of Horrors. Admission 5 euros. Not for the faint-hearted.

James Dorr

School Nights Some people swore that the house was haunted. She didn’t know why. Grownups were strange sometimes in the things they said. Like how the Earth was supposed to be round – but how come people on the other side didn’t fall off then? Or how there were oceans so big you couldn’t see across them. When she was older, she learned the Earth was round. Oceans were big too. But still they claimed the house was haunted, and she didn’t know how. She had studied once to be a witch, or at least she thought she had. She’d read a book she had found in the library. She wasn’t a witch, though. She knew that afterward. She went to the house to determine, finally, whether the house was haunted or not. It was spooky and old, that was certainly true, and it had been deserted for many years, but search as she would she could find no ghosts. There were bodies of old people, homeless men mostly, beneath the window of one of the ground-floor rooms. Some were dried out, with no blood left in them, but a few were fresher. There were rats and spiders too, and these were special ones. These ones talked to her. “What is your name?” one said. “Marcie,” she answered. The spider who’d asked her looked ancient and crusty. “Do you like blood?” an odd, winged rat asked. Marcie shrugged. She’d never tried blood. But some of the newer, plumper corpses looked juicy like ripe fruit. When she thought that, her teeth started to itch, the sharp, pointed ones near the front of her mouth on either side of the flat, chiseled front ones. Nothing was ever the same again after that.

April Michelle Bratten

Pass They are more than what you with glisten you hide from

electricity

this evening

from their bodies that stop

letâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s be honest now

right through them you

you bargained for

bodies

the colors of your hand would

and they realize a life without bodies

a malicious presence in your own right

through lavender snow

possessing

pass

they even realize

salt-trail-jeans trampling

a full body ticking light

but how you fear that dark

space how you fear their cold they arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t the snow you tramp through honey they are the snow

that suddenly

stops

Louise Warren

Punkie Night So the children unpack their ghosts, lay them out upon beds of white mist above black fields, a flat unhurried landscape. Folded back, a grave, tucked in, a pulled down sky, silver cuts in water, beheaded trees, a raw wind, raw uncooked moon. The children dangling grins, their ghosts following like little pale breaths. Later they will sleep, their smiles blown out.

*Somerset Halloween tradition (Hinton St George). Marsh lights are thought to be the souls of unbaptised babies.

Diana Powell

Coffin Love ‘Winter’s Eve, Biting of apples, Who is coming Out to play? A white lady, Atop the branches. Samhain, Nos G’lan Gaea. Twco fala, Pwy sy’n dod I maes I whara? Ladi wen… … she’s coming to get you. Run, run, run.’ She runs. Up to the top of the hill, where the fire waits to show the face of her lover, the fate of her heart. Her turn now, the runt of the pack, always the one who picks the short straw; always the one who is ON IT. Eeny, meany, MO. Tic, tac, TOE. Calon Mai, Haf, GAEAF. Samhain left for her – yes, this is what she gets, the devil’s feast, the night of the dead, the dead of the year. Bad luck before she even begins. So… her turn now, for the smoke to clear, the flames to part… abracadabra! And there he is, catching her heart, snatching her breath, pulling her where she doesn’t want to go. In love. Back down she skips, tracing the spiral down the hill, to the farmhouse, warmth; food and drink. But first, she must pass the hollow faces, lidless eyes and gaping mouths, alight and staring; she must hear the banshee cries, the hooting owl, the chains chinking and clanking. Pass the stiles quickly, don’t dawdle at the crossroads! But still they are there. Is it the troll-boys, just fooling around, from village to town, out to gurn and gather money? Or could it really be the dead, risen and walking, wanting to reclaim their lost domain? In her pocket cwtch the charms of protection – the four-leaved clover, red ribbon and root of the sunplant, a garter made from the green bark of the rowan tree. Tried and tested, sworn by through ages – but no help that night for her. Too late, she knows it’s already too late. Still, back by the hearth, she pretends with the others, playing the pranks of Nos Calan Gaeaf, tricking and treating, feinting and cheating. Divining, foretelling, all of them asking one question – ‘Whose face did you see?’

Dried apple. A star of pips. Shards of hazel shells, ivy leaves, rounded and pointed, tokens all of the games played that night. First, cnau ac afal, cnau ac afal, bobbing in water. Then scrambling in the mash of nine ingredients – Who will find the ring, who will reach it first? Watching the farming lads drink from the wassail bowl, wide-eyed and giggling, grown-ups tutting and twittering, till full, foolish and weary, all are brushed out the door. And then… the maidens clasp hands and count the hour, ‘one, two, three…’ breath bated, waiting for the witching time to come. … eleven, TWELVE! Eyes screwed up, knuckles blanching, she pictures the face she saw in the fire, clutches the key, begging it to turn, trying to ignore the emptiness shaping into scraping and soughing, from the door where she looks for her love. But where she hopes to see a smile around lips puckering, she sees, instead, a coffin, its eerie glow crossing the room. And she watches as it lays itself before the hearth, then disappear in the swaying smoke… leaving her heart filled with lead. She pretends, knowing the vision is hers, only hers, to share or deny, whatever her choice. ‘I saw a face,’ she says, ‘but cannot name it. It wasn’t clear, misshapen in the candle’s flickering, dimmed by the shadows, lost in the corners of the room. Gone before I was certain; but there, most certainly there.’ ‘We’ll go to the crossroads.’ ‘We’ll go to the church.’ ‘Or both, if there’s time. Then he’s sure to come back, he’s sure to appear!’ ‘We’ll try, try and try again!’ So she finds herself on a different hilltop – a quiet place, no fires burning, a lonely spot, full of fear. Tread softly, but swiftly, close in the shadows, further and higher, till X marks the spot. Not a kiss, nor a schoolbook error, nor hidden treasure, but that still, centre point where two roads meet. Here they must hide, from the gwrach, ghosts and goblins… three girls arriving, hands interwoven, stifling their trembling, as if they aren’t scared. Touch the hemp, that signifies the sowing, while reading the rhyme that they chant all at once. ‘Hemp seed I sow, hemp seed I’ll mow; Who’er my true love is to be Come rake this hemp seed after me!’ They scatter their seed, hither and thither, just as the spells had told them to do. Left and right and left again, in and out of each other. They call their

verse, a second time, louder, AGAIN louder, waiting to see the seed lined in its rows. All of them waiting to see her lover. And here it is again, that noise like no other. ‘Perhaps nothing more than the wind in the trees.’ ‘Could it be the witch, going about her business?’ ‘Or the lads, with their nonsense, waiting to tease?’ And then a flash! as the moon disappears, as white becomes black, as fate becomes dark. So only she sees the coffin as it passes the crossroads; it exists for no-one... no-one else but her. Here is the church, here is the steeple. Yes, look inside, and see the people, as they wait for the calling of the dead. This is the wax of the candle she holds, shaped into teardrops for their passing, for her knowing, her seeing of what was ahead. Out in the graveyard, all the other girls gather, coming together to play their own games. All around her their faces, happy and smiling, divining their futures, their husbands revealed. There is someone for everyone, all matched to their lovers. Each sees the face that they want to see. Except for her. Everyone but her. ‘Pwy sy’n dod?’ ‘Who is coming?’ ‘No-one. No-one for me.’

Charlotte Begg

Consulting my oracle (Aunt Faith) ah yes there was a curse once (stirring tea and clinking silver across china until it over took the clocks tick tock) I wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t take too much care over it girl (a small bird hit glass blacking out rosehip and sweet peas) Just drink the tea. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll read your leaves before you go. (She spooned another sugar into my cup and I softly sipped with no more eye to eye).

Halo Quin

XII: Hanged Man The trouble with asking to Know is that knowing is carved on your bones. In the crook of your back and the ache in your wrists, not legibly written in tomes. To change what you've already got, in your neurons and muscles and skin, all that you've done must be turned upside down, so the mysteries can find their way in. With the deep wound he's given himself Old One Eye waits high on the tree; here is the place where wisdom is won, at the crossroads of death hanging free.

