tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4540649547874008482012-01-21T11:17:52.157-06:00A World of Fantasy Awaits...Megan Arkenberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07090556068173258323noreply@blogger.comBlogger1611100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-454064954787400848.post-13011053496807198542011-12-01T00:11:00.004-06:002011-12-01T09:09:04.680-06:00

Welcome to Winter 2011 Issue of Mirror Dance! In this issue…•Flash Fiction by Tyrell Johnson, Brittany Warman, Simon Kewin, Gwenan Haines, Sara Cleto, and Kenneth Weene•Poetry by Jacob Rakovan, Kelda Crich, Annie Neugebauer and Shelly Bryant•An interview with Mike PhillipsFeel free to leave comments on the individual pieces. Mirror Dance welcomes letters to the editor! Questions, suggestions for

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Water Girl by Tyrell JohnsonHer skin sparkled like silver, a dazzling display of color against the dull fluorescent hospital lights.The doctor pulled her from the water and she shone so bright she was hard to look at. He snipped the umbilical cord with his white, gloved hands, then passed Elya to me. I held my breath and took her into my arms, both of our bodies half submerged in the birthing

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After a Painting of Circeby Jacob Rakovan1.How they come, to the house in the woodto be devoured, the green boys fresh from ships.They elbow one anotherOutside the house, the wolves and lionsroll on their backs for their bellies to be scratchedHers is the sweet-house, the gingersnap houseBaba Yaga’s cottage on chicken legsand the boys enter in to be eaten.so eager to throw their bones amidst her

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Inside the Wolfby Brittany WarmanThe inside of the wolf's stomach is swollen red silence. The walls come in and the walls go out - in, out, in, out - and I wait, small and folded up inside myself inside the wolf. I am waiting for something I cannot name. There is no death here, only the familiar press of his skin against mine. The air becomes heavier and heavier as my fear fades into shame. Red

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Cup and Ring Carving by Kelda CrichTake this pick made from deer horn that you found in the woods where she liked to walk.Leave the village where your brothers silently split thin branches. New wood, green wood, does not burn well. Walk onto the moors which are bathed in sunlight, sliding through the clouds, patterning the land bright and happy as cheerful woven cloth.Go to the outcrop, where

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The Good Kingby Simon Kewin“How much further?”“Not far, my lord, less than a league now.”“Hold the torch higher! I can barely see. It’s bad enough trudging through all this snow without walking into trees too.”“Yes, my lord. Sorry, my lord.”Besz held the torch higher as instructed. Not that they really needed it. The cold, blue light of the full moon gave them more than enough illumination to see

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Breaking Earth: a prose sonnetby Annie NeugebauerShe wants to break the earth in her hands, she says, feel it crumble around her skin like the dirt is under her power. She is wild with the desire – the need to have something submit. Never mind that spring has brought the damp soil and lively worms of an early shower. She is on her knees grasping gratefully in a pink and yellow sundress through

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Scar by Gwenan Haines Like mother, like daughter. Just because I was royalty didn’t mean I was oblivious to what they said about us. For seven months I took to shutting myself up in my chambers, but the resemblance was not a thing I could avoid. Her eyes mirrored mine, her thoughts . . . mirrored . . . mine. One day not so far off I would be the one to translate silver’s watery truth into words

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Storm at Seaby Shelly Bryantthe path up and down is one and the same thing - Heraclitusfrom the beach watchingan electric stormfar out at sea lightning bolts dance  &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp — their touchstirring the body beneatha childhood recalledfrom its smoldering lairbeneath layers  &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp of memorystorms raging at homeFather’s bluster  &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp as Mother

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Breakfast with the Charmingsby Sara Cleto“I want to see other people,” Prince Charming said as he shook out and refolded his paper. Cinderella dropped the platter of pancakes she’d made for him—fluffy, six inches across, spiced lightly with pumpkin. Porcelain shards broke the pattern in the tiled kitchen floor, obscuring the geometric repeat they had selected, after much consideration, when they

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Briséby Kenneth WeeneThere is great lightning without rain. “A bad omen,” says the crone. A deer runs through the camp and entangles his antlers. “A good omen.” pronounces the man who slit the beast’s throat.Stramboli says nothing. He dreams. He is on the high wire. Crowds crane to watch. Gracefully he dances: pirouette and grand jeté, passé, and grand-plié. The crowd thunders approval. He hasn’t

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An Interview with Mike Phillips“The Planting of the Spectre” and “The Night of the Cloud Spectre” have both appeared in Mirror Dance, and a quick Google search of your name brings up a dozen more Crow Witch stories. Do you have a complete list of them available? Do the Crow Witch stories have a set chronology?The response to the Crow Witch stories has been great, much better than I ever expected

