Timeless Tales Magazine: Snow White

SNOW WHITE

Timeless Tales 10 1

Timeless Tales 10 Fifth Anniversary Edition

Editor Tahlia Kirk

www.timelesstalesmagazine.com timelesstalesmagazine@gmail.com

Design and Layout Geoffrey Bunting

004 Foreword Tahlia Merrill Kirk 008 Mixtape 0 1 0 The Face in the Water Basilike Pappa 0 1 8 The Price of Love Dantzel Cherry 030 The Mirror and the Poisons Elizabeth Hopkinson 0 3 8 The Nanny Job Jeanna Mason Stay 050

Blanche Reilly McCarron

064 The Mug and Spoon Anastasia Kharlamova 074

The Fairest A.A. Azariah-Kribbs

0 8 2 Ever After, on the Highway Rhonda Eikamp 0 9 2 Mother of Eden Jeana Jorgensen 1 0 4 Snow White at Forty Ann Howells 1 0 8 Reflections Carina Bisset

Foreword A Note from the Editor

I don’t normally write forewords for the magazine, but since this is a special occasion, I thought I might indulge myself in a little reminiscing.

I launched Timeless Tales the same year I got married, so 2018 has marked both of our 5 year anniversaries. It all started with Puss in Boots, back when I felt like 30 submissions was a mountain (we received 150 this time!). In the beginning, I tried to do everything, from website building to social media, all by myself. And while I still do a good chunk of the behind-the-scenes work, I am lucky to have found invaluable teammates to keep me energized during this marathon.

In particular, I would have despaired long ago without Carina Bissett, who keeps her hand on the tiller of our Facebook page, constantly searching the horizon for the latest fairy tale/mythological news to share with our fans.

Similarly, I am eternally grateful for my blogging partner Gypsy Thornton who throws herself heart and soul into every article she posts.

It only seems appropriate that our readers chose Snow White for our 5 year anniversary. What better way to celebrate than with a big famous fairy tales, full of drama and potential? All the themes of jealousy and death really seemed to spark the morbid side of writers imaginations.

Never have I received so many delicious retellings full of vampires and backstabbing betrayals. It took me many hours teasing out the perfect arrangement balancing light

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Tahlia Merrill Kirk

and dark. Here’s a quick tour of what’s inside (I won’t mention every story – I want to leave some surprises for you to discover!): The journey starts with an origin story of the Magic Mirror. Basilike Pappa’s “The Face of Water” shows how the mirror was born from the evil queen’s vanity, but refuses to become another of her victims. After this lyrical and haunting experience, you’ll read “The Price of Love”, which reverses the roles of mirror and queen, turning the mirror into the puppetmaster. If you delight in a chills and thrills, this Phantom of the Opera-esque drama of obsession will captivate you.

After so much revenge and intrigue, you’ll want to take a nice long soak in the warm fuzzies of “The Nanny Job” and “The Mug & Spoon”. Both are lighthearted romantic comedies with a clever twist to discover.

The final two pieces on this tour aim to look ahead into the future. “Snow White at Forty” gives readers a glimpse into post-ever-after life for Snow White and Jeana Jorgensen’s “Mother of Eden” goes full on post-apocalyptic.

It has been an honor to work with so many talented writers these past ten issues. Every theme teaches me something new about the fairy tale or myth that we feature.

There are great things ahead for us and I hope you’re as excited as I am to see what the future holds.

Tahlia Merrill Kirk Editor and Creator of Timeless Tales Magazine

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Book DESIGN Brand Design WEB DESIGN Geoffrey Bunting Graphic Design Type Design Editorial Design PRINT COLLATERAL Packaging design Marketing Design UX Design Information design Digital Marketing

geoffreyBunting.co.uk Timeless Tales 10 7

Listen to these songs (recommended by our writers) while you read.

The Face in the Water Kevin MacLeod

Kevin MacLeod

Lightless Dawn

Darkest Child

The Ambient (2014)

Darkness (2015)

The Price of Love Menomena

Lana Del Rey

Wet and Rusting

Without You

Friend and Foe (2007)

Born to Die (2012)

The Mirrors and the Poison Taylor Swift

Annie Lennox

Look What You Made Me Do

Walking on Broken Glass

reputation (2017)

Diva (1992)

The Nanny Job Regina Spektor

Colbie Caillat

Don’t Leave Me (Ne Me

Fallin’ for You

Quitte Pas)

Breakthrough (2009)

What We Saw from the Cheap Seats (2012)

Colbie Caillat I Do All of You (2011)

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Blanche Joanna Newsom Sawdust and Diamonds Ys (2006)

The Mug and Spoon Puccini

Tchaikovsky

Tosca Act 1

Iolanta: Robert’s Arioso

“Recondita armonia”

The Art of Samuil Samosud (2007)

Nessun Dorma (1993)

Handel Giulio Cesare Act 2 “Al lampo dell’armi” Arias for Senesino (2005)

The Fairest

Ever After, on the Highway

Bua

Iron & Wine

Soldier, Soldier

Call It Dreaming

Down the Green Fields (2011)

Beast Epic (2017)

Mother of Eden

Snow White at Forty

Emilíana Torrini

The Byrds

Snow

Turn! Turn! Turn!

Fisherman’s Woman (2005)

Turn! Turn! Turn! (1965)

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Fiction

Words by

The Face in the Water

Basilike Pappa

About the story

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Is there a touch of spite in the mirror’s response that Snow White is more beautiful than the queen? Does it resent the queen, and why? To answer these questions, I researched ancient cosmology, modern theories on the ability of water to remember and store information, and the scariest aquatic creatures. I also owe a lot to my notebook of random thoughts and my bookcase.

The first gave me the idea of the mirror as a spellbound lake; the second holds The Picture of Dorian Gray on one of its shelves.

THE FACE IN THE WATER Basilike Pappa Timeless Tales 10 11

I am a lake.

I lay myself in the heart of this land where the snow falls soft, the rain sings gray, and the dark is trimmed with the song of the nightingale. I am smooth in serenity or ripple in mirth. The world around is mirrored in me – the traveling clouds, the austerity of the woods, the hills, and on one of them a castle of gleaming stone.

I am water, that out of which everything is born. I have a million memories.

She was a queen – tall and sinuous, with black eyes, opal skin and a voice sweet like deceit. She touched me and smiled at the way droplets hung from her fingertips like liquid diamonds. She looked into me, saw her face, and said: ‘How beautiful I am! Surely this lake hasn’t seen a face like mine. Nor should it ever see.’

I rippled in laughter and distorted her image.

But she had the phases of the moon under her tongue and the night’s mist in her heart. She said the words. And once they were all out of her mouth I felt my body harden and shrink. The fishes, frogs and water snakes, the drifting leaves and broken twigs froze around me in an intricate frame. The next day the castle folk saw I was gone and prayed to every god they knew, because my disappearance was clearly the sign of some ending. But the children came to play in the space I left behind, and someone said that now they had more fields to plough and grow grains. Life went on and I was forgotten. Even I forgot myself. I fell into a deep sleep with no dreams or memories.

She became the only thing I knew and I’d show her she was the fairest in the land. But one day her stepdaughter stood beside her, eyes bright, cherries dangling from her ears. And the queen saw in me that the cherries outshone her diamond earrings and that there were tiny creases on

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the corners of her eyes. She went to stand at the window overlooking the woods, her back turned to the girl who kept looking at herself, chatting merrily.

She read, she searched, but nowhere did she find a spell to stop time and aging. And when she closed the last of her books, she asked to see one of her huntsmen. When he came to her chambers, she sighed and touched his hand.

She blew out the candles and spoke to him of love. From then onwards they often exchanged sweet words. But one night, with eyes tearful and voice trembling, she told him that the princess had heard them talk. She’d tell the king and they’d both die. She begged him to take the princess into the woods and kill her.

He said: ‘Anything.’

She looked dramatic in black and admired her reflection even more. And I went on sleeping heavily, obliging her every time she looked at me and said: ‘How beautiful I am!

Surely there hasn’t been another face like mine. Nor will there ever be.’

The snow gave its place to green leaves, which then turned yellow. One day, a gust of wind rushed in through the window. A raindrop rolled down me, then another.

They told of a lake in a land where the snow falls soft and the rain sings gray; and of a witch wearing a crown, who turned the lake into her slave; of how the lake now slept deep, forgetting what it was, what it had seen, only telling the witch-queen what she wanted to hear.

One more raindrop rolled down me.

The world was young. The gods pulled me down from the sky. I stormed the earth. Ι penetrated its body.

I ran through its veins, riveted its valleys. Primordial creatures hatched, grew, fought the battle of life and death inside me.

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I swilled, whirled and turned the memories around in my solitude until a scheme seethed in my soul.

Waking up every part of me wasn’t easy after all those years in glassy stagnation. In human words, it felt like trying to walk again after being confined for years in a cage; like trying to speak after a long vow of silence. But one day, when she stood in front of me, she saw that image I had captured in ripples. She blinked and came closer, even wiped me with her sleeve. But all she could see was a crumbled, wrinkled face, almost ridiculous in distortion.

She left and didn’t come near me again that day.

But the next day, there she was again. This time she saw her face covered with scales, two rows of teeth growing between her lips. A mouth that wasn’t hers anymore opened to snap up little fish.

She watched speechless. When she trusted herself to move again, she drew a cloth over me and left me in the dark. It was a good thing, for in the dark I could remember better.

Every day she’d lift the cloth to take a peek.

She saw gills growing on her ears; the long proboscis of the goblin shark where her nose should be; her face turning into that of a fish with a frowning mouth full of razor-sharp teeth and a swinging lower jaw. She had the medusa hair of the drowned, corral colonies for fingers, sponges breathing on her breast. But I always kept her eyes unchanged – black, burning, taking her straight into a soul as ugly and inhuman as the faces I gave her.

Oh, the tricks I played on her! She’d put various objects in front of me to see how I’d reflect them, and I always sent their image back to her crystal clear. But when she dared stand in front of me, there was always mud, sand, and nightmares. She’d draw the cloth back over me and swear never to look again. But she couldn’t stay away.

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She lost her sleep and her appetite. Her skin yellowed, her hair thinned. Most of the time she stayed in her chambers in a savage silence. And when she did speak, it was to ask her handmaidens how she looked. They’d always reassure her that she was beautiful, better than ever, but she’d push them away, crying out: ‘And the scales? The fangs?’

And when her sanity hung by the thinnest thread, I showed her a girl delightful as daylight, cherries dangling from her ears. The picture grew bigger, took up the whole of me and changed. The girl, her stepdaughter, in that fabled realm time and age can’t touch, dancing with nymphs, a favorite of sylphs, forever bright-eyed, evermore beautiful.

She howled with rage and despair. Scratching her own face, pulling her hair, she ran to the window and threw herself out of it.

When her body hit the ground, I roared my freedom. I flooded the room of my captivity. I smashed the door open and ran through corridors and down stairs. I broke things in my passage and drowned people who stood in my way, but that’s what I do when I’m free and I didn’t feel bad about it. I crashed the gates and ran down the hill all the way back to my place. There I settled and stretched, letting myself return to serenity. The hills embraced me, the clouds greeted me, the forest paid its respects, and the nightingale welcomed me with its most mellifluous song.

The castle remained an empty shell. Only recently a new king and queen came to live here. They brought new folk, new furniture, and their own mirrors. The queen is short and sweet. I once heard her say she loves apple pie. She doesn’t care much about me and I don’t care much about her. I don’t care who reigns as long as I can ripple.

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Fiction The Face in the Water

About The Author

Basilike Pappa lives in Trikala, Greece, where she doesn’t work as a translator, a copy-editor or a historian. That means she has plenty of time to write short stories and poems, to walk her dog and to cook without salt. Her flash fiction has appeared in Life & Art Magazine and Intrinsick, and her poetry in Rat’s Ass Review, Surreal Poetics and Bones Journal for Contemporary Haiku. You can usually find her at home with her nose stuck in a book. Or you can read her work on her blog, Silent Hour.