Sandra Moore Coleman

At Crossroads Bury the head in the east road, the body in the west. Stuff the mouth with garlic. Take the wrong path, lose your life. Choose: Odin, Mercury, Hecate, Mephistopheles. Oedipus met his destiny here. Faust summoned his. Some gathered in the moonlight, sacred grounds. Others built gallows, dug graves. Nothing confuses a devil like choices. Know that you can save your soul if you are cunning.

Kevin McGuirk

Soul Sacrifice I need to know which of you is killing me. That’s why I’ve brought you back. Ashton had spent most of the night digging up the four bodies from the rose garden behind the urn on his lower lawn, cleaning them carefully and even with some affection, dressing them in silk tap pants each had once worn, and propping them in the armchairs they now occupied. One-by-one, he had knelt before them, cupped his hands around their cheeks, kissed them preciously on whatever remained of their foreheads, and whispered his command: breathe. Without delay, each time the summoned spirit would materialize beside her slumbering corse, nude, diaphanous, lovely as her ever best, and with a long inhaling sweep, approach Ashton and return his command with a soft kiss on his lips. He offered each a satin half-robe weaved in Quanzhou, as immodest in coverage as it was in luxury. At the first touch of the robe the spirits came fully to form: no longer ethereal, but full and true spirit-flesh. The four women—two sisters, their two cousins—had each by turns been Ashton’s faithful lover, right up to the moment of giving him her life. They had loved him with every sinew of their souls, every mound and curve and slope of their bodies. That any one of them should betray him now was thinkable, but only just. Marie was the oldest. How badly are you hurt? Quickly… Then proceed, my love. With me. Marie let the robe butterfly off her back, holding on at the last with just the fingertips of her right hand. Her lover was already speaking as she looked up, smiling. There are no words for how much this will hurt us both. He hovered his palm before her heart until he could match his beats to hers and then thrust it through and grasped the pulsing muscle. Truth. He compressed with all his strength, his squeezes syncing into her beats, and Marie’s corse gasped awake from its breathless nightmare. She jolted forward in her armchair, turned toward Ashton, and with that top half of her jaw still attached to her skull, began moving her mouth as if to speak.

The more Ashton pressed her spirit-heart, the more its life drained into her worldly remains. Leather and greenish skin softened and thickened and lightened its color. Bones regrew where missing or incomplete. Hair receded into lovely, long curls and eyes stood watch once more in their sockets. All the while, Marie’s spirit-body shriveled and putrefied, decomposing like some Romantic symphony falling off its staves. Marie’s sister and cousins never turned away. They regarded the restoration of her temple lovingly, knowing what had once been razed would rise again. Two hours… there was nothing but the shrunken heart of the spiritself remaining, a walnut beating faintly, bloodlessly. The earthly Marie was now whole again. There was only one last rite to perform, and after she had eaten her spirit-heart, she was as real and sentient as on any day she had ever walked the earth. I want to make love before we do this. You must grant me that much. He held her as close to him as he could press her body. His own flesh was in crisis, he could feel it in the shadows of his pulse. But he had time, and he loved her most of all. He had searched every moment of her soul, violated secrets in her heart that she kept even from herself, and he knew Marie was not the one. As they threw themselves together, he gave her everything he had, and she clung to him, wrestled herself against him, wrenched herself back to an intensity of life she had so long missed— Now. He broke her neck with one movement of his arm. She hadn’t finished her last breath before it was already gone. Gently, he lay Marie’s corse back in her armchair. He would grant her, however pointlessly, bell, book and candle at the next midnight. Ashton moved to the other three, each with tears in her eyes. Do I need to go through this with all of you? No. But I’d enjoy the show. It was Celeste, the youngest, the one who had most recently sacrificed herself for him. He was in shock, more from knowing that his fears proved true than from knowing which of his loves had betrayed him. Without warning, Celeste’s spirit-flesh seemed to evaporate instantly while her bodily corse reanimated all at once. She was alive again, but heartless, the ritual incomplete. Who are you, Celeste? The spirit-flesh of Annika and Alexandra, the cousins, vanished just as suddenly. Annika’s carcass returned fully to the wondrous, beautiful shape that had charmed Ashton for years. He’d never met anyone so lovely, and he

doubted he ever would again. There she stood before him, alive once more, bare, mysterious, waiting, the purest energy of the cosmos and his heart. Alexandra’s corse, however, flew apart and splattered. Everything and everyone dripped with some unidentifiable fluid of her. Celeste stole a breath. Annika shrieked twice and then cried: She did it on purpose. I know she did it on purpose. I asked who you are, Celeste. She walked over to Ashton and thrust her hand into his groin, squeezing as hard as she had seen Ashton squeeze her sister’s heart. I’ll tell you just one thing… Ashton sucked hard at the air but still couldn’t find any. I’m not some fool who monologues. She drew her arm up sharply, swifter than his eyes could track, and split Ashton’s pretty torso up the middle, spitting on his viscera as they spilled. As his organs continued their cascade, Celeste was surprised to find the familiar ache of one of them in her grasp. Quickly, Annika. We have death to clean and love to make and work to do. But there will be no rituals for him.

Helen May Williams

Margot

… as in the season of ice there are caught in the snares birds seeking their food, and in the nets fish browsing in the shallow waves …

At eighteen I swore I would never wed. At nineteen I was Bluebeard’s bride. A marriage ‘without wantonness, without voluptuousness,’ — as the hermit said. I eluded tearing hymeneal stains, eluded the rocking of the cradle the hushing of the child. Each night I gave him head: each month I bled. Each day I took my passions for a walk down by the Breton sea, felt the waves tugging me the cormorants calling me to set sail for fierce horizons. In my dreams, I trace borderlines pace the length of forbidding fences, climb difficult stiles, place my bare feet on sinking sands and slippery sea-wrack, plunge into wine-red pools. In my dreams, I watch my aging father transmute into a raging Bluebeard, austere, pure, and frosty as the winter waves. In my dreams my womb shrieks with burning pain. Yet in my dreams I set sail, over the Atlantic, over and again.

Meg Kingston

Sylvie’s Inheritance I noticed the broken plank on Dad’s shed when I re-opened the chicken coop after the storm. He always kept it locked, and I couldn’t resist the lure of forbidden secrets. I checked that Dad wasn’t in sight and ducked behind the shed to investigate. The gap was just wide enough for me to wriggle through with a little effort. I’d become a woman that year, and my budding body wouldn’t slip through narrow gaps like the child I had been so recently. My eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom. The rafters were draped with dusty nets; old cork floats hung from walls garlanded with cobwebs. Without knowing why, I found my hand reaching for a small crate on a shelf and lifting it down. A single word had been burnt into the lid – Ronat – my Mother’s name. Was this something of hers? She’d never had many possessions, and I couldn’t understand why she’d have kept a box locked away in Dad’s shed, where she never came. I hadn’t seen Dad down here since she sickened and died, either. I slid the wooden lid off and gasped. It was the finest suede I’d ever seen; so delicate, so lightly tanned, it felt like water in my hands. I lifted it up and shook it out, revealing the whole skin of some animal, large enough to be a cloak. I carried it to where dim daylight seeped through the broken wall. A little rain blew through the gap and onto the suede, making it quiver like a live thing in my hands. When I squeezed outside again, it felt only natural to wrap the cloak around me. Avoiding our cottage for the moment, I made for the jetty where Pinniped knocked gently against its fenders. Sitting on the rough planks, my legs dangling, the suede cloak wrapped around my shoulders, I was almost hypnotised by the waves that bobbed gently in the aftermath of the storm. How inviting they looked. I heard a shout and turned to see Dad running towards me. “Sylvie, no!” he repeated. “Not like your mother!” Startled, I stood and started to walk towards him, wrapping the cloak around me, but then I hesitated as if something was drawing me away. “Don’t do this, Sylvie! You don’t have to be the same as your mother,” he cried. Nearer now, I could see the sweat on his lined face and the panic in his eyes. I clutched the cloak as I wavered, then my feet slipped from under me, and I tumbled into the deep, grey water. I struggled to orient myself, hampered by the cloak which seemed more alive than ever, wrapping itself around my legs. The current slammed me against something, knocking the breath from my lungs. Momentarily stunned, I hung motionless, not struggling, not even sure which way the surface was. The 35

cloak settled itself softly around me. Then I remembered Dad running, and swam towards the dappled light. My head broke the surface and I could see him standing on the jetty, looking straight at me; but he didn’t seem to see me. I tried to raise my arm and wave, but it wouldn’t lift out of the water. Instead, I surface-dived to swim to him. This time the water seemed to welcome me into itself. I dived deeper into the kindly depths, seeing colours I’d never noticed before. I twisted and rolled, afloat and comfortable like a baby deep inside its mother’s skin. I’d been underwater for several minutes, but I didn’t need to breathe yet. Then there were more faces in the water, other seals appearing out of the greyness, swimming round, inspecting me. We surfaced together, a long way from the jetty. I could barely make out the human figure standing there, before we dived back into the grey world and swam out to sea.