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Fiction

Words by

The Price of Love

Dantzel Cherry

About the story

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The creation of the story turned into a huge learning experience for me as a writer. When my daughter was two, we watched Snow White together, and I kept thinking, “Why doesn’t the Evil Queen just cut her face? Problem solved.” With that seed in mind, I sat down and began writing a draft, but it felt stilted and clumsy. I set it aside for a few days, and was fortunate enough that my brain connected the pieces between the Evil Queen’s very abusive relationship with the mirror.

Once I understood that, I could

very clearly see the individual motives for the mirror, the Queen, and Snow, as well as how those beautifully clashed and meshed with each other.

After that, the story completely took off, and I found myself, for the first time in my writing life, actually struggling to keep up with the words in my head.

DA N TZ E L C H E R RY

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“Take it back,” I say, but my demand is weak and without conviction. Everyone knows the magic mirror would not, could not lie. Even the man in the mirror stares at me disdainfully.

“There is no part of you I have not seen, m’lady.” His voice drips with condescension.

I blush but he goes on, the only man I allow to speak to me so - after all, he loves me, and despite his cruel words, I trust him. “The usefulness of your treatments and your creams, your hairdressers and your dance tutors, are extended to their limits. If you think the maiden with hair as black as the raven’s wing, skin the color of freshly fallen snow, and lips red as the blood of a newly vanquished foe cannot supersede your failing beauty, then you will soon compete for the title of court lackwit.”

Again I wonder why I cannot bring myself to smash this insufferable mirror. The earnest words he once whispered to me morning and night, when I was newly wedded to the king, caressed my girlish heart. I miss those stolen nights, when I was alone in my chambers and he would step out from the mirror. But over the course of the last fifteen years, as slowly and subtly as the dust settles on my vanity table, his words have twisted my heart with an expertise that alternately causes joy and despair.

Sometimes I miss the intimacy of the king, but a year of the king’s gentle love can’t compare to a day in which I know I have a place in the mirror’s heart.

And now, when it seemed his love for me was secure, my stepdaughter, only just entering her womanhood, was toppling the delicate balance I had wrought. I didn’t love Snow – I had

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given my whole heart to the mirror years ago – but I… cared for her, in my own way. I didn’t want to see her die.

“Snow White cannot simply disappear like the others,” I tell him.

His eyebrow arches. Is he angry? Disappointed? Bored?

Please let him not be bored. I cannot lose him now.

“Truly,” I rush on. “If my stepdaughter dies, the king will mount a man-hunt that will surely lead to me, no matter how well I hide the trail.”

Still the mirror says nothing.

I venture an argument I’ve been saving, waiting for the right moment.

“What good is our love,” I say, “If I am hanged for treason?”

At this the mirror laughs. “My Queen, the value of our love has never weighed heavily on my heart. Honestly, why do I even stay?”

But he must stay. What would I be without him? I would never have remained fairest of them all – or even queen – without him to point out my rivals.

My mind races. I don’t want to kill Snow, but nor can I let her beautiful face taunt me in my dreams and steal away my mirror.

He goes on. “Consider this: Do I not deserve the best?”

“Of course you do. But I am the best.”

“Ah. Then prove it. How will you prove your love to me, other than to remove your rival?”

“There is another way,” I plead.

“By all means, dazzle me with your brilliance.”

“She needn’t die,” I insist. “What if… what if she just… loses her beauty?”

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“A waiting game would make losers of you both.”

“I have seen many a man suffer the terrors of war, hiding his face or his savaged hand from sight.” I hold up a knife from my breakfast tray. “A girl would be far more devastated.”

The mirror sighs. “Did you not just speak of a need for subtlety and secrecy?”

I paste a smile on my lips. “I did, my love. And it takes subtlety and secrecy to root out and punish a traitor.”

I explain my plan, and the mirror’s mouth curls into a smile. My other rivals had died neat, quiet deaths. This was my boldest, most intricate plan – my greatest masterpiece. Perhaps it will be enough. Perhaps this will be the act that finally makes the mirror love me as he did fifteen years ago. *** My people did their jobs admirably.

The rumors swept the castle, and it was not three days before every soul within had heard tell of a traitor within the king’s own circle. The king dismissed the whispers until our enemies to the north exploited weaknesses only the innermost circle was privy to. My husband raged after each loss – recouping that much gold and livestock would take years, not to mention the casualties and the country’s reputation.

The king personally followed his guards around as each of our rooms were searched. Even though the king apologized profusely for the invasive search to his most beloved two ladies, myself and Snow White, the fire behind his eyes

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told me that he would not rest unless he found the traitor, even if it broke his heart.

And break his heart it did.

Finding the damning letters in the ambassador’s rooms, and subsequently in Snow White’s chambers, was too much.

He examined the evidence again and again, losing hope with each word he read in her hand, for who knew her handwriting better than he? And in his eyes, her shock upon discovery of the evidence only confirmed her guilt.

First he lost his voice. Through notes written with shaking hand he asked me to give the orders I thought necessary to show the country that the king was just yet merciful. He thanked me through silent, choking tears as I executed his commands.

But when he saw Snow White, his only daughter, after her punishment, his heart could not stand the sight: Her raven hair darkened even further by clotted blood, matted into a ragged bird’s nest on her scalp; the word treason cut into her cheeks, her forehead, her shoulders, and even feet, exposing pure white bone, assuring that anyone who saw her would know her betrayal; and the lips that were redder than ever with blood that never seemed to stop dripping from the raw, gaping wound splitting her nose.

The king clutched at me in front of the court, weeping soundlessly, and his heart failed him for the last time. *** After the exiling and the funeral, only the mirror watches over me as I weep on my bed. It was always so: after his tongue-lashings and fists, after all the miscarriages, his

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voice wafts from the wall and whispers in my ear. At times comforting me, loving me, other times reminding me that my flaws and weaknesses are more than any man can stand.

But always he pulls me back from the brink of despair before I can give in to total darkness. *** I am alone at last with my love. Now I am queen of the land, and my love can step out from the mirror to visit me any night he likes without fear of discovery.

But I cannot stop asking him to show me how Snow is getting on. I know that I risk losing his love, but I cannot rest until I see someone finally take her in - the seven dwarf outcasts in the cottage in the woods. I watch through the mirror as they nurse her back to health and treat her wounds. After the worst of her fevers and infections have dissipated, they attempt to heal her scars.

Her skin is massaged with oils of every kind, and she is given a special kind of silver to drink and apply to her skin. They even rub newly mined ruby jewels on her stark white slashes.

They continue trying, but no folk remedy can repair cuts that once showed the white of her bones. Each slash stands out, blunt and stark, against her creamy complexion.

Her nose remains stunted and piggish. I am pained at her twisted upper lip, which pulls her mouth into an eternally crooked smile.

However, I did not try hard enough with her hair, or her spirit. I watch her cut her hair to even it out, and although the spiky hair initially resembles one of the coal

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miners, it regrows over the months, curlier, thicker, and shinier than before, framing her cursed heart-shaped face.

Worse, her emotional damage lessens under the gentle influence of her companions. At first I saw nothing but despair, shame, and hatred for herself. I thought she might even end her own life, leaving me to live in peace. But the dwarves are simple folk and spend their time mining, singing, and teaching Snow to care for the injured forest creatures they encounter. Snow takes these creatures’ healing quite personally. Each time an owl appears with an injured wing, or a deer with a hunter’s arrow jutting from its flank, is a moment that Snow seems to forget herself. Slowly she forgets the scars, and, I suppose, the pain of her father’s death, and she grows into her new face: fierce, gentle, loving, determined.

The mirror reminds me that he belongs to the fairest in the land, and my stomach twists.

“If you really wanted to keep me to yourself, you would not have cut off her nose; you would have killed her.”

I tell myself that avoiding such a loss is worth the evil-doing, and I send Snow a basket of poisoned apples.

I watch through the mirror as she shares the gift with the birds and deer, who die before she herself can take a bite.

And I watch her trace the guilt back to me.

It’s even harder to take my eyes off the mirror now. I watch as Snow raises an army of animals and citizens and marches to the castle. The mirror screams that I am an idiot, but I already know that. I stir only to order the general and guards to stand down.

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Why do I remain passive? Snow might cut off my head, or send me to live in exile. Maybe she is as vindictive as I have become and will cut away my beauty too, though I doubt it.

It matters not, none of it, because Snow cannot hurt me.

The mirror loves me, and that is all I care about.

Snow storms up the stairs.

She throws my door open and finds me waiting at my vanity table with the mirror.

“Look at her confidence!” the mirror says. “That is a woman worthy of the throne. Strength and beauty.”

My guts twist.

“But. Her face,” I manage to say.

The mirror looks at me in a way I have never seen - with pity. “Beauty goes deeper than skin. I have been trying to tell you that for sixteen years.”

The mirror looks away from me, dismissing me as if I were a servant come to fetch soiled bed linens. Its gaze falls instead upon Snow, who stares back, transfixed. Hungry.

“Snow White,” it says, bowing behind our reflections.

“My Queen. How long I have waited for you to come, that I might make you whole again.”

I do not mean to punch the mirror. Or at least, I do not think I meant to.

It’s possible I was angry with the idea of losing my mirror to Snow White. It’s also possible I was trying to protect her, though that thought is ephemeral and I reject it because what would I be protecting her from?

I think I hoped to hit myself, to punish myself for being the weak, ugly, cowardly woman that I have become. But I am, of course, stupid enough to strike my beloved mirror.

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His cry is split into a thousand separate voices as his power is shattered.

Snow White cries out too, as though she has also lost something precious. But what does she know of pain? I have been forced to destroy everyone I have ever loved.

Her pure heart understands nothing.

Snow tries to pull me away from the mirror, but I will not be dissuaded or dragged off to prison or whatever she has planned for me, not until I have recovered every single broken piece. I know that the fragments are cutting into my skin, but I do not care. I will cradle every shard and every sliver, and press them close to my ear, in hopes of the faintest whisper from the man behind my mirror.

It is a small price to pay for love.

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Fiction The Price of Love

About The Author

By day, Dantzel Cherry raises her daughter and teaches Pilates. By night, she writes. Her baking hours follow no rhyme or reason. Dantzel’s stories have appeared in Fireside, Intergalactic Medicine Show, Cast of Wonders, Galaxy’s Edge, and other magazines and anthologies. She lives in a little town near Houston with her husband, daughter, and obligatory cat. You can read more on her website: www.dantzelcherry.com 28 Timeless Tales 10

Timeless Tales 10 29

Fiction

Words by

The Mirror and the Poisons

Elizabeth Hopkinson

About the story

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I have long wanted to write a fantasy story about Versailles, especially since my mother took me there for a 40th birthday treat. The opulence, the intrigue, and the Sun King myth that Louis XIV created around himself all are larger than life. One of my favourite photos from my trip is of me, photographing my own reflection in the Hall of Mirrors.

Instantly, I became part of the myth. As George MacDonald says: “All mirrors are magic mirrors.�

This story is based on real events at Versailles during the 17th century (look up The Affair of the Poisons for all the juicy details). What started as an investigation into one poisoning against the king quickly revealed that nearly everyone at court was using poisons, particularly women.

The official royal mistress really was suspected of poisoning

her younger rival. At the same time, the salon movement was growing in France, gatherings of intellectuals led by wealthy women. It was in these salons that the fairy tales of Perrault, Fontaine, Madame Le Prince de Beaumont, Madame de Villeneuve, and CharlotteRose de la Force first saw the light of day. This fascinating combination drew me to write a story in which truth and fiction are interchangeable, as difficult to grasp as reflections in a mirror. Did Athenais poison her rival? Was she set up? Was black magic really taking place at court? We may never know.