Lara Gularte

Witch of Flores Island Into the bubbling caldera, the witch flings basalt, fills her pockets with bones and ash. Sun and moon avoid her— she reaches high to grab the Lunar disc, but it slips her grasp. The sol star coats her with salt. She’s a hunched sorceress who lost her powers, image thrown back by her silver mirror. No more eyes or hands conjuring fishermen to wait for her onshore. A crone, blistered and dry, face more carapace than flesh, talks in a language of dark, mean stones. Splash into ocean waters, for baptism of a born again witch, the Atlantic flows in and out of her. She chokes, coughs lava, swims to the place where the ships went down, slips into fog. Find her now, smoke rising from a cluster of Hydrangeas, conjuring a new life— hair dyed henna, nails polished red.

Eilish Fisher

Inannaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Descent â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Samhain 1989 Fires bend the October night, against the hillside, the quietly gnarled roots of decay and mud. She descends through curtains of black frost and sapling corridors, emerging in bodyskin silk on a pallet platform. Children in masks dance like sparks from the bonfire while visceral drumming argues with the hunting cries of barn owls. We hold hands running serpentines through the night, pounding rhythms against her heart. Our pulses race to finish this play this ritual of landscape, blood, fire as she hangs from ankles in the suspended agony of sacrifice.

Sarah Deeming

The Wild Hunt The crossroads stand between me and home. I curse my luck. Night has fallen faster than I anticipated and I face an impossible decision. Return to the inn and spend money I can’t spare on a bed for the night or brave the crossroads on Samhain night with a full moon. In the light of day, I wouldn’t hesitate. Most nights I wouldn’t either but in the darkness of this night, my nana’s old ghost stories seem more real than my home and warm bed. I find myself believing them with all the intensity of my childhood. During the long nights, she would sit in front of the fire knitting and talk of the souls of the damned, buried at the crossroads, denied a Christian burial. Of desperate men and women who waited there for the devil and the bargains they struck. Of the Wild Hunt. The Wild Hunt. Demonic horsemen who roamed the countryside from Samhain to Winter’s Twelfth night, forcing unwary mortals who speak with them to join the hunt then carrying them to the underworld when the hunt was done. Those stories kept me awake long after my mother had blown out the candles. In my bed, I would strain my ears, listening for the howls of the black hounds of Wild Hunt. I refused to gather wood from the shed after dark. If I was ever caught away from home at night, I would run back, convinced I could hear hooves and paws pounding behind me and that I was drenched in flecks of drool from their rabid jaws. From somewhere in the recesses of my memory, I dredge up my nana’s advice for keeping safe. Don’t be caught out after dark. I pull my cloak closer. If it wasn’t already dark, I wouldn’t be in this childish panic. What else did she say? If you are caught out after dark and should a member of the Hunt speak to you, do not reply, not even if you think you know them. The safest thing, she always warned, was to find a church. Demons can’t enter a church. I wonder where the nearest church is then shake myself. This is nonsense. My nana was a superstitious old woman with a head filled with rubbish. On the other side of the crossroad, my children sleep unafraid of the ghost stories that keep me quaking by the roadside. I have been here so long the warmth from the inn has left me and my toes have gone numb. This is the real world. It belongs to men, not phantom horsemen and demon dogs. And yet I can taste the vegetable soup I would always eat whilst listening to those stories. 39

I shoulder my pack and step onto the road. I am not a child and will not hide by like one either. I am a man and will act like one. I step under the crossroad sign. The full moon comes out from behind the clouds and I am caught under the shadow of the sign. The temperature drops. Breath smokes in the air. Not mine. Panting. Growling. Horses nickering. The unmistakable scent of dog and horse. I have been wrong all these years. I am sorry I forgot to believe, Nana.

Helena Astbury

I am Nora I. The Woods I am the rumour of a love bite in the dip of her collar-bone, carried close from woods to bedside mirror the welcome of dripping black path, empty pond the spark of a wrong turn you took on purpose together, sliding a lip of cold secret in a late night sneakerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ear, a ground-whispering: go home young agers, before-hour is near! This planted creep breathing gentle slope rocking mud steps sheer-high-red hiding I am Nora. See me in leaves, glassed mid-air, collecting scraps of sweethearts.

II. The Newt Witching season sags. Gills follow – I remove my cloak, take out my eyes, hip-slither. Would they have known their girling-spectre, rooty spook is a thick-slip pondman, gianted for all summer – no revenant, no water-haunt, my babies come from eggs. I float alive with running blood. Colder than the Brook. Each spring the same enchant. I wake sprinkled with ash heron-dropped, crow-flamed. I grow undermud, black to yellow to blue-black, my cloak is my spine, tall as a swarthing half-Alder. I crawl on hind until October’s shrunken edge. Then it starts to catch, a wetted race to pool bed before winter steals my slipper. I am Nora. I am rare, a newt spelled whole, cast as a ghost. III. The Nun I am what they say, but not whom. Ferocious faith returned me to this Keep. I was walled a princess made meek, thank God. Haunting is penance for the prior royalties, the velvet. I slip through stone, seeping Divinity, knowing I was not always a nun. I was not always Nora.

Siaara Freeman

I Met A Witch & She Gave Me A Name I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t tell you my name, you will use it like it is yours. You will sale it for a hand full of knuckles and praise. Will use them against me. A parade of ghost knows how to spell my name so it looks like a warning; a child in my neighborhood bodega carries two razors in the soft bed of her jaw, she plants them in whatever tries to ruin her. This is a hint, here is another, a dog in my neighborhood is a monster she has worked hard to be. A stern grooming. A fear that can work for her. What has being manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s best-friend done for anyone? Her claws is my name spelled backwards and frontwards my name means replenished blood. My name only dances naked. My name is only naked when it is carrying roses or knives. My name is the backdrop for a haunted portrait. The portrait is of a princess or a sacrifice or both neatly tucked into eachother

Nico Knox

Devil’s Bite Mother claimed, afterwards, that the midwife had been a witch, that she had spotted the Devil’s Bite through a rip in her smallclothes as the woman changed into nightwear. And it was all ridiculous, of course, because the midwife was a godly woman who gave what she could to the church, attended the baptisms of each child she delivered. Even as midwifes of surrounding towns drew glaring suspicion, Luisa was looked upon with respect. Yet Mother remained persistent. In the days immediately afterwards, she cried to anyone that would listen that Luisa had taken her Violet from her. When sympathy wore thin, she became silent in her grief. Wore the same black gown to every church service, glared across the room at the back of Luisa’s head, clasped her hands together and whispered for the Father to reveal this witch’s deceit. It was uncomfortable, sitting in the family box. Estel would tap her feet through the service, rush through the closing prayers, try to ignore the concerned looks of neighbors. “I forgot to start the fire,” she whispered, a preemptive excuse, before the Father had uttered his last psalm. She stood in a rush, opening the gate as he stepped away from the pulpit, speed-walking down the aisle in her effort to leave. Near the back, Luisa sat next to her newest charge, a young bride with a swollen belly that hung over her thighs. Her eyes swept over Estel as the girl passed, but she focused only on her client's smile. "Did you say your prayers for the baby, Marin?” Marin’s hand dropped over her waist, pressing through the layers of cloth. “Always, Luisa. I trust that He will give us health.” Estel didn’t stay to hear Luisa’s response. She threw open heavy wooden doors and ran out into the snow, boots making imprints upon frozen grass. Home wasn’t far. But Home was unwelcoming enough to be repugnant, a living monument to Mother’s sorrow. Though the fire shone bright through the windows, it only served to illuminate the watchful talisman that had been installed on the gate. The garden that burst with life in spring was drab in autumn grey, the snows concealing the deeper scars of the herb-bushes Mother had burnt months ago. Inside, a dozen other subtle oddities awaited: salt in the chimney, crosses lining the fireplace, basins full of holy water.