E l i z a b et h Hopkinson

the

MIRROR and the

POISONS Timeless Tales 10 31

all of Mirrors, magic hall: H Who is the sovereign over all?

Who is the moon reflects his sun?

Who waxes full; whose day is done?

The package slides under Athénaïs de Montespan’s door in the dead of night. There is no signature and no seal.

Athénaïs undoes the silk wrappings and holds it to the light of a candle. It is a slim book, bound in red satin. On the first page, written in a hand she does not know, are the words: The Magic Mirror. A Fairy Tale.

Athénaïs wrinkles her nose. This ridiculous court craze for fairy tales! Stories of princes becoming birds or boars, and fairy courts that are thinly veiled versions of the Court of Versailles. Who would disturb her sleep at this hour to send her this?

A shimmer of light makes Athénaïs look more closely.

Inside the book’s front cover, framed in gilt, is a mirror. It is a poor mirror, Athénaïs thinks, looking at her distorted reflection. The chin is too large, the eyes too narrow. This is not the face of the King’s maîtresse-en-titre!

As the thought escapes her, there is a shift in the light.

For one awful moment, the mirror shows an entirely different face. It is the face of a young woman, a girl really, with hair dressed high at the front. Athénaïs flinches as if burnt.

The next moment, her own face reappears. A trick of the light, she tells herself. Yet she shudders.

She does not wish to look in the mirror again. She wraps a shawl about her shoulders and begins to read: ere was once a queen who had a magic mirror. Every Th day, she would consult it, asking the same question…

The whole of Versailles is a magic mirror, not just the famed Galerie des Glaces. Everything reflects the majesty

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of the King: the gardens, the fountains, the masques, the court etiquette. The Sun King shines on all, and all must shine in return. God forbid that anyone should be sick or sad or tired or pregnant. Even a carriage ride with the King requires bowels of iron. There are no bodily functions at Versailles, despite the fact that you can smell them on every back staircase. And woe betide any mistress who is not ready for the King’s embrace. Athénaïs has long since taken to dressing en déshabillé, for fear His Majesty might lose interest amid the stays and ribbons, and move onto someone else.

Then one day, the mirror gave the answer: “You, O Queen, are fair. Yet there lives one who is fairer stil…”

Athénaïs swears under her breath. Marie-Angélique de Fontanges! The little chit who dares threaten Athénaïs' reign as the King's official mistress and "true queen of France".

Fontanges! That girl’s life has been a fairy tale in the making.

Raised in the countryside on tales of romance and chivalry, La Fontanges knew it was only a matter of time before her Lancelot or Orlando came calling. And he did come - secretly, on a stormy night. Orlando, the chevalier from the golden land, where Apollo’s face shines from every cornice. Did Louis really think Athénaïs would not hear of this?

“Bring me the girl’s heart,” the queen said to the huntsman.

“I wish to devour it…”

Who has written this?

Athénaïs goes to the door, opens it onto the dark of the corridor. It is folly to think her persecutor would still be lurking in this part of the palace, but her fear drives out all reason.

“Who is there? You cannot hide from me?”

There is no reply. Athénaïs returns to her chamber, palms sweating. She turns over the names of writers in her mind.

Perrault. D’Aulnoy. Fontaine. De la Force. Could any of them have heard the rumours? Would they dare accuse

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her? But this is Versailles. Everyone accuses everyone else.

It is how one stays on top.

When the queen heard that the girl still lived, she was enraged. So, by her magic arts, she concocted a poison…

Athénaïs’s heart is pounding against her ribcage. Whoever wrote this tale knows. They know that she is among the number who has consulted the sorceress La Voisin. So many wicked tales are flying about these days. Tales of relatives poisoned for an inheritance, of love potions concocted to ensnare a husband, of curses and black magic.

Of a certain court lady who - when she was as green as La Fontanges - paid the sorceress to sacrifice babies, then mash their blood and bones into a potion to ensnare the King himself.

They cannot know. They must not know. Hastily, Athénaïs reads to the end of the tale. The poison is ineffective. The girl does not die, but is fixed in a living death, encased in a glass coffin. Athénaïs snorts. The irony! In one glass, the image of the queen is condemned to age from day to day.

In another glass, the girl is suspended, ever young and beautiful. Ah! But even that does not last. The girl is freed from her glass sleep. Free to age, free to disappoint, free to watch her Orlando abandon her for a still more beautiful maiden.

The whole of Versailles is a magic mirror. Nothing is hidden from the rays of the sun, and yet everywhere there are confusing reflections, distortions, phantasies. The Hall of Mirrors itself was created by men of Venice, who brought with them their secret knowledge of the art of glass-making, and of the telling of tales.

There is even a tale about the glass-makers themselves.

It is said that the Venetians did not want their secrets known outside the Republic, so they dispatched agents to France, to have the workers poisoned.

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Mirrors and poisons. The two always seem to go together.

Athénaïs’s hands are trembling. Should she throw the book on the fire? Brazenly read from it at a salon, to show that she is unafraid? Will every mirror in Versailles now reflect her hatred of La Fontanges, the murder in her eyes?

The book slips from her hands and falls open at the back page. Athénaïs squints at it in the candlelight. Something is not right. She picks it up.

There is a hollow in the book’s back cover. Something is concealed within. With trembling fingers, Athénaïs tales it out.

It is a vial of poison.

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Fiction The Mirror and the Poisons

About The Author

Elizabeth Hopkinson is the author of over 70 short stories and fairy tales. She is the winner of this year’s Fairytalez Best Gender Swap Fairy Tale, and has new stories coming out in The Forgotten & the Fantastical 4 (Mother’s Milk Books) and We/She (Arachne Press). Elizabeth is currently seeking an agent and publisher for her Angelio series of novels, about a castrato and and a bird-charmer in a fantasy version of 18th-century Italy. She has a few near misses, and feels it will happen soon.

Elizabeth lives in Bradford, West Yorkshire (UK), with her husband, daughter and cat, in a tiny house that is gradually being taken over by books and artworks. She likes mocha, manga, history, playing the piano, the Yorkshire countryside, and enjoying her local indie arts scene. Elizabeth can be found at elizabethhopkinson.uk She blogs at hiddengroveextra.blogspot.co.uk and has a YouTube channel www.youtube.com/c/ ElizabethHopkinson where she shares her childhood writing in all its wax crayon glory!

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Fiction

Words by

The Nanny Job

Jeanna Mason Stay

About the story

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This story started as a way to kill two birds with one stone.

I’d read about the call for Snow White stories and wanted to submit something different and fun, but was drawing a blank.

About that same time, I was participating in NYC Midnight’s short story challenge. Each round of the challenge gives you a genre, character, and situation/object, and you compete against other writers with the same assignments.

When the round 1 assignment

was romantic comedy, beauty queen, and sibling rivalry, I started thinking about Snow.

The “fairest in the land” sounded exactly like the kind of girl who would win beauty pageants, and Goldilocks and Little Red Riding Hood would definitely make an annoying set of siblings. Add in a few magic beans, some trust issues, and “The Nanny Job” was born.

JEANNA MASON STAY Timeless Tales 10 39

“Oh, for the love of Peter Pan,” Snow White muttered. Not again. She rushed over to food stand where Rosie was looking pathetically up at the vendor, begging for whatever treats he sold. Snow glanced at the placard: The Magic BeanMobile. She hadn’t seen this one before, but the park’s food vendors rotated frequently.

Snow grabbed Rosie just before she reached for a vanilla bean ice cream cone. “I told you, no dessert until after our picnic.”

Rosie pouted.

Standing next to her, her sister Goldie smirked.

Snow turned on Goldie. “Don’t think I didn’t see you begging too. And don’t go telling me nothing at breakfast was just right and you’re so starving.”

Now Goldie pouted.

Snow took a breath before she turned on her most sugary voice. “Off to the playground, young ladies. And don’t get in any trouble.” She shooed them toward the slides and turned back to the vendor. He was tall with dark hair, dark eyes, and the hint of a smile. “Sorry she tried to con you,” she said.

He shrugged. “No problem.” The side of his mouth twitched upward, revealing a dimple. She’d always been fond of dimples.

“I haven’t seen your cart here before. Are you new?” she asked, casually tossing her hair. That generally had a pleasing effect on men.

He grinned wider, and she found herself distracted by the discovery of a second, matching dimple. “Yup. Had a recent windfall, decided to follow my dream—and here I am, running my own culinary empire.” He gestured grandly at the modest cart. “Would you care to sample my vanilla bean ice cream?” he asked, proffering a cone.

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She blanched, but then all those self-defense classes kicked in. In an instant, she’d pulled her can of mace from a hidden pocket and brandished it at him. “You stay away from me,” she hissed, veins pulsing with adrenaline.

He held up his hands, one of them holding the cone, and stepped back, eyes wide. “No problem. It was just a friendly offer.”

She blinked, frozen for a moment, then suddenly realized people were staring. Snow took a trembling breath and shook her head, trying to shake loose the terror. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I ... I really don’t like gifts.”

He nodded, his hands still up. “Noted.”

Snow grimaced and inwardly sighed. Well, that was the end of that flirtation. She looked down, muttered another apology, and walked over to the playground, trying to forget the unfortunate little run-in. Only three hours until she handed the girls over to their parents.

Nannying had seemed like such a good idea when she’d started it. It was just a trial run, after all—three months while the girls were on summer break before second grade.

Nothing she couldn’t handle, and maybe she’d finally found a solid career path.

Because it hadn’t been her first idea.

She’d tried quite the assortment of money-making techniques before she came to this place. Beauty pageants first, because her high school and college classmates had voted her hottest girl in school. The pageants were easy, but winning got pretty boring after a while. Then she’d tried jewelry making, hoping all the time she’d spent around miners would give her skills (it didn’t). Next came maid service jobs. Nothing, she thought, could be more disgusting than an eternal bachelor pad filled with seven men who worked in dirt all day.

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She thought wrong.

After that, a bunch of failed experiments pretty much anywhere she could get a job.

Finally, after a bit of soul-searching and some really expensive therapy, she decided to try nannying. She liked taking care of people, she was friendly and well-educated.

She’d developed some common sense, and she would never again take apples from strangers.

Which is how she’d ended up watching the annoyingly precocious Locke children.

She snapped out of the memories and looked at the girls, who were now whispering conspiratorially. That couldn’t be good.

Maybe she was being paranoid. They really weren’t that bad, not all the time. It was just that they were always egging each other on—the double-dog-dares, the constant “bet you can’t do this.” It always ended in trouble. If only they channeled that energy into something useful like schoolwork, athletics, baking for their granny.

Snow sighed and pulled a self-help book from her purse: Your Mother Was a Witch. The current chapter was “You May Have Trust Issues.” No kidding. Magic BeanMobile guy and the ice cream kerfuffle was just the latest in a series of related mishaps.

Like the time she’d tried out a new dating app and met this guy who’d seemed perfectly charming at first.

Until the day he gave her a box of chocolates. She made him eat half of every single one in case they were poisoned.

Looking back, that was probably the beginning of the end of that relationship.

Snow turned the page then glanced up to check on the girls. It had only been a few paragraphs, but Goldie was gone.

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She ran to Rosie. “You are going to tell me exactly where Goldie went,” Snow said through gritted teeth. “Or so help me, no desserts for a month.”

Rosie shrugged. “I’ll just go beg some for Grandma.”

That ploy always worked.

“Fine,” Snow said, panic rising. She looked around the playground, her eyes darting from slides to grass to nearby trees. Where would Goldie have run? Surely not the trees? Hadn’t she learned her lesson last time, with those bears?

Probably not.

Snow took Rosie’s hand and began to drag her toward the trees.

“This is yours, isn’t it?” a voice behind her said.

Snow glanced back to see the Magic BeanMobile guy, holding tightly to the wrist of a squirming Goldie.

Snow nodded, resigned. Maybe the Lockes would fire her for losing Goldie, and she wouldn’t have to think of an excuse to quit yet another job.

“What was she doing?” she asked with a groan.

He grinned. “Stealing some edamame.”

“Did she break anything?” she asked in a rush. “Eat any other food sitting out? Are you pressing charges?”

He shook his head, extending the arm holding Goldie. “Nah.” Snow accepted Goldie’s wrist. Goldie just pouted and wouldn’t meet Snow’s eyes.

Snow looked back at the food guy. Well, this was awkward.

“I’m really sorry,” she blurted. “I swear I didn’t put her up to it as some sort of weird revenge. I’m their nanny, and I really was paying attention to them, I just—” He held up his hand to stop her. “No need to explain.

I’d only turned to get some change when she sneaked in.

She’s a speedy one. Quiet too.” He nodded, almost

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impressed. “Bright criminal future ahead of her, that one.”

Snow let out a startled laugh. “You have no idea,” she said with a smile. “I’m sorry she bothered you though.” She glared at Goldie, in case she’d forgotten that she’d misbehaved.

Goldie grumbled. “I knew we could pay for them.”

He chuckled, and Snow was distracted by those dimples again.

“No harm done.” His voice turned stern as he tried to scowl at Goldie. “But don’t let it happen again.”

Goldie rolled her eyes.

“I’m Jack, by the way.” He held out his hand to Snow, and she took it.

“Snow.”

“Nice to meet you, without the mace and all.”

She cringed. “Thanks for not calling the cops. Twice.”

“No problem... Maybe I’ll see you again sometime.”

He hadn’t been scared off yet by all this craziness?

Wow. When he grinned this time, her heart gave a little flutter. *** The next morning she suggested a jaunt to the park. It seemed like the right day for it. And maybe they’d stop and try a new food stand. For fun. Maybe the girls would be in the mood for chili or edamame or burritos.

None of this had anything to do with a certain handsome, heart-fluttering BeanMobile owner.

She had done her makeup perfectly, dressed in her cutest top, and worn her favorite skinny jeans. This was also pure coincidence.

When they got to the park, she casually perched herself on the bench nearest the food stands then pretended to be

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fully absorbed in watching the girls play. Come to think of it, they were behaving remarkably well.

Suspicious.

She didn’t have time to analyze, however. “Hey, Snow!”

Jack’s voice called from behind her.

She turned and smiled in fake surprise. “Oh! I forgot you worked here.”

“Yep, same as yesterday.” She didn’t think she’d fooled him. Oh well, hard-to-get was overrated.

He beckoned her over. “Want to come chat? You can still see the hoodlums from here.”

“Welllll,” she said, “I suppose I can do that.”

Two hours, three bean enchiladas, and not a single act of Goldie-and-Rosie mischief later, Jack and Snow had arranged to get together the next week.

If she primped a little longer for this date than she ever had for a date with any of those dating app dreamboats, what of it? *** That’s how it all started, and now they’d been dating for almost a year.

She still nannied the girls, but since it was the school year, she only had them a couple hours a day, so she’d stuck with it after all. They never complained that they constantly ended up at the park, and she never had to chase them down again. Sure, they giggled and nudged each other when they saw Jack, but she’d gotten used to that. Plus, they’d kind of grown on her.

For her birthday, Jack had pointedly not gotten Snow any presents. Same for Christmas and Valentine’s Day. Though, he told her, he really did think she would have enjoyed his collection of faberge eggs. But she was still

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dealing with some baggage, so it seemed safest for them both if he just kept his gifts to himself.

Until one spring afternoon at the park. Jack had been busy selling black bean burgers, cocoa bean puddings, and refried bean tostadas while Snow White made eyes at him and watched the girls.

But then, suddenly, Jack stepped away from his cart and took something from his pocket. A little black box.

Snow’s eyes widened with surprise.

Jack knelt in front of her and held out the box.

Snow vaguely heard the gasps of various bystanders, but all she could see was Jack.

“I know you don’t like gifts, but I’m hoping, just this once, you’ll accept this one from me.” He opened the box.

“Marry me?”

She looked from Jack to the ring and back again, waiting for panic to flood her. But none came. Her heart raced, true, but only in excitement. A slow smile spread across her face, and she nodded.

Jack jumped up and swept her into his arms. Snow laughed happily. This was really a therapeutic breakthrough.

She wanted to tell him. She wanted— “Ha! I did it!” Goldie’s voice broke into Snow’s thoughts.

Snow and Jack pulled apart to stare at the girls.

Rosie rolled her eyes. “Only ‘cause I let you!”

Snow wrinkled her brow, confused. “What?”

Goldie giggled. “I got you and Jack together. Rosie dared me to.”

“And I didn’t mess it up ‘cause he’s so cute,” Rosie said, grinning. “Although I could’ve if I’d wanted to,” she muttered under her breath.

“But you didn’t get us together,” Snow said.

Goldie rolled her eyes. “Course I did! Why else would I steal the edamame? It’s too gross to eat.”

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Because you’re a juvenile delinquent, Snow thought. “For fun?” she said aloud.

“Duh! To make you talk to Jack! Begging the ice cream didn’t work—and then we didn’t even get to eat it.”

She pouted.

Snow blinked. Was it true?

“I thought you should date this flute player guy we met,” Rosie added, “but we found out he was a major creeper and he liked rats.” She shuddered.

Goldie nodded. “I’m good at figuring out what’s just right for someone. Way better than Rosie is. I knew you’d like Jack.”

Snow’s thoughts whirled. Had this really all started with a dare?

Beside her, Jack began to laugh. “Girls, you are evil geniuses.” He smiled, dazzlingly.

Mmmm, those dimples.

Finally Snow just shrugged and turned back to kiss Jack.

Who was she to argue with a happily ever after?

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Fiction The Nanny Job

About The Author

Jeanna Mason Stay has always been a sucker for a good fairy tale—the romantic, the gruesome, the utterly bizarre, all of the above. Her favorite fairy tale of all, though, is the one she lives with her dreamy husband and their four charming children.

They are currently happily-ever-aftering in Maryland.

Like many writers, Jeanna is a book geek.

When she’s not getting lost in a book or keeping the baby from eating one, she’s probably debating one with friends or listening to the older children reenact literary scenes. Jeanna also loves fireflies, serial commas, and birds of paradise. She dreams of one day owning a herd of Chia sheep.

Jeanna’s most recent fairy tale is “Breadcrumbs,” the story of a post-traumatic Gretel searching for healing, published in Unspun: A Collection of Tattered Tales.

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Fiction

Words by

Blanche

Reilly McCarron

About the story

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This story idea had been kicking around in my head for months. Timeless Tales’ Snow White theme was the perfect opportunity to actually craft the story. The initial seed came from being a watchful (okay, anxious) parent of a small child.

I have an overactive imagination - stories (and worries) are always writing themselves in my mind - and I often lean towards fairy tales with their perfect story shapes and inherent shorthand. I liked the ideas of social media as a warped reflection of self, and the lost proverbial village which many modern parents cannot rely on to help raise their child.

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The joint buzzed with music and bellowed conversation.

Animal skulls, antlers, and turtle shells hung from the forest green walls. A decrepit piano rested awkwardly amid fat leather couches, splitting their seams. She found a well-lit stool at the bar and applied her lipstick slowly, deliberately.

Ordering a flaming sambuca, she checked her Instagram account. Only 12,424 likes for the photo of her in the zebra print dress and thigh high boots. Despite her better judgment she scrolled to the picture of her and Blanche from earlier that day. Her daughter’s laughing face stared back from the phone: all chubby cheeks, dimples, and curls. Blanche wore a Minnie Mouse dress with pink tights, and her mummy’s high heels. They were both in a fit of giggles.

24,872 likes. She regretted sharing the moment.

Her drink arrived, its flame licking hungrily. She swooped it up, posed for a selfie, and swiveled around to peruse the room. Eyes flickered her way from every direction. She swept her gaze over the sea of bearded young men and girls in floral dresses, and landed on a lone soul in the shadows. Bald, clean shaven, he looked dangerous and he held her gaze. She offered a brief smile and a wink, turned back to the bar, and waited.

“What’s your name?” he sidled up beside her placing his bottle of whisky neatly between them.

“Queenie. And you?”

“Sean.” It was a soft name but he said it in a hard way.

She was strangely drawn to his wild look; he had neatly implanted horns, and a tattoo across his neck which read HUNTER. “How old are you Queenie? You old enough to be here?”

“I’m old enough.” The bartender shot her a scrutinising look. “I’m nineteen, Mate. Settle down.” She turned her

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whole body towards Sean. “It’s getting stuffy in here. Wanna go somewhere else?”

“You move fast, eh? Yeah, righto. Your place or mine?”

“Mine.”

The moment they arrived at her apartment she led him to the bedroom to finish what they’d started outside. It was hard and fast and brutally passionate. He bit her lip, and she scratched his back as the taste of blood seared through her. When it was over, they lay entangled and silent, with the sound of birdcall heralding the dawn.

She looked at the clock. “Shit. I need to go get milk and bread.”

“Now?” he sounded close to sleep.

“Yeah. Back in a minute. Want anything?” His only response was a soft snore.

He half woke minutes later to the feel of her slipping back into bed and he reached for her, but found someone else between his calloused hands. A piercing scream shot through him and he watched a small child run from the room. Sean stared at the streak of colour left by the terrified girl. Her horror sank into him like talons. A wave of sickness washed over him. He dressed quickly and went to find her.

The child was hunkered down in a corner of her room, sobbing loudly. Sean smiled and mustered his gentlest voice. “Hey little one. I’m not gonna hurt you, okay? I’m Mummy’s friend. Mummy’s out getting your breakfast and she’ll be back in one minute. I’m just gonna stay here, okay?”

He sat cross-legged on the floor outside her room, “I look a bit scary, eh?” He pulled a goofy face and smiled broadly.

Blanche nodded, her eyes glued to him.

“My kids think I look funny too. I’ve got little kids too.

One of them’s probably your age. Are you two?”

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She nodded again. “Neely thwee” she held up three fingers across two hands.

“Really? Wow! Awesome. Hey, do you wanna come and watch some TV?” She nodded and walked across to him, taking his outstretched hand. They were sitting on the couch together watching kids’ television when her mother arrived home.

“Hey, Baby! What’re you doin’ up?”

“Mama!” Blanche screamed and ran to cling to her mother’s leg, crying again. “It’s alright Baby. Sean gave you a fright, did he? He’s just Mummy’s new friend. It’s okay, shoosh-shoosh now. Do you want some milk and toast?

Yeah? Go watch TV, I’ll get you some, okay Baby?” Blanche sniffled and nodded, reluctantly returning to the couch.

Sean grinned and winked at the girl, as he approached her mother to rip her to shreds in hushed tones. “What the fuck?” he whispered harshly. Queenie glared at him, pouring a cup of milk for her daughter. “What is wrong with you? You don’t know me. I could be anyone. Who leaves their kid alone with a stranger?”

“I thought I’d be back before she woke up. She’s alright, what’s the problem? You’re good with kids, I can tell,” she shrugged and reached out to touch him but he slapped her hand away in a tight, controlled movement. “Hey!” she took a small step backwards.

“Do I look friendly to you? Huh? Someone you’d leave ya kid with?” The veins on Sean’s neck bulged as he hissed through his teeth. “D’ya know she climbed into bed with me? Here she is looking for her mum and she sees this instead. She was terrified. And you don’t know me from shit. I coulda been twisted for all you knew. I’m no monster - I’m a dad. Lucky, eh? Moron. If my ex pulled this shit I’d kill her.”