It was the backyard, hidden from neighbors by dead brambles, that she tried most to ignore. Mother had begged the Father to let her bury the son in the churchyard, add him to a wall of generations of family coffins stacked like bricks. But he hadn't yet been baptized, so she fashioned a makeshift memorial stone, strung crosses around it like a wreath. Some days, when Estel passed through the yard on her way into the field, there would be greenery creeping up the side of the stone like grasping fingers. These she would pull out, stuff in her pockets, salt the soil to prevent anything else from taking root. Mother would see the sprigs of violets and swear it was the work of Luisa. Today the yard was empty except for the piling snow. Estel went inside to tend the fire. “Alba and Iker are getting married in the Spring,” said her Mother's Husband, later that night, huddled over his dinner plate. “That's so romantic," Estel sighed, closing her eyes in blissed imagination. “Think about all the wildflowers!” “I heard it's because Alba got pregnant,” her brother whispered, conspiratorially, and her Mother’s Husband swatted in reprimand. There was half a breath where they all turned to Mother, curled in her chair against the window. She was fixated on the darkness outside, eyes glazed, barely seeming to breath. Mother’s Husband turned back to them. “Don't be rude,” he chided, her brother leaping back into conversation, but Estel lingered for a moment longer. It was only on the especially bright nights where Mother would straighten. Gasp. Point her finger forward, jabbing the nail on the sill. "I see her," she would insist, “Luisa's come to take my Violet from me again." “Where?” They would ask, and Mother would shake her head and refuse to speak. Ethel dreamed about her Mother that night, a gloomy woman sitting by the fireplace, below the light of the full moon. And the scene changed and it was Marin instead, weeping openly by herself. And then it was a glassy-smiled Alba surrounded by Iker's friends. And then it was her, ten years in the future, pointing out shadows in the starlight. The dream changed again, and she had woken up in the middle of the night from shivering, the fireplace run dry. She left the room to rekindle it, tiptoed through the house, past the room of her mother. There was someone watching her. She turned.

A pale outline of a woman peered at her through bubbly glass. Luisa stood there, illuminated in the full moon. Though she wore her good churchdress, she held in her right hand a broom and her left a torch, and the Devilâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Bite was outlined against her bust. And Estel tried to scream, jabbed her finger towards the window, because Mother was right, Mother was right all along, and she never should have doubted her. But Luisa simply met her eyes, and nodded, and mouthed a few words before turning away. When she got to the memorial stone, a grey blur blending with the shrubbery, it was not fire that she held out but a pouch, and out of it poured seeds, catching starlight on the way into the dirt. Vines sprung out where they hit the ground, winding up the side of the stone, and where they bloomed they made purple flowers. The next morning, when Estel woke in her room, she imagined that Luisa had tried to say, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m Sorry, Forgive Me. She stepped into the snow to search for wildflowers.

Catherine Edmunds

The Night of the Mothers There has never been enough nourishment here. The children we bore resembled the men; experts and liars, who spoke well enough but couldn’t sing. They left last summer when the fields stank. There will be no more children. The men see old ewes not worth saving, barns only good for pulling down. They give orders, make complaints. We don’t reply. We have a squashed frog, a jar of pickled newts’ brains, or maybe they’re really nasturtium pods, a handful of dried fly agaric, an iron pot on a tripod above the grate. Morning follows. The men don’t complain any more.

Em Morley

Trespassers, Beware It was October when it happened. The leaves had turned to their shades of golden brown and deep orange. Flutters of them had been swept to the ground by a wandering breeze, branches beginning to look bare and tired. The fairies usually kept to themselves, but lately I had seen them about. Never fully, not properly, but the flitter of wings in the corner of my eye, and the tittering sound of something small and full of malice. I didn’t trust them, but I was adamantly unafraid. My Nan had warned me of them, she said she’d had experiences with them when she was my age, and they’d been nothing but mischievous. Missing hairpins and salt in the sugar pot were the most benign incidences of it all. But once a cat went missing and turned up later in the well bucket when they next drew water. And there was the near death of her younger sister, a baby at the time, due to a teacup falling from a shelf as their mother’s back was turned. They did not like us living so close, but we had as much right to be there as they did. Mum always tried to use them as a way of making me behave. ‘You better remember to brush your teeth Maggie, or the fairies’ll come in the night and take them,’ she’d say, or ‘brush your hair properly, else you’ll wake up to find the fairies’ve sheared it all off.’ However, her words never had their intended effect, as Nan would always follow with, ‘They don’t wait for a reason, they attack for fun.’ Nan says our family lived in our house long before the fairies came. I had once asked her when the little beasts first appeared and began their torment. But she brushed away the question with the wave of her hand, ‘Who knows? It’s been so long’. She told me not to get too close, to stay well away from the boundary. But I went anyway, on that brisk autumn morning. Towards the spindly silver birches and the wizened oaks at the bottom of the garden, where they lived. I was curious, like most young children were; I wanted to explore everything. After all, they lived in my garden, so I had a right to see what they were up to, hadn’t I? There was no path. No human had been through here any time recently. Still, I strode on with self-assured purpose. But as the sun disappeared behind the looming limbs of the trees, my confidence waned and my pace slowed. I became more cautious of the crunch of brittle twigs and rotting foliage beneath my feet. The world around me suddenly felt so still and eerily quiet, that I was sure my crackling footsteps must not have gone unnoticed. 48

I paused to listen for any sign that I wasn’t alone. Not a sound was to be heard. I shouldn’t have come, I should have listened to my Nan. Then a piercing caw cried out and startled me. I twisted around to see a large crow eying me from a nearby branch. My heart pounded in my chest as it flapped its wings and launched into the sky, above the trees. My breathing was heavy, despite attempts to calm myself. Anger filled me, overshadowing my dread. Why was I so jumpy? Had I not already decided I was not afraid of them? I breathed in and out, then took a step forward to continue on my way. A rustle of leaves stirred from behind, and I turned in fright to face the source of the noise. There was nothing there. But when I turned back, hovering inches from my face was none other than what I had come to challenge. I froze, holding my breath as its tiny buzzing wings swayed it to and fro. Its small, greyish head tilted to the side as it examined me with coal dark eyes and a wide grin full of razor teeth. A slim tongue whipped out and licked the corner of its mouth, then the creature shot upwards beyond the trees. Panic slapped me, and I was filled with an anxious desire to run and hide. But this anxiety struggled with the indecision of where to go, whether to move quietly or swiftly, or would it even matter now after all? Why had I come here? Why had I not listened to my Nan’s warnings? And then they were on me. Tiny bodies flitting about, turning me this way and that, disorientating me. Needle-sharp teeth and raking claws. They soon had me on the ground, at the foot of a tree. A big willow, done with weeping for this year. Roots sprouted out of the ground, looping around my arms, my legs, my neck. They constricted and bound me tight to the tree’s base. There I stayed. Day after day I sat there, immobile. I could hear my family calling my name, my father shouting for me to come home. All I could do in reply was let out a shallow, raspy breath. I could hear my Nan saying it was no use. I had gone into the fairies’ territory, I would not be coming back. She was right. Slowly, my skin began to change to the colour and texture of bark, blending with that of the willow. I soon became infused with the tree; my torso and limbs were thick roots, my face nothing more than another gnarly knot on the willow’s trunk, along with the others who had dared to challenge the fairies.

Paul Beech

Wiggy Vann A woman in a red beret stands before an ancient oak of great girth with wisps of snow drifting slantwise through its bare boughs in pale moonlight. Vida is a widow though clearly out of mourning now. She is just back from an evening with Gahan, her first lover since Ken’s untimely demise. A dozen paces will bring her to Acorn Cottage, her lonely home on the edge of the woods. But something in the bole of the oak holds her fast as always: the face of Wiggy Vann. It’s a matter of record that the notorious highwayman was hung from the tree in 1802; true also that deep in its dark bole may be viewed a countenance of purest demonic evil. Yet Vida and Ken, newly-wed, had airily dismissed as superstitious tosh the old belief that Wiggy’s vengeful spirit clung to the oak, bringing ill-fortune to anyone living in its shadow. Acorn Cottage had for years lain void and they’d bought it for a song, complete with long-case clock. It’s early days yet with Gahan. Tussle-haired and rather owlish, he’s a coming poet on the local circuit and a gentle, sensitive soul. It’s inconceivable he could ever turn as Ken did. Poor darling Ken, whose wit and passion had won her heart. He’d hardly ever touched whisky before and was certainly never given to rages. It was the worry of his business of course, clients deserting for no apparent reason... When he blacked her eye for the second time, Vida had tearfully fled north to her parents’ home on the coast. Inconsolable, she’d wandered the beach daily, up beyond the lighthouse where terns dived for fish. She’d been there a week when the police came knocking. There’d been a terrible accident at Acorn Cottage, they said. Their faces told the rest. *** Before the great oak she stands again in her red beret. But of Wiggy, the moon reveals no sign, his monstrous visage hidden in swaddling snow. Gahan’s tail lights have disappeared down the lane leaving Vida in reflective mood. Maybe she should have asked him to stop the night. But no, it was his first time at Acorn Cottage and it didn’t feel right yet with Ken’s presence still hovering in the air somehow. Not that she’d felt too inhibited on the sofa, Mahler’s 5th on low…

It was after dinner he’d remarked on the long-case clock in the hall. “Welsh, isn’t it? Eighteenth century. Rosewood. I love the arched hood and fancy brass dial. Must weigh a ton!” Vida had forced a smile. “You could write a poem about it.” She wasn’t going to tell him about the terrible accident. How could the clock, stable on its solid plinth, have simply toppled over of its own accord? The coroner recorded an open verdict. Gahan, so owlish, is cute. Wiggy Vann is malignant still in death. And the swaddling snow will surely melt.

Nico Solheim-Davidson

Death She is Death the pale shadow that lingers at your palletâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s head She is Death the owlâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s calling in the Witching Hour as you slumber She is Death the shade that wanders through the eternal home and on the late, feeds She is Death and the ending kiss As down your throat Her baneful tongue crawls

Thomas Lloyd

Mary In the garden there was an apple tree. Its limbs twisted, split and divided in such a way that had always made the girl think of it as the crookedapple-tree, for as long as she had known what those words meant. And crooked it was. Beneath this tree was a patch of earth where grass was not allowed to grow. Every year it struggled to set down its roots, but before it could claim a foothold a man would come with a shovel and turn the patch into a hole. A minor apocalypse, perhaps, for the grass at least. Inside this patch of earth was Mary’s skull. And here it rested for most of the year. It was polished by now, and gleaming white, as Mary’s skull was very old. Deep, dark hollows led back into her head, shrinking into pores large enough only for an infant worm, or an optic nerve to pass through. The jaw was strong and large, stronger and larger than a human’s by far, and her teeth were bared in the same eternal grin as all skulls. These things, the girl knew. She knew because whilst this receptacle of drive and emotion, and maybe even thought, had spent every year of this century and more lying beneath the shaded earth, for one night every year it was allowed a reprieve from its confinement. And that night was Calan Gaeaf. It was the first day of Winter, by the old way. The day that marked that harvest was over, that cold and dark would soon hold dominion over the land. What the Irish call Samhain, but most else call Halloween. On Calan Gaeaf the girl’s Grandad would wait for twilight, take his shovel to the crooked apple tree, brush aside the grass which every year made its bid for life, and unearth the skull. The girl’s Nan would play the body. Sheet and string. The equine skull sat on top with a pole held from below to hold it in place. Glass bottles for eyes. And in the Halloween night Grandad would lead Mary and her surrogate corpse through the town, passing children in plastic masks half a century younger than themselves. This was the Mari Lwyd, and it was almost forgotten. Where its memory lingered it had been scrubbed clean by concerned pastors, forced into its Sunday best and made into an auger of Christmas. But it had not always been so. “People forget,” Nan had told the girl often. “They forget their history, and their language. They forget what it means for something to be sacred,” and 53

she’d point into the mountainside with her arthritis-ruined fingers. “There are places out there you shouldn’t go. Or only go at the right times, or in the right ways. Clearings. Groves. Caves. That’s what they look like, but they’re actually doors. They’ve been forgotten now. But somebody still has to remember.” It was a duty that Nan and Grandad had taken on themselves. To remember what people forgot. To preserve the old ways as best they could. It was ironic then, that despite her commitment to remembering Nan was eventually overtaken by her particular demon, and forgot a lot more than just the old ways. It put a lot of strain on Grandad, caring for her, and when he died and she moved in, the girl’s parents struggled to explain how it was more cruel that she had lived while he had not. Since, Spring had dried, and Summer gone, Autumn left its harvest for those who cared. It was the first night of Winter, by the old way. And it was the night of a storm. The girl watched as the bravest trick-or-treaters forged their way through the rain, leaning into the wind and wrestling with the wills of their umbrellas. The girl had chosen a costume for tonight but mum had, in her infinite wisdom, taken one glance out the window and declared: “Ha, I don’t think so. Maybe tomorrow, if the weather’s better.” Now she watched the storm, weighing her desire for sweets against her desire to not be soaked, while the sun made its descent towards the ground, unseen behind the clouds. She wasn’t thinking of ghosts when her grandmother screamed. But afterwards she would remember what more than once she’d been told. That on this night, more than any other, certain doors are open. Nan came downstairs with as much speed as her fragility would allow. “It’s in the ground,” she kept saying. “They can’t leave, he won’t leave,” and she called for her husband’s help, remembering on this occasion that she had one, but not that he was gone from her. Her mother responded with calming words and managed to coax Nan back upstairs. Eventually the girl returned her gaze to the storm. She saw the crooked apple tree, and the wound in the earth that had never been allowed to heal. Saw that twilight had come, and would soon disintegrate into night. And a determination became fixed in her mind. She went outside without a coat, and the rain beat down upon her head. She clawed at the ground as the darkness gathered close. Until her fingers stung and her nails bled, but still she did not stop. She knew that people forget, but that somebody had to remember, and tonight… Tonight was special.

Finally, she saw the bone, that gleaming white, and only a little more excavation was needed before she could pry it from its grave. She took only a moment to admire the deep-dark of its sockets, its mischievous grin, before passing it into her Grandadâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s outstretched hands. He smiled as he fixed it to the pole. It had been a large turnout this year, and they were eager to be off. The girl watched as Grandad and Mary led the procession through the town and beyond, into the mountainside, where somewhere, in some hidden clearing or grove or cave, a door was standing open.

Jonathan Humble

Pontefract Postponed While sitting by a tree within a wood last Wednesday week, Perfecting transcendental yogic hovering technique, A mystic would-be sky-pilot with pure unsullied soul, Conversed with one determined to dislodge his aureole. For pious Jim got chatting with Old Mephistopheles, Who on a stroll to capture wayward sinners in the trees, Discovered pure and lovely Jim, and thought it might be nice To tempt him with some naughty ways denounced in Paradise. Old Nick ran through the deadly sins, as impious tour guide; From Avarice and Lust, to Envy, Sloth, Anger and Pride. All swiftly were dismissed by Jim, with innocence intact, Until the Devil tempted him with cakes from Pontefract. “Where comest this fine black bonne bouche?” asked poor demented Jim, As Greed quite overcame his mind and left him in a spin. A knowing smile played on Nick’s lips, as pointing to ‘The North’, He doomed young Jim to liquorice addiction from thenceforth. That cake noir of devil’s bush, it trifled with Jim’s heart, And drove the youth to madness cleaving sense and soul apart. This innocent, corrupted by the Pomfrey taste and smell, Had sybaritic urges, which he could no longer quell. And thoughts emerged most naughtily of pleasures high in guilt, So much that self-control and staunch resolve did quickly wilt. To Pontefract went fallen youth in such indecent haste To sate his hedonistic need for Spanish sweet root taste. And there amongst the local folk, damned Jim was left to dwell, On Devil’s mission in the darkest depths of Yorkshire Hell.