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“Get out!” she told him firmly. “Leave, now.”

He shook his head at her, and a mirthless smile crossed his face. “You know what? My sister-in-law works for Child Services. I’m gonna put her on your case. You don’t deserve that child. You’re a nutcase.” He turned to leave and felt something light and wet hit him from behind. Blanche’s milk. He scoffed and left.

She ran to lock the door behind him, and began to cry.

Mother and daughter sat on the couch with arms wrapped tightly around each other, and stayed that way until the program ended. Kissing her gently, Queenie promised Blanche they would go somewhere nice and have a fun day together.

The little girl gazed up with loving eyes, “Me hungry Mama.”

“Of course, Baby.” Queenie washed an apple and handed it to her daughter before having a shower.

When she emerged she felt somewhat refreshed. She’d chosen a knitted dress and tied a golden scarf in her hair.

“Which earrings should Mummy wear, Babes?”

She couldn’t see Blanche at first, “Baby?” The second she saw her she knew something was wrong; she was lying face down at an awkward angle. Queenie ran to her daughter and scooped her up - her face was blue and her eyes wide.

She screamed for help over and over again. Her hands shook as she called Emergency.

The operator gleaned as much as she could and tried to calm her down. She assured Queenie an ambulance was on its way and talked her through laying her daughter’s small limp frame over her knee and delivering back slaps.

Nothing came out of Blanche’s mouth. The ambulance arrived and they were rushed to the hospital in a blur. On arrival Blanche was surrounded by a medical team, and

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then whisked away. Someone told Queenie where to sit and she complied.

She stared out the window. Trees were torn this way and blown that way by a bitter wind. A pigeon tried to land on the ledge but was deterred by metal spikes. The clock ticked. Every time a door opened she looked up eagerly and watched as they walked casually by in their clean uniforms. Some dared to chat lightheartedly among themselves. As though they were at some drab office where envelopes are made. She wanted to claw their faces off with her bare hands.

At length her name was called. She leaped out of her seat, “Is she okay?”

Seconds stretched and warped as though she were entering a black hole; she saw her world breaking apart like a fork in the road, her head felt like it might split in two.

“She’s going to be okay.”

Queenie’s knees buckled and the doctor caught her arm and eased her into the chair. “Really?” a well of tears had sprung to her eyes and was spilling down her cheeks. “Can I see her?”

“Of course, this way. Are you able to walk?”

“I’m fine. Oh my god, I can’t believe it! Thank you!”

He smiled, and led the way. They passed a room where tiny babies fought for life in their small clear boxes.

Blanche was sleeping. A mask covered her mouth and nose. Though she looked exhausted, the colour had returned to her face. Queenie sat by her side and wept, stroking her tiny hand. As she watched her precious girl, Sean’s words came back to haunt her. She wondered at herself. She’d known Blanche would sleep while she went to the bar, and she wasn’t out long. She’d felt he was a safe person to leave

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in the apartment for ten minutes. Despite his rough exterior she’d sensed his tenderness.

Her justifications rang hollow as she grappled with the painful truth of Sean’s portrayal. She had left her daughter alone with a stranger. How could she have let it happen?

There was a time when she wouldn’t let Blanche out of her sight. After her teen boyfriend and then her parents turned their backs on her for choosing to have her baby, she was left in a vulnerable state. With nowhere else to turn, she had fallen into the web of an older man. She’d known better than to leave Blanche alone with him.

He had beckoned her into the gilded cage with his Ralph Lauren suits and silver Lamborghini. But the price of his luxuries had amounted to her liberty. Queenie had watched her school friends slip away into their buoyant futures. She had seen her tastes in fashion, music, books, and vocabulary overhauled for more educated choices. She’d watched his eyes grow hungry as her belly swelled.

Soon after she was swamped with the demands of a newborn. Feeding, cleaning, burping, rocking. He would hold the baby and coo, telling her to get some rest. Though his caresses were more predatory than paternal; his affection thinly veiling a dark desire. All the while she sank further into the abyss of loneliness. Her only lifeline her Instagram account. Had he known how much strength she drew from her followers he would never have allowed it; had he known it was a moneymaker. But he was old school. By the time she found the courage to bolt she had made enough to put a deposit on her own small apartment.

She had left no trace. Still, it took months for her to stop looking over her shoulder. She couldn’t now remember when but there had come a day when she felt it was safe to venture out to the mailbox while Blanche slept. It felt

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both wrong and like a step forward. Somehow this had led to a quick trip to the corner shop. She would never have imagined she could go to a bar, but she did know Blanche was a sound sleeper, and she had the baby monitor app, and the bar was barely a block away. And she so yearned for company.

She pictured Sean’s angry face and a violent shiver snaked down her spine. Blanche’s tiny chest rose and fell, rose and fell. The hospital room felt warm and safe against the icy rain tapping at the window. Queenie silently promised her daughter to protect her, always.

By summertime her promise would slip from her grasp.

Queenie glanced at Blanche, asleep in her car seat. She looked rosy and peaceful after another spontaneous getaway.

Water slides, ice creams, and carousel rides; sandy toes and a bucket of shells. But the drive home eroded the sweet memories of the past few days, like the inexorable tide lapping at a sandcastle. With every passing mile Queenie’s anger grew. It was supposedly their weekend with Blanche. “How dare they?” she murmured, “They didn’t even want me to have her. Now they all want a piece of her? Screw that.”

The events of the past seven months played like a broken record in her mind. She remembered receiving the letter from her parents. They wanted to be part of their granddaughter’s life. And then her ex crept onto the scene like a shadow; only he’s not a teenager anymore and his brooding is anything but endearing. It soon turned bitter when she refused them access to her girl. Then came the Family Court orders. “Who the hell do they think they are? She’s mine seven days of every week. Twelve months of every year. End of story.”

They arrived home in the afternoon. Queenie was unpacking when she heard a knock at the door. It was the

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police. Her parents and ex stood behind them, yammering on about something. But Queenie couldn’t hear them anymore. She went cold as they pried her crying daughter from her arms. She watched it happen as though she were trapped in the basement of her own soul. Then she was alone.

After the longest time she put on her red shoes. The train carried her hollow body to a music festival where she took every pill that came her way, and she danced. And she danced. And she danced. And she fell.

The paramedic strained to hear her last word, “Blanche.”

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Fiction Blanche

About The Author

Reilly McCarron is a folklorist, writer, storyteller, and musician with a Graduate Diploma in Australian Folklife through Curtin University.

Her article ‘The elusive Australian fairy tale’ was published in the Griffith Review’s special fairy tale edition. She has presented academic papers at the National Folklore Conference and the inaugural Monash Fairy Tale Salon symposium. In 2012 she wrote and toured her one woman show ‘Sleeping Kingdom, Waking Beauty’. She is the cofounder, and was first president, of the Australian Fairy Tale Society. Reilly lives with her husband and their son, and a black cat named Samhain, in the Blue Mountains, Australia.

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Fiction

Words by

The Mug and Spoon

Anastasia Kharlamova

About the story

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I wanted to write something fairytale-ish, so I googled for magazines accepting submissions in this genre. When I saw the “Snow White” theme for Timeless Tales , I was quite at a loss at first, since the story has already been twisted in every possible way.

After writing the first part of the story (about Lord Austreigh waking up his bride), it was still incomplete. But then it dawned on me: what if my heroine wasn’t a princess at all? And that’s how I came by the idea of a long-running Snow White-

con where the main actress changed.

Initially I planned for the two Snow Whites to meet and just to gloat over their success.

However, once the character of Countess Leedway was developed enough, I knew she would be the one to choose her husband for love (plus, I have a soft spot for age-gap romances). So it came to the final version, with the contrast between Rita and Marie, and with Joseph as the secretkeeper of the whole thing.

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It was true, everything they had told him. Lord Austreigh saw the beautiful gilded coffin and the lovely sleeping form of the girl.

It wasn’t strictly true that she was kept by seven dwarves, of course. He had doubted it from the start, but then he lived so far away, the tale was bound to get twisted. The coffin stood in the Mug and Spoon inn in a small town of Weissfelsen, at the country’s border. The hosts and their seven sons found the girl in the forest, they said, and quickly knew they’d soon make good profits. Now they preferred she’d be asleep as long as possible, because every unlucky guy who kissed her and failed to wake her up proceeded to buy at least a pint of Mug and Spoon’s premium dark beer.

“We even made several new dishes,” Frau Zwerck told Lord Austreigh proudly when he came to the inn. “The Princess’s Kiss honey buns, the Sleeping Princess apple syrup, the Banished Princess meat salad, the…”

“Doesn’t the Queen mind?” Lord Austreigh asked carefully. He had absolutely no intention of getting in trouble with the Queen. His plan was to wake the girl, marry her, and go home. No: wake the girl, go home and safely marry her there.

“Of course she doesn’t!” Herr Zwerck laughed jovially.

“We’re making so much money here today, and the town – the rest of the country, too – is attracting people from all over the world. Her Majesty is only too happy!”

After a nice hot dinner, the Zwercks showed Lord Austreigh to the room with the coffin.

The princess wasn’t astonishingly beautiful, but then the description he had heard – ivory skin, raven hair and blood-red lips – sounded more like a vampire, and he wouldn’t have wanted one for his wife. The real girl had

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dark chestnut curls and a thankfully normal fair complexion. She also had a very pretty little nose and rather elegant eyebrows.

All right, on with it. Austreigh was no stranger to kissing girls, but usually the girl in question wasn’t asleep with family of nine gathered around him.

He leaned in and quickly touched his lips to the girl’s.

There was a sharp intake of breath before she opened her eyes.

He stared at her. He was so sure he’d be unlucky he hadn’t even prepared himself for this outcome.

She smiled at him and sat up, blinking uncertainly and rubbing her eyes – the light must have been too bright.

Then she asked the Zwercks something in their language, and they answered her in hushed, awed voices – they were probably telling her who he was.

“Thank you,” she turned to him. Her voice had a heavy accent, but it could be mended.

Lord Austreigh was still staring at the scene round-eyed, like an owl. He had forgotten all the long and elaborate speeches he had prepared.

“Schneewittchen… Schneewittchen – isn’t it?” he said, trying to compose himself. “Will you consent to be my wife?” *** As soon as he was safely home with his bride, he sent a letter to the Queen – he felt it was necessary, a gesture of politeness. He got nothing in reply.

“That’s my stepmother for you,” Schnee shrugged – he took to calling her that. “Doesn’t care at all. As long as you don’t praise my beauty too much,” she gave him a coquettish smile, “she probably wouldn’t even remember I’m alive.”

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She was a very nice lady, and people from his estates grew to love her. He did as well. She was kind, and gentle, and really very skilled with household chores – it was true that her stepmother had made her work like a slave in her childhood.

Five years later, Lady Austreigh heard that there was a cursed princess in her native land. The stepdaughter to the evil Queen, she had been poisoned by her with a magical apple and would only be woken up by a true love’s kiss.

“They’re still telling the rumor, even though you’re woken up and married,” Lord Austreigh chuckled. “And it doesn’t stop getting wilder, too. Now your stepmother’s an evil poisoning witch as well. What will it be next about her?

Mass beheading of her subjects, perhaps?”

Ten and fifteen years later, such rumors persisted. And one day, while at a ball at the king’s court, Lord Austreigh met an army friend of his, Count Leedway, who proudly told him he had woken up the princess and married her.

Lord Austreigh said there must have been a mistake, since it was him who did that.

Lady Austreigh and Countess Leedway were standing in the corner of the ballroom, with enormous ostrich-feather fans, and talking animatedly, too.

“Dearest Marie – I remember you were five or so, when I got married.”