Katherine DiBella Seluja

Her Unruly Hands It’s not that she didn’t like her hands, they were just somewhat impulsive. One day they’d be right where she left them, swinging along with her arms and the next day she’d be folding the sheets with her teeth. These appendages were highly irregular. It’s not that they weren’t helpful. Most mornings her hands were in the kitchen hours before she was awake. Rolling out pie crust, prepping gazpacho, setting the kettle to steam. But were they ever flighty. The slightest noise on the stair and out the window they’d go. Of course, they could pull the stuck zipper or scratch that spot on her back that was just out of reach. They were especially useful whenever she wanted to wear her grandmother’s pearl necklace, that clasp so finicky. But there was something a little out of hand about these hands. They wanted to party all night. They’d wait patiently for her to get sleepy, help with her night gown and then they’d be off. She left the window open so they could slip back inside just as the sky was pinkening. Her troubles began as the weather grew colder. After a night of carousing, her hands rapped loudly at the window smelling of stale beer and Lucky Strikes, demanding to see her wrists at that instant. “I just don’t understand why you can’t stay home like all the decent hands do,” she pleaded. On the nights when her hands did stay home, she never got any sleep. Like some nocturnal beast the hands never rested. Slamming drawers, stacking dishes, practicing their castanets, these hands were becoming impossible. She began to have strange coughing spells in the middle of the night. Dreaming of cracking her knuckles or playing the bongos, she’d suddenly jump straight up in bed, pink lights flashing behind her eyes, gasping as if fish bones were stuck in her gullet. Glancing frantically around the room, she’d see her hands sitting quietly in the rocker by the fire, painting their nails. Her nocturnal spells worsened and her doctor was stumped. No bronchitis, no aspiration, no fish bones, no fish. She hadn’t had a good night in weeks. On the night she resorted to the Ambien (that her hands generously offered to pick up for her at the pharmacy), she got into bed anticipating the deep blue sleep the little pill would provide. Drifting off to the smell of 57

lavender, next thing she knew she was clasping on a luminescent pearl necklace that was a wee bit snug but still made the neat circle around her neck. The necklace pulled a bit tighter and she coughed. Then gasped and sputtered as she tried to get a good breath. She was gagging and struggling for air as the necklace pulled tighter and tighter. The pearls digging ever deeper into her throat.

Caroline Hardaker

Gloria Hag An antique bookshop revealed to me a secret, folded between the pages of a rotting botany tome. Together with a preserved marigold was pressed a note marked with the sign of a helical worm and star. *

Hag, Gloria-Hag, where have you been since Samhain? Betwixt the rocks and lichen perhaps, lifted on a lick of flame, or perchance listening low to the pleasure groans from homes down Hamlet ways, closed, below? Where, where did you go? Which form did you choose? The rat? The horned ram or the buzzard? I remember the hunt, so worth the pain of a transformation. What did you hear, Hag, Gloria Hag? Converge with us twelve again in worm form, our skins sticking in sacred mud and we'll debate what needs done. Come, Gloria-Hag, when the setting sun sets the hare to rest, where the bear licks the stone over our Motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s buried bones. I'll be there with a fox pelt to welcome you home, back to our Sisters, all awaiting you, all grown.

Joseph Allison

The Fall I thought they were leaves, at first, when I saw them. The Autumn grass was pockmarked with craters where their tiny bodies had struck. Their wings were heavy, stiff, slimy and black, like their original pigments had been corrupted already, and the fibrous tissue beneath had rotted to mulch. Only a shrivelled inkling of a humanoid body could be seen poking from the nearest wreckage. Their limbs were bent back. Their skulls were concave. I couldn’t stop my heart from sinking. They had perished en masse. Even with their glamour removed, even after everything they’d done, you couldn’t help feeling sorry for creatures so small. It was warmer, when I saw them before. The bluebells were in bloom. I was seven years old and I was walking, in the woods, with my parents and two brothers. Pinpricks of sunlight shone like stars through the woodland’s bottle green canopy, and the air was alive with pollen. The dry dusty undergrowth was filled with shadows. Shadows and life. I think I was already lost, when I found them, I just didn’t know it yet. I was the shortest and second youngest of three siblings, so on walks I’d be left to trail behind. Not that I minded being alone. They were never too far away, and I was an adventurous child, with the sun in my eyes. I soon came to a place where the trees were old, and spread further apart. There the path made by thousands of wandering feet diverged and split in all directions. That was where I found them. A sudden flurry of bright, pale shapes rushed overhead, making me stop to stare. There was a susurration of whispers and wings as one darting, shifting, murmuration of… something, some things, stood still in the air above me, staring. I think both of us were surprised to see each other but neither of us fled. Slowly circling, we drew nearer. Seeing them closer, I realised they were smiling, so I smiled back. Their smiles became grins, as they hovered low over the path. I stepped forward. They moved back. They didn’t run. They waited for me to follow. We made our way along the path, off the path, and down the valley’s edge. I didn’t know where we were going. They were beautiful, and soon my eyes only saw their shapes. I walked, for I don’t know how long, until we came to a clearing by a stream, where more of them were waiting. They seemed to be dancing. Perhaps

they were hunting. Their wings shone in the setting sun. The largest swarm parted, as I approached, and closed behind me, as I continued forward. I trusted them. Their whispers, the steady hum of their wings and the patient press of the crowd, shepherded me on to the edge of a deep crack of a chasm. A tree had fallen across, making a bridge. Roots and vines had consumed the tree’s body and anchored it to the soil. The swarm hummed impatiently, waiting for me to go. Gingerly placing one foot onto the bridge, and the next, I made my way across. I was half way over when my leg slipped. For a dizzying moment I struggled for balance and then the swarm struck. The bridge cracked and I dropped. I hit my back and tumbled, striking my side sharply and landed, crashing my head, at the bottom. My mind went dark. I awoke in darkness with an agony that told me I’d broken several bones. Above me in the dark sky their wings shone in the moonlight, as they circled overhead like petals in a whirlwind. I was in their trap. They were there to witness pain. I lay there for hours, with only their incessant shrieks of inhuman laughter, and the sound of my own voice bouncing back at me for company. I’d stopped crying by the time someone found me. I never told my parents what I’d seen. For a time, I couldn't say a word. Would my parents have believed me? Even their proper name sounded ridiculous. What if they had thought it was true? One small hand rested on mine and I flinched, mid-thought. My granddaughter, Jane, was standing next to me. Her fingers gripped mine tightly. “What are they?” “I don’t know…” “You don’t know?” I didn’t know what else to say. If I’d said otherwise, would it be true? I mean, there was a recognition in my memory of something in those shapes, now, that would never go away, but I thought they were leaves, at first, when I saw them. Maybe they were leaves. Maybe that was the only indication they were truly dead. Maybe there was hope. They said, in those fairytales of lost boys and mischief, that it was belief that kept them alive. Maybe one day, leaves are all anyone would see. The clearing was silent now except for the sound of water; the sound of the stream, always there, and the rain, crackling against the dome of my umbrella. “Just ignore them.” I said, turning her away, “Let’s go home.”

I was glad for the rain. I could pretend that was what I was running from. I could pretend it could have been the wind that made it look like they slouched towards me, as I turned to leave. That’s how it could’ve been. It was only when the carpark asphalt was beneath my boots, that I found I could relax. In the thick, plastic silence of the car we watched the rain falling. I turned the ignition. Perhaps I’ll tell Jane what happened. It’s a story that wants to be told. There’s no stopping it. I can only hope she’ll be safe. All my life, I’ve gripped tight to their secret, because I knew, in telling people, they became true. We live in sceptical times. One day, the story will die, the creatures will die with it and they’ll never hurt anyone again.