“Oh, yes, Rita – remember, you taught me to read?” the young Countess smiled fondly as she glanced into the wall mirror and combed her jet-black hair a little – it had become a bit disheveled after the dances.

“Of course, my dear! It’s been such a long time! Tell me, how are the Zwercks?”

“Poor Wilhelm died two years ago of fever, just before my wedding. Louise is so old she barely walks, poor thing.”

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“Wilhelm was the second youngest, wasn’t he? Such a pity!” Lady Austreigh sighed. “Well, as long as the gilded coffin stands, his wife and children won’t go hungry. Who is there now?”

“After me, there was Magda, Lame Heinrich’s daughter – remember Lame Heinrich? The silversmith?”

“Heinrich Erstein? He’s gone lame? I remember he was the handsomest man in town and all the girls wept when he married his Trina! So, it’s little Magda now – how time flies!”

“Well, it’s been two years, she might have already left...

You know,” the Countess lowered her eyes and paused for a moment, “I have told Joe everything.”

“Marie!” her friend whispered in shock.

“What? I like him,” the Countess blushed. “I wouldn’t have chosen some man twenty years older than me, if I hadn’t liked him, Count or not. I just couldn’t keep it on – but I made him promise he wouldn’t tell.”

“He and my Harold look equally confused. He’s a good actor, your Count Leedway,” Lady Austreigh said approvingly. “But it was careless of you, Marie. I mean, what harm is there? Dozens of men are provided with beautiful and loving wives, dozens of Weissfelsen girls make wonderful marriages they wouldn’t have dreamed of, if not for the coffin, and our Queen is feared as a witch so nobody dares to oppose her. What’s wrong?”

The younger woman frowned doubtfully and fidgeted with her fan. *** “…I’m telling you, my wife has the authentic look: the dark hair and everything,” Lord Austreigh was saying in the meantime. “And she was lying in the coffin, right there!

The Zwercks told me how they found her.”

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“My wife’s hair is darker than your Schnee’s, Harold.”

“Well, it’s not just about the hair, it’s about the whole story! Come on, Joe, admit it: you’re pulling my leg,” Lord Austreigh winked. In the army, Joe Leedway was always the trickster and storyteller – they had spent many evenings on the march listening to his wild tales. “Please. It’s just that I have woken up the real princess, so it doesn’t work on me.”

The Count hesitated, then finally relented. “Honestly, you old bore,” he chuckled. “Can’t a chap have fun once in a while?”

Laughing, Lord Austreigh slapped him on the back: “Jolly Joe, it’s been twenty-five years since we’ve seen each other, and you haven’t changed a bit. Do you ever act seriously, I wonder?”

“Only when thinking about the King’s last taxes,” Count Leedway replied, then paused as the orchestra started a new tune. “Ah, it’s the quadrille. We’ll discuss taxes over the supper – Marie’s waiting for me.”

She was indeed. Lady Austreigh wasn’t going to dance – she found quadrille exhausting – but the Countess was practically standing on her toes.

As he led his wife towards the dancing couples, Joseph Leedway considered his decision. He could have told Harold what he knew. He could have spoken the entire truth, and all the Weissfelsen brides would have been exposed as impostors, and the Zwercks would have lost their precious inn.

This way, however, Harold wouldn’t keep some random joke in mind for long. They wouldn’t stay in touch, and nobody would ever doubt the Zwercks’ honesty.

If it hadn’t been for her… He would never forget that Marie had chosen him. She’d spied on him through the

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door’s crack while the elder Zwercks served him dinner.

He clearly remembered talking about how he was struggling to make ends meet, how his family had left him more debts than money, and how his title was mostly a fancy word to add to the name. She’d heard it all from the adjoining room, and she still lay back in her coffin and opened her eyes when he kissed her.

Perhaps it was selfish to keep the secret. Perhaps it was even criminal, the Count didn’t know. But he knew one thing for certain: as long as he lived, he would never, ever expose the owners of the Mug and Spoon.

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Fiction The Mug and Spoon

About The Author

Anastasia Kharlamova lives in Saint-Petersburg with her parents and grandmother, in a room that is in immediate danger of getting flooded by books. She is finishing her MA in Balkan Linguistics at Saint-Petersburg State University and hopes to continue working with languages and their phonetics at the Russian Academy of Sciences this November.

Her tastes in reading are diverse, but her favorites include religious writing (she is an Orthodox Christian), fantasy, historical, and Romanticism-era novels and poetry. She has several profiles on fanfiction sites, where she publish both fanfics and original works: www.fanfiction.net/u/2380704/.

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Fiction

Words by

The Fairest

A.A. Azariah-Kribbs

About the story

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When I wrote this story, I really wanted a twist on the “fairest of them all” theme. Why does the “fairest of them all” have to be a woman, anyway? I wanted to write this fairy tale from a woman’s perspective while addressing dark themes that are already present in the original.

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Beauty, they say, is in the eye of the beholder. But some features are just objective. I knew without asking anyone that Henri was the fairest of them all.

“But Princess Snow,” he said, “I’m not the fairest. I’m missing a tooth, that’s why I have a gold filling.”

“I like your gold tooth,” I said. “It gives you character.”

“I have dirty fingernails.”

I frowned. “How did that happen?”

Henri’s answer was vague. “Digging.”

I didn’t question him further. I took his arm and led him to a chair. He sat while I placed a water-filled bowl on the table between us.

Despite his arguments, there was no doubt Henri was the fairest. He was a slender man, and his straightness made him look taller than he was. His delicate, keen features, the graceful poise in his body even when resting, was undeniable. Taking his hands, I examined them. He had slim hands, slightly callused from years at sea. The youngest son in a family of seven, the excitement that followed his arrival in my stepmother’s kingdom wasn’t all his fault. But it was popular news that one day the queen has asked her mirror, “Who, again, is fairest of them all?”—and the answer was a handsome sailor’s face.

Sometimes I wondered what had changed the mirror’s mind in Henri’s favor. I honestly believed it was Henri’s gold tooth.

The addition of that tooth added a quirk to his smile like flashing sunlight. It made him that much more irresistible. It was Henri’s misfortune that he decided to have the filling done in my stepmother’s kingdom. If he had done it somewhere else, maybe distance could have kept him safe.

My stepmother had persecuted me for years, and she wasn’t going to excuse a stranger. I washed the dirt from Henri’s fingers, careful because his skin was scraped.

“You tried to leave,” I said.

His eyes flashed to mine. I wondered if he was going to lie, but he didn’t say anything.

I rubbed his hands gently with a cloth. Now that they were clean, I could see the shallow, red cuts.

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“Why?” I asked. “Is it the dwarves? Are they bothering you?”

“Do you really not understand?” His voice was a disbelieving whisper. “Do you think I can live like this?”

I leaned back from him. “Like what?”

“I’m a prisoner.”

“I’m saving you!”

“From who? Your mother?” He took my hands in his. “I know you’ve suffered. I believe you’re trying to help me. But please, Snow, for God’s sake. Let me see the sun again. I’ve been too long in the dark.”

I considered him. His eyes rested on me, intense, shining in candlelight. Looking at them was like looking at the sun, to me. I wished that I could make him understand. I wished that I could show him how much I needed him.

“Alright,” I said. “Wait here.”

“Where are you going?”

“You’ll see the sun again,” I said. “I promise.” *** The dwarves were clever. They worked quickly and efficiently, and in a matter of hours it was done. The window in Henri’s room overlooked the sea, stretching to a far horizon. Because the dwarves’ home was deep in the earth, the window itself looked like a crack midway down the cliff face. The rock above and below was too rough to climb.

“This is a tomb,” said Henri.

His words made me flinch. “You wanted the sun,” I said.

“There it is.”

He looked out at the sinking, western glow. “Tell me,” he said. “How are you different from the Queen?”

“You don’t know,” I said. “You don’t know what it’s like to be hunted by her all your life. I’ve been hiding from her since my sixteenth birthday. That was five years ago. You don’t know how many people tried to hide me and how many died because she found them. Only the dwarves have been able to keep my safe. I’m scared to leave. Sometimes I’m scared to breathe. I’ve lost everything, everything I love, because of the Queen. I won’t lose you too.”

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I nodded to the dwarves. Unquestioning, they did as I asked. The chain they had made was unbreakable, fastening on Henri’s ankle.

I was surprised that Henri was motionless as they chained him. His eyes never left my face.

“You’re right,” he said. “I don’t know what you’ve suffered. I am beginning to understand.” *** He would sit for hours, even at night, looking into the starlit darkness. I didn’t try to talk to him. The distance between us was a widening gulf, and I visited less and less, busying myself cleaning and preparing meals in the dwarves’ cavernous home.

I didn’t know how long they had lived in these underground rooms before they took me in, but it was possible for even me to get lost.

Sometimes I thought I hated Henri. Sometimes I knew his resistance was my fault and that I had to let him go. But I could never let him go. One day, he would understand.

Then she came.

I don’t know how she found us. The dwarves couldn’t keep her back. The Queen’s magic was too powerful and her will was strong. In the end we faced each other in the narrow tunnel that connected the dwarves’ rooms.

The Queen was a tall and imposing figure. She had not disguised herself, but I was surprised to see that instead of her usual rich clothes her dress seemed simpler, a flowing light gown of deep blue. There was no jeweled coronet and her raven hair was tied up in a simple knot. She looked older. The lines in her face were much, much older.

“You look cold, Snow,” said the Queen quietly. Her black eyes took me in, unwavering and calm.

“What are you going to do?” I asked. “Kill me?”

“My mirror is lying,” said the Queen.

“You are not the fairest! When are you going to believe it?”

Her reply surprised me. “Yes,” she said. “My mirror says that you, once more, are the fairest.”

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Fear gripped me. I started down the tunnel towards Henri’s room. The glow from the torches seemed suddenly lurid, and I was glad when I reached his room, the morning light shining clear. But it had been months since I last visited. The sight that met my eyes left me standing still.

Henri was on the floor, stretched on his back. I might not have recognized him if I hadn’t known it could be no one but him. He was gaunt and wasted, his eyes open, turned towards the sky.

The Queen knelt beside him. She passed her hand over his face.

“He is dead.”

“No.” I shook my head. “That’s not possible.”

“I watched him die.” Her quietness struck me. It seemed so removed from the passion I remembered. As she looked at Henri, there was no sign of victory or regret on her face. She touched him, stroking stray hair from his cold forehead. “My mirror did not show me where he was, but it showed his face.

Every day I could see the life leaving him. I knew it was only a matter of time.”

“But I gave him everything.” Tears spilled down my cheeks.

The Queen crossed to me. She took my face in her hands and I flinched, unwilling to look at her. Her cool, gentle hand smoothed my wet cheek.

“No, Snow,” she said. “You didn’t give him everything. You took his freedom and broke his heart. I tried to become beauty.

You tried to preserve it. But we have both lost. We are not so different, daughter, after all.”

That quietness in her eyes had changed, showing keen strength. I had never seen that intensity directed towards me with anything but suspicion and dislike. But the way she looked at me now—it confused me. I could see my own face reflected in the pools of her eyes.

This, too, was a mirror. In it I saw myself.

I pulled away from her and went to Henri. I kissed him. It was a last, foolish hope. But he was gone.

“Come,” said the Queen, gently. “I will take you home.”

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Fiction The Fairest

About The Author

A.A. Azariah-Kribbs lives in Maryland with her literary muse, Fuffle. She has been published in several venues, including The Sonder Review, Mythic Circle, and Harpur Palate. Her blog, Wallie’s Wentletrap (wallieswentletrap.com) features her original art and fiction.

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Fiction

Words by

Ever After, on the Highway

Rhonda Eikamp

About the story

I like poking around the edges of stories, the peripheral characters are more conflicted and complex. I asked myself why the hunter would even consider carrying out the queen’s demand, and decided he must be in love with her.