Maggie Mackay

Divination The weight of her ghost rests in this key and I’ve given her name to our third lass, Jessie. A fistful of iron, it’s our good luck charm, this wee house, its rose beds, weathering glass. Let it unlock smiles, bar tears, welcome song, yoke strangers. Let it grow love with the breaking of bread, and I pray it wards off a child’s passing, keeps whooping cough from the schuil gate, repels thieves from the cot when night imps mass.

Angi Holden

Reveal All summer the shutters have been folded back, the slatted panels concertinaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d against the deep Cotswold stone of the window reveals. Bright day has danced sunlight across the oak table, casting hard-edged shadows into the inglenook. Each evening we have gathered on the padded windowseat watching the bats shimmying between trembling aspens, spotting the vixen tracking her shaded path beside the wall. Now, as the days shorten, we clear the sills of clutter, placing Grandmotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s earthenware jug beside the bureau, tossing oversized pinecones into the wicker basket. Father draws the shutters closed, drops the latch. He says they protect us from wind and rain and draughts, from the rattle of window panes, from the leering eyes of the winter creatures, venturing abroad these nights.

Ali Jones

All Souls At midnight, I peel back the flesh, to find my other selves, the ghosts that walk bone boundaries, snow tithed, sealed up behind icy glass, their places undefined. Two farm the land, a pair turning the soil, smelling of leaf mould and everything unmade. Once dances in a pool of sound, mandolin strings, movement beyond everything, the strange and familiar, time swaddled, standing out beneath a Samhain moon, breathing life into the flames.

Writers Abigail Elizabeth Ottley writes poetry and short fiction from her home in Penzance. She is a member both of the Penzance Stanza group and Lapidus South West. She is currently working as Literary Co-ordinator on the Penzance Bay Mural Project which aims to bring street art and poetry to the town’s sea wall and thus brighten the town. Spangle McQueen is a happy grandma and a hopeful poet, living in Sheffield. Gaia Holmes is a free-lance writer and creative writing tutor who has worked with schools, universities, libraries and other community groups throughout the Yorkshire region. She runs ‘Igniting The Spark’, a weekly writing workshop at Dean Clough, Halifax. She has had two full length poetry collections published by Comma Press: Dr James Graham’s Celestial Bed (2006) and Lifting The Piano With One Hand (2013). She is currently working on her third collection which will, amongst other things, deal with gaps, sink holes, taxidermy and broad beans. Jackie Biggs started writing poetry after leaving a successful career as a journalist and editor. Her first collection, The Spaces in Between, was published in September 2015 by Pinewood Press (Swansea). She has also had poetry published in many magazines and anthologies, and she reads her work regularly at spoken word events all over west Wales, where she lives. Some of her poetry (and other work) appears on her blog: jackie-news.blogspot.co.uk contact: jackienews@hotmail.co.uk Kailey Tedesco is the author of These Ghosts of Mine, Siamese (Dancing Girl Press) and She Used to be on a Milk Carton (forthcoming from April Gloaming Publishing). She is the editor-in-chief of Rag Queen Periodical and a staff writer for Luna Luna Magazine. She also frequently performs with the Poetry Brothel. You can find her work in Faerie Magazine, Prick of the Spindle, Rose Red Review, Rogue Agent, and more. For more, please visit kaileytedesco.com. Matt Macdonald has brought shows to the Edinburgh Fringe in 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016 and 2017. He has won several awards for his poetry, including the Open Mic at Poetry NYC in April 2016. He has travelled across the UK and East Coast of the US performing. He has been involved in the Scottish National Poetry Slam in 2013, 2014, 2015 and 2017 and the Hammer and Tongue UK National Final in 2017. His first pamphlet Who Are Your People was published by Red Squirrel Press in 2014 and his debut collection is forthcoming from the same publisher. Barry Charman is a writer living in North London. He has been published in various magazines, including Ambit, Firewords Quarterly, The Literary Hatchet

and Popshot. He has had poems published online and in print, most recently in Bewildering Stories and The Linnet’s Wings. He has a blog at barrycharman.blogspot.co.uk. Victoria Gatehouse lives in a Pennine village, has an MA in Poetry from Manchester Metropolitan University and loves writing (and reading) about fairy-tale, folklore and myth. Her poems have been published in many magazines and anthologies including The North, The Rialto, Magma, Poetry News, Mslexia, Her Wings of Glass and Chronicles of Eve amongst others. Victoria has won or been placed in various poetry competitions and has a pamphlet forthcoming with Valley Press. Faye Boland has had poems published in Skylight 47, The Yellow Nib, The California Quarterly, The Galway Review, Literature Today, The Shop, Revival, Crannóg, Orbis, Wordlegs, Ropes, Headstuff, Silver Apples, Creature Features, The Blue Max Review and Speaking for Sceine Chapbooks, Vols I and II. In 2014 her poetry was included in Visions: An Anthology of Emerging Kerry Writers. Her poem 'Silver Bracelet' was shortlisted in 2013 for the Poetry on the Lake XIII International Poetry Competition. Indiana (USA) writer James Dorr’s The Tears of Isis was a 2014 Bram Stoker Award® nominee for Superior Achievement in a Fiction Collection. Other books include Strange Mistresses: Tales of Wonder and Romance, Darker Loves: Tales of Mystery and Regret, and his all-poetry Vamps (A Retrospective). Dorr’s latest book, Tombs: A Chronicle of Latter-Day Times of Earth is a novel-in-stories just out from Elder Signs Press in June 2017. An Active Member of HWA and SFWA with more than 500 individual appearances from Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine to Xenophilia, Dorr invites readers to visit his blog at jamesdorrwriter.wordpress.com. April Michelle Bratten is the Editor-in-Chief of Up the Staircase Quarterly. Her latest chapbook, Anne with an E, was published by dancing girl press. You can learn more at aprilmichellebratten.com. Louise Warren’s first collection A Child’s Last Picture Book of the Zoo won the Cinnamon First Collection Prize and was published in 2012. A pamphlet In the scullery with John Keats also published by Cinnamon came out in 2016. Her poems have appeared in many magazines including Ambit, New Welsh Review, The Rialto, Poetry Wales and Stand. She was a prize winner in the Troubadour International Poetry Prize (2013 and 2015) and this year her poem ‘Geraniums’ was highly commended in the Second Light Poetry Competition. Diana Powell lives and writes in the far west of Wales. Her stories have won or been placed in several competitions, including the 2014 PENfro (winner), the 2016 Cinnamon Press (a runner-up), and the 2016 Sean O’Faolain (long-listed). This year, she gained second prize in the Irish Imbas Celtic Mythology

competition – the only Welsh success. Her work has also featured in several journals, such as The Lonely Crowd and Crannog. She is currently working on a collection, and has a novella due out next year, published by Holland House. Charlotte Begg is a poet and artist living on the Isle of Wight. She had had poems published online and in print, and hopes to release her first pamphlet of poetry next year. Halo Quin is a storyteller, witch, and philosophy student living in West Wales, obsessed with both faeries and words. Adopted by the Goblin Circus as their Ringleader, Halo performs their tales for them and can be found either on a stage (any stage) or getting excited and making magic instead of finishing the damn research. And yes, the monkeys do fly. Get in touch via: www.haloquin.net / www.twitter.com/haloquin Sanda Moore Coleman writes theatre commentary for public radio. In 2011, her work was selected by Joan Silber for the Writers Exchange prize in fiction from Poets & Writers magazine. Most recently, she has had a poem accepted by Alternating Current Press. Kevin McGuirk wants to haunt the British Library in the afterlife, whispering the dying breaths of children every time the word “empire” is mouthed in the reading rooms. In the meantime, he lives among the thunder in Benbrook, Texas. Helen May Williams is a poet and author, living in West Wales. She has written extensively on twentieth-century poetry and formerly taught at the University of Warwick. She runs the Poetry Society’s Carmarthen-based Stanza group and is an active member of Penfro Poets. Her poetry book, The Princess of Vix is published by Three Drops Press. Blog: helenmaywilliams.wordpress.com Meg Kingston has been writing since health problems forced her to quit the day-job in 2004. Since then, she has become a rare creature – a profit-making, self-publishing author. Her books include The MonSter and the Rainbow: Memoir of a Disability, a Steampunk novel, Chrystal Heart and a little book of inspirations called Just Add Writing. Meg’s shorter works have also won a number of competitions and appeared in newspapers and magazines including New Scientist, Radio Times and Reader’s Digest. When she’s not reading or writing, Meg lives with her husband (who plays guitar and mandolin) and two cats (who don’t). Lara Gularte lives and writes in the Sierra foothills of California. Her book, Kissing the Bee, will be published by The Bitter Oleander Press in November 2017. She was featured in the Autumn 2014 (vol. 20, no. 2) issue of The Bitter Oleander. Her poetry depicting her Azorean heritage, is included in a book of essays called Imaginários Luso-Americanos e Açorianos by Vamberto Freitas.