Since it’s all about beauty and delusion, the rest just came – aging movie star, gangster chauffeur. I’ve discovered I find the older woman’s story in the fairy tales more interesting than the princess lately anyway (wonder why).

MORE TIMELESS TALES STORIES

BY RHONDA:

Lady Gray Issue 1 Puss in Boots

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After he pulled out of the gas station, she let her hair down.

Hot creosote wind blew it back from the seat and she laughed. A fluttering, golden river of hair, with undercurrents of gray. Ahead over the mesa, thunderclouds bunched.

Ought to pull over and put the top up, Hunter thought, but he couldn't stop looking at her on days like this, even after all this time. Years since– No, he wouldn't think about that.

He made his voice carefree. "Wanna know something, Queenie?"

"What is it, Hunter?"

"You're beautiful." He said it ten times a day and meant it. "You're the most beautiful woman in the world."

She perched her sandaled feet on the dash and leaned her head on his shoulder. Hunter pointed out the storm they were headed toward and felt her shrug.

"Hunt the sun, Hunter," Queenie crooned.

When the storm arrived it was fast. They had to get out and put the top up under buckets of rain, laughing, drenched. *** The roadside attraction was unattractive, but Queenie begged and Hunter turned into the deserted parking lot at the last second. A rip-off joint, he could see that. He knew something about rip-offs. Faking things.

Hanging on strings by the entrance were animal skulls he could identify all too well, clattering as they passed inside, shaking a sudden rattle of dread in him. Punch it down. Inside stretched aisles filled with fake jewelry, worthless polished rocks, and joke items. He picked up a pine box smelling – unfakeably – of the forest he loved and saying Made in Indonesia on the bottom.

"It's so hideous it's wonderful," Queenie whispered.

She moved down an aisle, haltingly, with that royal-wed-

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ding step he loved. She picked up a prism and broke the light into its secret colors, shattering the illusion of reality.

"You want anything, you tell me." Hunter slid the wad of bills from his pocket just far enough for her to see. It was another of the things he didn't understand, this unending cash, like their time together – always spent, never diminishing. They were the things that gave him nightmares at night. Because everything had a best-by date, and he didn't want this to end. "Anything, Queenie."

"The moon, the world. You." Queenie kissed his cheek and sauntered deeper into the shop, into dustier realms of glinting novelty items and venison jerky, where shadows pooled.

Far at the back of the shop, something larger glinted.

No, his blood beat. Stop her.

"Her Majesty's gonna want something you can't pay for."

The voice belonged to the attendant behind the counter, an elbow-length away. Hunter almost cried out. No one had been there before, he'd have sworn. The man was short, buckled with age, a crumbling parchment. Ugly as sin, the kind that would really send you to hell. He stood so still he might have been mummified by the desert air, but his mouth moved, and the grin made Hunter's heart race even faster. Behind the man a sign said, Pan Your Own Gold, with an arrow pointing out a side door.

The words he'd spoken took time to register. Her Majesty.

Hunter was sure he hadn't mentioned Queenie's name out loud. Coincidence. She was lost to sight now, down the darkest aisle, toward the silver glint. "Whaddaya mean? I got enough, I could buy this dump, buster."

The attendant winked and leaned forward. He reeked of joy. "She'll see something."

And the dread was an explosion. The glint.

Not that.

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Fear propelled Hunter. He darted down aisles. The shadows here were thick, constructed of dust. He called, making his voice carefree, but it wasn't working that way anymore: "Hey, Queenie, come back – come look at this up front. Hurry, you won't believe it!" Hurry.

He reached the end of the aisles, the dark dregs of the shop. He was too late.

Propped against the back wall, amid cheap oil paintings of elk and cottages, stood a high, silver-framed mirror. Its black surface drank the light. Queenie had stopped before it. She had a hand over her mouth and when she turned to him Hunter thought he would die.

He'd never seen what she saw. Never heard the pronouncements. In the time before, when he was her chauffeur and loving her from afar, he'd known where his boss's insanity came from. She'd had a mirror like this one, only better cared for – a splendid burnished thing that hung on the wall of the great Queenie Carston's living-room. She would talk to it every time a movie she starred in came out. He had walked in on her once, after bringing the car around and waiting half an hour – seen her preening, leaning in to the swirling surface as if to catch the answer to some all-important question – and his heart had broke. She was the beauty of the decade, she was lonely as hell. And then the black-haired one had come along, the next big thing, and the public's fickle love rolled away from Queenie Carston like a wave off the beach.

Oh the black-haired one – more lovely on the screen, sure, with the glow of youth, but uninteresting in Hunter's view. Too naive, still in her twenties no doubt. She didn't have that knowing mature glance a woman like Queenie could produce. But then the black-haired one got the part – the part – and Queenie went nuts. All night Hunter heard her screaming at the mirror, calling it names, and the next night she had Hunter in for a drink. She kissed him on the

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mouth. You know people, she said. He thought his bones would melt if she touched him again like that. She did and they did. She said, I need something done. He would have done anything for her.

She said, Bring me her heart.

"You didn't do it, did you?" In the dust of the shop Queenie Carston was a queen again, with power over his life. The hate in her eyes swirled as black as the mirror.

"Come away from it," Hunter whispered.

"You didn't kill her. She's still alive!"

Yes, he'd known people, and he'd told them what he wanted. He didn't know where they got the heart, still warm in its velvet box when they handed it over to him, and he didn't care. It wasn't hers of course. Queenie had opened the box and smiled, and he watched the shadows under her eyes visibly lighten, a thing he hadn't known was possible. When she crossed the room to ask the question of her mirror, he lunged after her. Pleading did no good.

It was a spell laid on her long ago, from her own mother perhaps, a long line of witches. Bad magic. She knocked him away, suddenly suspicious. Hunter had never played the hero, only the villain – he'd broken bones in his last job. Maybe you never got away from that once it became the motto of your life. Break everything. While she fought him, he attacked the mirror. First with a vase full of daisies, which barely cracked it, then a whole Queen Anne chair, stomping on the shards until they were nothing but powder.

There was a rip in the film after that, a burnt-out frame he refused to think about, and sometime later they were on the parched highwa y, in Queenie Carston's blue Corvette, and her hair was down and whipping across her sleeping face. Hunter had stopped and twisted off the rearview and side mirrors before she woke up, but he didn't have to worry. There had been window reflections since then,

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motel-room mirrors. They weren't the same. They didn't speak to her. She saw what she needed to see.

Until now.

"I'm second-place!" she screamed at Hunter, and a giggle floated out from the mirror or the attendant or both, reverberating through the shop. "Because you lied! Because you weren't man enough to do it!"

"No – Queenie, it's the mirror that lies!" How could Hunter explain what love was? He'd never had the words.

"It's always lied to you. You're beautiful. Please – it was never about faces!"

She was suddenly still, staring into the ebony surface, listening, then she nodded in reply to what only she could hear. "I'll go back and do the job myself." She spun to leave.

Break everything. Hunter kicked the mirror with his boot, sending a lightning crack across it. Queenie screamed.

A howl went up from the front counter. For a second Hunter saw in the cracked mirror a distorted face, hideous with years – an old woman sobbing or the ancient attendant from the counter grinning, he couldn't tell which. Perhaps they were the same thing.

He would break and break, for the rest of his life, he saw, because that's what it took for him to love her broken soul.

From a shelf he swung a painted longhorn skull. The horn's tip bashed into the mirror like an icepick, shattering the glass into red smoke. At the front counter the howl turned to a high bark. Someone had let a dog into the shop.

He heard the mirror speak then, the non-face that hung in the smoke murmuring, This is your death, your death.

Queenie was tearing at him, scratching. He picked her up and ran for the door.

The attendant had become an attendant-shaped cloud of red dust. It rushed at him, choking them both. Queenie went limp. He couldn't fight dust. They would be mummified, death the victor.

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The side door. Hunter spun, lunged for it, burst into golden desert sun, and ran with Queenie in his arms.

Another tear in the film.

He drove the car toward a rising moon and Queenie slept peacefully beside him.

"Hunter?" She was awake. No memory of the shop, he told himself. He told himself. Her fingers came up to fondle the ragged edge where the side mirror had been torn off.

"You'd do anything for me, wouldn't you?"

"You know I would."

"Hunt me the moon, Hunter." Her voice held no feeling, like a badly spoken movie line.

There would be heat mirages on the road, he thought, those glinting silver pools. Motel pools. There would be mirrors in her mind now. One day, if he didn't watch out, Queenie would be gone from him, and Hunter would read about a murder in the paper.

If he didn't watch out.

He held her hand and drove toward the moon.

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Fiction Ever After, on the Highway

About The Author

Rhonda Eikamp is originally from Texas and lives in Germany, the land of fairy tales, where she mundanely translates for a law firm. Her stories have appeared in Lackington’s, Unlikely Story, Enchanted Conversation, and Lightspeed’s Women Destroy Science Fiction, among others.

Check out a list of stories available online at her sadly abandoned blog: writinginthestrangeloop.wordpress.com/ .

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Fiction

Words by

Mother of Eden

Jeana Jorgensen

About the story

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I wrote this story over a decade ago and remembered it when I saw the “Snow White” theme for this issue, so I don’t recall everything about my writing process since it happened so long ago. However, I remember having in mind the European folktale “The Snow Child” in which a woman says that a child she bears during her husband’s long absence is a snow child.

When the husband takes the child away and returns without the child, his explanation is that the kid melted. I wove this story (tale type 1362 for those of us who are nerds) into my postapocalyptic retelling of “Snow

White” because it seemed fitting to have elements of mysterious childbirth and melting away in a story about a nuclear winter and the effects of radiation on reproduction.

Mother of Eden

Jeana Jorgensen

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During the long winter after the war, Lori surprised herself by wishing for a child.

She had just pulled back from her microscope, and was startled by the way the black plastic framed her red drop of blood on the white, sterile surface of the base. Microscopes were old technology, of course, but Lori’s twin afflictions were also old.

Endometriosis and dementia, both exacerbated by radiation exposure. She was clearly unfit to reproduce.

Still, to have a child vividly alive, black, red, and white, a child to inhabit the new paradise Lori was creating…

She turned to her screen. Its surface turned reflective, displaying her screen saver: the words LORI’S DEMENTIA bouncing between its edges. Before the illness, Lori had tried to download some of her personality into the screen, but she couldn’t recall whether she had failed or simply given up. Either way, the screen did more than just mirror its physical surroundings; it also mirrored Lori’s mental state.

Some of the letters on the screen dissolved. The rest rearranged themselves: IS DNA RITE? Lori shook her head. She couldn’t use much of her own DNA, except to inspire a few physical traits.

MENTAL? The screen inquired.

“No,” Lori said. If she hadn’t been able to download some of her personality into a screen, she’d have trouble getting it on a brain-chip. The best solution was to use a robotic body, clothe it in cloned skin, and program a sentient brain-chip to accept human socialization. It would take some time to suitably reformat an explorer robot prototype to resemble a girl’s body, as well as to grow the cloned cosmetic features. But Lori had time, waiting for her projects to mature.

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She traced a few lines on her screen, arranging to have materials delivered to her lab. Black, red, and white: a child of her own. A child, perhaps, to care for her when she eventually went mad. *** Mother says I have a chip for a brain, but I have DNA like hers, so I’m almost human. I live with her in her room, and she takes me into her lab and teaches me about people.

People are made of DNA with strands that twist like snakes, but Mother says the nuclear winter killed most of the snakes, and most of the people, too.

Mother says I was born a big girl because she wanted me that way, so I could learn faster about the world. She taught me to read and write and decipher genetic programming, but I never speak much. I like learning about animals and plants the most, because they also don’t have to talk.

When Mother’s supervisor visits her lab, I have to hide.