Additional writings may be found in The Gávea-Brown Book of PortugueseAmerican Poetry. Her work has appeared widely in journals and magazines, and has been included in many national and regional anthologies. In 2017 she traveled to Cuba with a delegation of American poets and presented her poetry at the Festival Internacional de Poesia de la Habana. Eilish Fisher began writing in her teens and in 1997 was awarded a position at the Breadloaf Young Writers’ Conference at Middlebury College Vermont. At seventeen she pursued an Independent Study in poetry with poet and novelist Craig Crist-Evans through Vermont College. Eilish’s poem “Kilmaccura-For Kaeden” has recently been published in the 45th edition of Crannog Literary Magazine. Eilish was awarded a Doctorate in English Literature from the National University of Ireland, Maynooth. She has appeared on academic panels and conferences in the United Kingdom and Ireland, most notably the Leeds International Medieval Congress. Eilish is a member of the Irish Writers Centre and the Avoca Writers Group. Sarah Deeming is a fantasy writer who has recently been published in Timeless Tales, Three Drops from a Cauldron, and Enchanted Conversation. She has loved stories since she was old enough to pick up a book and has been writing them since she could hold a pen. She can always be found on Twitter @SarahLDeeming. Helena Astbury is a Welsh artist and maker working across video, photography, performance and text. Helena’s poetry has been previously published in Hypnopomp and the University of Surrey anthology Temporal Discombobulations: Time and Experience in the Gothic – her film and video work has screened worldwide. She has an MA in English Studies from University of Nottingham, and is currently working on a multi-practice project around the narratives, real and possible, of the Dee Estuary, its shipwrecks and its River Keepers – still image work from this project was published in the first issue of Riggwelter this year. Siaara Freeman is 27 years of dramatic entrances and exits & from Cleveland Ohio. She is a 2016 pushcart prize nominee, 2016 best new poet nominee, 2017 bettering american poetry nominee & a 2017 button chapbook contest finalist. She is the founder of online magazine wusgood.black and an editor for Tinderbox Literary Journal. She is the current coach for the Detroit Brave New Voices team. In her spare time she is growing her afro so tall, God mistakes it for a microphone & speaks into her. You can find some of her work in CrabFat Magazine, Rat's Ass Review, Black Napkin Press... Nico Knox is an aspiring author/student/Gemini hailing from Nevada. You can find her at nicowrights.tumblr.com, where she probably won't post much but will talk about anything.

Catherine Edmunds’ published works include a poetry collection, four novels and a Holocaust memoir. She has twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, three times shortlisted in the Bridport, and has been published in many journals, including The Frogmore Papers, Aesthetica, The Binnacle, Butchers’ Dog, and Ambit. Em Morley has recently graduated from the University of Derby with a BA in Creative Writing. She enjoys writing short fiction of any genre, but in particular has a soft spot for anything sci-fi and fantasy. She likes to enter writing competitions and respond to calls for submissions wherever she sees an exciting theme, not only for fun, but as a way of keeping in the habit of writing regularly. Paul Beech lives on Deeside, North Wales. He writes poetry, flash fiction and stories for children. Published in various magazines, journals and anthologies, he enjoys reading at poetry events. His first collection, Twin Dakotas: poetry and prose, was published by Cestrian Press in 2016. Paul is a member of Chester Poets and Cross-Border Poets (Mold). His blog is Grandy’s Landing (paulbeech.wordpress.com). Nico Solheim-Davidson, also known as Viking Jesus, is a poet and music enthusiast from East Yorkshire. He spends his free time drinking tea from a horn and Instagramming endless selfies, pranking friends of Facebook, and stroking his magnificent ginger beard. You can follow Nico on Facebook at facebook.com/NorthSeaPoet Thomas Lloyd is a Welsh writer from Pembrokeshire. He studied Zoology at Cardiff University and Primate Conservation at Oxford Brookes. He writes a lot of short horror fiction and is currently working on his first novel. Jonathan Humble’s poetry has appeared in The Big Issue In The North, Poems For Freedom, Ink Sweat & Tears, The Teacher, Obsessed With Pipework, Clear Poetry, Atrium, and on BBC Radio. His short stories and poems for children have been published in The Caterpillar, Amazing Magazine, The Looking Glass Magazine and Stew Magazine. Winner of the Southwest Writers Poetry award, Katherine DiBella Seluja is a writer and a nurse practitioner. Her work has appeared in bosque, Crab Creek Review, Intima, Iron Horse Literary Review and Santa Ana River Review, among others. Her first collection, Gather the Night, is forthcoming from UNM Press in 2018. Katherine is currently working on a collaborative poetry project in response to the 2016 US presidential election. She can be found on the web at katherineseluja.com Caroline Hardaker lives in the north east of England and earned her BA and MA from Newcastle University. Her poetry has been published worldwide, most

recently or forthcoming in Magma, The Emma Press, Neon Magazine, Allegro, and Shoreline of Infinity. She is the In-House blogger for Mud Press. Her first poetry collection, Bone Ovation, was released by Valley Press in 2017. Joseph Allison was born in Manchester in 1992. He was brought up by his father (a Church of England vicar) and mother (a primary school teacher) in the Calder Valley with his two older siblings. In 2014 he graduated from Sheffield Hallam University with a degree in Creative Writing with a First Class Honours. He currently lives in his family’s home in a small town near Bradford where he’s a voluntary writer for the debt charity, Christians Against Poverty on their website’s blog and magazine. He also writes novels, short stories and flash fiction, in his free time. Maggie Mackay, a Scot and recent Manchester Metropolitan University MA Poetry graduate, has work in a range of print and online publications. The editor of Amaryllis nominated her poem 'How to Distil a Guid Scotch Malt’ for The Forward Prize, Best Single Poem,2017. Angi Holden has recently completed a PhD in creative writing and currently teaches at MMU Cheshire. Environmental and family landscapes are key to her work, much of which explores relationships and identity. Her poetry and fiction has been published in a range of online and print anthologies for both children and adults and she co-edited the 2015 National Flash Fiction Day anthology. Ali Jones is a teacher and mother of three. Her work has appeared in Fire, Poetry Rivals, Strange Poetry, Ink Sweat and Tears, Snakeskin Poetry, Atrium, Mother’s Milk Books, Breastfeeding Matters, Breastfeeding Today and Green Parent magazine. She has also written for The Guardian. Her pamphlets Heartwood and Omega are forthcoming with Indigo Dreams Publishing in 2018.

Previous Publication Credits ‘School Nights’ by James Dorr was first published in Gothic Blue Book IV: The Folklore Edition (Burial Day Books, 2014). ‘Punkie Night’ by Louise Warren was first published in the author’s collection A child’s last picture book of the Zoo (Cinnamon Press, 2012). ‘Witch of Flores Island’ by Lara Gularte was first published in The Bitter Oleander. ‘The Night of the Mothers’ by Catherine Edmunds was first published in Space and Time Magazine, 2015. ‘Pontefract Postponed’ by Jonathan Humble was first published in the author’s collection My Camel’s Name is Brian (TMB Books, 2015).