Mother says he might not understand me. I don’t know whether I understand me either. *** “Lori?” Dr. Adam Preston, her supervisor, entered the lab suddenly. Her screen saver returned to the phrase Dr. Preston approved of: EDEN II. He didn’t share Lori’s sarcastic sense of humor.

“Hello, Preston,” she replied.

“How are your trees coming?”

“The tobacco DNA is cooperating with the others to soak up the radiation, so we ought to be on schedule to get the seeds manufactured.”

His eyes went to the child next to Lori. “Where did she come from?”

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Lori smiled. “I formed her from the snow.”

“You’re sure you’re still in the mild phase? And you won’t move into moderate before the year is up and your trees are engineered?”

She sighed. “Yes, I have at least a year. And the trees will grow quickly, so your insects can populate them to purify the remaining radiation content.”

Preston moved a bit closer to inspect Lori’s child.

“Her hair’s the same black as yours. You didn’t use your own DNA, did you?” he asked.

Lori laughed. “No, do you think I’m stupid enough to clone myself? She’s formed around one of the robot bodies we’d originally used to scout out the area. Now leave me to my daughter and my work,” and she pulled her daughter onto her lap and turned to face her screen.

“Don’t mind him,” Lori crooned into her daughter’s hair.

TIME, the screen reminded her, and Lori returned to work on her trees. *** Mother says she has to finish her trees. She talks more and more to her screen. Sometimes she looks at me, and I see that the screen has turned reflective, and her reflection looks older next to mine.

Preston sometimes forgets that my ears are robot ears, and he mutters angrily about Mother’s eccentricities. But I think he also pities her, which is why he lets her keep me.

Mother never gets around to naming me. I’m just her daughter. ***

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Lori smirked at the completion of her trees two weeks ahead of schedule. She summoned her daughter to her lap and stroked her hair.

The winter was almost over. Preston relayed news from the other science centers to Lori occasionally, and the mood was positive. While some of the researchers, like Lori, had yearned for children, most of them weren’t quite as damaged, so some had coupled with research partners. Others, wary of the risks involved in combining DNA, had cloned themselves.

The newest generation, though, would be especially bred, and radiation-free. Soon their garden would be ready.

Lori’s daughter squirmed, so she released the struggling child, who went to play with the old-fashioned microscope.

It was one of the few possessions Lori still had from her mother. Dementia had overshadowed that relationship.

One more casualty of neglected mental health research in favor of the arms race…and its aftermath. Lori had led one of those projects, the first Eden, but a vote after its failure demoted her to a secondary research position.

A clatter got Lori’s attention. Her daughter had knocked over the microscope. It wasn’t broken, Lori knew, but she still grew angry. Angry at the childlike version of her face, angry at her own encroaching age—soon, she would be that clumsy again, unable to perform even daily functions.

Lori stalked over to her daughter and slapped her. She knew the metal under her daughter’s rosy cheek would bruise her hand, but she didn’t care.

Lori stared hard at her daughter, then looked to her screen. OLD, it said.

Is that what I am, she thought. Old? Anger continued to grip her. She grabbed her daughter by the arm and walked

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her out of her lab, down the long hall, out onto the observation deck, and locked the door from the inside.

MEDEA, the screen accused her, when she returned to her lab.

Lori stared long at her reflection, hating it. *** Mother leaves me—I am wearing a shift and her lab coat—and I walk out into the snow. I don’t feel any cold, but as I go farther, I notice my skin peeling off. I walk and walk until the science center is gone. I walk until I find a bare patch of ground. There are seven skulls, which I easily identify as human. I sit down and gather them around me. They will be my friends until winter ends and the trees return. *** Lori heard Preston enter her lab, but she did not look up.

“Where’s the child?” he asked.

“She melted,” Lori said.

He cursed. “You’re losing it, Lori, you’re crazy. Your trees better not—” She gestured to the screen. “The data’s all there. Take your trees. Leave me alone.”

He left. She continued to gaze at her screen. She imagined her reflection being subjected to radiation—skin melting, hair falling out. MEDUSA, the screen prompted her. Lori giggled as she imagined her hair turning to snakes. She fumbled for a scalpel and began to hack off strands of her hair as she thought about her daughter.

She could think of one solution. DEMON I EAT, the screen agreed, as Lori began to code her DNA into molecu-

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lar packages that would fit inside of cells of seeds. With some changes, of course. And it might not work. Hadn’t she thought of this before, only to discard the idea because it was impossible? Her screen, with its morbid sense of humor, showed a caduceus, which became inverted into a horizontal shape, and then the snakes slithered away to become strands of DNA, which formed patterns that Lori nodded when she recognized.

“Perfect,” she said, staring at the DNA framing her reflection.

Coding a poison was the easiest part. As easy as training the child to eat tidbits of food as part of her human socialization program had been.

When she left for the snowy wasteland, she didn’t bother donning protective gear. She smashed her screen and brought a shard with her to guide her to her daughter. Her daughter was seated within a ring of seven stones, still. Her white skin and rosy cheeks had long since fallen away, and her black hair coated the bare ground on which she sat. Her daughter was a metal skeleton, with wire muscles and gleaming nodules for organs. Not like me anymore, Lori thought, but she frowned when she saw her own skeletal fingers clutching her gift.

When Lori offered her the apple, her daughter automatically reached out and took a bite from it.

It didn’t take long for the DNA key in the apple to shut down her daughter’s vital functions. The silvery skeleton shuddered. The wires and nodes ceased to gleam with activity. Lori eased her daughter into a reclining position, then laid down next to her. Lori’s skin burned from the cold and radiation; she closed her eyes, and waited. *** Dr. Adam Preston, walking on new bionic legs, led the children into the garden. It had taken several years to

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develop the trees and insects, and even more to develop plants and small animals to live in the new, non-poisonous paradise.

The new generation seemed properly appreciative of the garden, exploring with delight and awe. Adam noticed that one particular thicket held more attraction for them than it should have. Finally, he brushed aside branches to enter the thicket, all the children following him. He scowled at the bare ground beneath his feet—why hadn’t the new moss penetrated to this area?

In the clearing, there was a tree. It bore one apple and one other fruit, too grotesquely large to be an apple. Adam frowned. As far as he knew, Lori hadn’t designed any apple trees before destroying her personal records and disappearing into the wilderness. She wasn’t the only researcher to have committed suicide like that.

The children gathered around the tree. Though its trunk was the circumference of two embracing children, the unidentifiable fruit was at least as large as three children.

The fruit suddenly trembled, and the children fled back to Adam’s protective reach. Adam stared, uncomprehending, until the fruit split down the side, releasing fluids and flesh.

The flesh of one adult human.

Lori, with her white skin, black hair, and rosy cheeks.

Lori, as she had been when Adam had met her in her youth.

Lori, without the gleam of dementia in her eyes.

Lori brushed the film from her eyes, then gazed at the other fruit on the tree. She encircled the trunk, striding over to the apple, and cupped it in her hands.

“You didn’t want to be with me?” she asked the apple.

Then she cocked her head as though listening.

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“No, maybe you didn’t want to be human after all,” she sighed.

Lori plucked the apple and took a bite from it. She then turned to Adam and the children. “Welcome to Eden,” she said, with bits of apple glistening in her mouth.

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Fiction Mother of Eden

About The Author

Jeana Jorgensen studied folklore under Alan Dundes at the University of California, Berkeley, and went on to earn her PhD in folklore from Indiana University. She researches gender and sexuality in fairy tales, folk narrative more generally, body art, dance, sex education, and feminist/queer theory. While most of her time goes to teaching college courses and publishing research on the above, she has recently returned to writing fiction and poetry. Her poetry has appeared at Strange Horizons, Liminality, Wyrd & Wyse, Stone Telling, Enchanted Conversation, and Mirror Dance. She blogs at Patheos and is constantly on Twitter. You can see a list of her publications, both artistic and academic, at her website: jeanajorgensen.com/wordpress/ 102 Timeless Tales 10

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Poetry

Words by

Snow White at Forty

Ann Howells

About the poem

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For this particular poem, I was contemplating an upcoming birthday, taking some good natured ribbing, and began wondering what would happen to the fairytale princesses when they grew old. I had written one years ago about Cinderella catching onto women’s lib and fleeing the ball; when I reread that one, the Snow White poem began to form in my mind.

That’s the way most of my poems begin: two unrelated thoughts converge, and a poem is born.

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She misses them, you know.

They provided a sense of purpose – baking the bread, mending tiny trousers.

It wasn't a bad life.

Things are different in the castle; Step-Mama, locked in her tower room, barks incessantly.

Snow inherited the mirror, and though she does not ask, understands she is no longer fairest.

Eyes fade. Hair streaks grey.

Age spots blemish porcelain skin.

She props a dainty Prada on the glass coffin that serves as coffee table, and still leery of apples, bites into a juicy pear as she counts her blessings.

She can't complain: handmaidens attend her every need; she swishes through the castle in designer dresses, dines on choicest delicacies which explains the ever-rounding belly.

Would she return to the forest cottage if she could? Probably not, but you'd think those seven little ingrates could visit occasionally.

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Poetry Snow White at Forty

About The Author

Ann Howells served as President of Dallas Poets Community for four years and as Treasurer for many more. She has edited Illya’s Honey since 1999, recently taking the journal digital (www.IllyasHoney.com). Ann was named a “Distinguished Poet of Dallas” by the city in 2001 and recently received her fifth Pushcart nomination.

Ann frequently serves on advisory boards, judges poetry competitions, and works at festivals and conferences around the southwest. Lately she has done readings and interviews on both radio and television in connection with her chapbook, Black Crow in Flight, which is set on the Chesapeake Bay. A second, full-length, manuscript of Chesapeake Bay poems, So Long As We Speak Their Names, is currently seeking a publisher, as is a chapbook concerning the life and work of Vincent Van Gogh tentatively titled Painting the Pinwheel Sky. 108 Timeless Tales 10

Poetry

Words by

Reflections

Carina Bisset

This special bonus poem was generously contributed by Timeless Tales’ social media manager, Carina Bissett. In addition to her work with our magazine, Carina has taught Science Fiction Fairy Tales workshops at The Brainery and now offers workshops focused on story generation in workshops at The Storied Imaginarium. Her writing has been nominated for the Sundress Publications Best of the Net Award, a Pushcart Prize, and has garnered an Honorable Mention from the Ron L. Hubbard Writers of the Future Awards. In 2016, she was awarded the HWA Scholarship from the Horror Writers Association.

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Dining alone is an indulgence, most women deny. They don’t know the trick to it; the best seat in the house is at the center of the bar,

I’ve heard it over and over again. The tale is familiar.

Daughters driving desperate mothers away, not a pretty story, the roses are deepening

a high throne where one can watch others watch one in wall-length mirrors backed by bottles filled with tonics that decant our beauty.

to a dusky pink tinged with

Arms cradle roses red: tiny white snowdrops press against hooked thorns, waxy leaves and crooked limbs bound with dark ribbon.

I smile anyway, reach for another martini, like I don’t know already.

Gin bruised, ice cold, dry, he tells me I’m beautiful.

This tale is a familiar one, a preservative. The sword is swift, again, he switches from the recitation of his portfolio to his daughter,

darkest reds. I should meet her, I say. Beauty banks on it.

My hand seduces. Smiles are scimitars. Hair cloaks bare shoulders like ravens blackening. The look he gave me I’ve known forever.

She won’t like you, he said, you are her mother.

I am nothing like her mother, I say, a lie of the darkest type.

Not only am I the girl’s mother, I am also the girl.

It’s time we had a heart to heart.

shy, in need of guidance.

Where is her mother, I ask, but I know the answer.

The girl’s mother ran away with a younger man.

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Š Timeless Tales Magazine 2018

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