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Welcome to Autumn 2011 Issue of Mirror Dance! In this issue…• Fiction by K. R. Hager, Paul L. Matthews, Stefan Milicevic, Madeline Dyer, and Mike Phillips• Poetry by Shelly Bryant, Sylvia Adams, and Haris Adhikari • Reviews of Dancing with the Velvet Lizard, by Bruce Golden; The Bone Sword, by Walter Rein; and Iara, by Caroline Sloan Feel free to leave comments on the individual pieces. Mirror

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Weapon in the Hills by K.R. Hager “This,” Lieutenant Ezra Cooper muttered, “is one of the dumbest things I have had to do.” Suppressing a roll of his eyes, he tugged on the reins to pull his horse’s head from the stream. Giving a petulant snort, the horse raised his head and the young lieutenant turned his attention to his troops. He had caught several murmurings about “damned ranking officers

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Entrance Exam after The Book of the Dead by Shelly Bryant Who is he whose roof is of fire? Who is he whose walls with serpents writhe? Who is he whose floor is streams of water? Osiris             coolly calculating             speaker of truth             unmoved and unmoving Osiris Let hearts in his hands be weighed             and not found wanting Let pure minds enter the way

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Little Sister by Paul L. Mathews The sun rose over Germania with an escort of birdsong and the crisp kiss of spring air. As it ascended forests of bare boxelder and birch slumbered below, and a midget looked down upon a valley known as Till. Wrapped tight in a thick cloak and bowed by the weight of a huge pack upon his back, he leant heavily on a thick walking stick. He narrowed his eyes and

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Lilith by Sylvia Adams Lilith, slender and long-stemmed, tuned out when the angels wept; I'm not afraid of darkness was all she said. She was thinking of candlelit dinners in cave-dim restaurants where steak was served on a board and the whole wheat loaves came straight from oven to table. Knives were sharp, but they had to be. She walked through unlit parks and was never molested. The

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The Dragon Bone Curse by Stefan Milicevic The dragon bone taint runs deep in our village. The beast’s giant skeleton sprawls from one end of the village to the other, enclosing us in its boneclast embrace. At times the eye sockets gleamed with a purple light, as if threatening to come alive again and devour us all. When Athuros Valerian had slain the Black Drake, people sang his praises

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Buffalo Dream & remembering my maternal uncle by Haris Adhikari People say it is ominous if you see a buffalo chasing you in dream. I had seen one three days before my maternal uncle passed away. It was with jutted hooked horns and angry eyes prowling towards me. I nervously leaped down from my path onto a terrace of maize with dried leaves and full grown long grass, and ripened pumpkins

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The Power of Blood Madeline Dyer The gun shot echoed in my head moments after the real thing. It wasn't right; they weren't supposed to use guns, that was cheating. "No!" I screamed, running towards the fallen body of my little sister. I reached her within seconds. The ground was gritty and muddy, but I didn't notice as I threw myself down beside Jenny, screaming her name over and

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The Night of the Cloud SpectreA Story of the Crow Witchby Mike Phillips Evil passed through the land. In the form of a low hanging cloud, thick and black amid the morning mist, it drifted upon the wind. It was a thing of the ancient world, made to take this spectral form while the sun followed its solitary path across the sky, cursed to wait until the dark of night to take shape and do its

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Dancing with the Velvet Lizard by Bruce Golden Reviewed by Carolyn Crow Bruce Golden Dancing with the Velvet Lizard Zumaya Otherworlds 2011 389 pgs ISBN 978-1-934841-26-6 $15.99 One thing you can say about Bruce Golden's fiction, is that it always delivers something different. From such diverse novels as Evergreen and Better Than Chocolate to his short stories, you'll likely find

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Welcome to “Kunstkammern: Stories of Secrets and Curiosities,” the Summer 2011 Issue of Mirror Dance! In this issue…• Fiction by Sara Cleto, Nicole Votta, David Brookes, Melinda Giordano, and Dora Badger• Poetry by Sylvia Adams, A. J. Huffman, and Robert Shmigelsky Feel free to leave comments on the individual pieces. Mirror Dance welcomes letters to the editor! Questions, suggestions for the

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The Tower and the Doorby Sara CletoThey lie when they say I was unhappy. It is true that the tower was narrow, containing only a slim fraction of the world’s possibilities. It is true that those walls bound my world, that I did not go down the spiral stairs and through the door—and, yes, of course there was a door, how could I ever possibly have pulled a hundred pounds of flesh and more with only

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Babylonby Sylvia Adams How many miles to Babylon?Four score and ten.Will we get there by candlelight?Yes, and back again.                   Old English Nursery RhymeWe’re all going – you don’t have to go alone.We will leave notes on pillowslock the doors behind uscarry the cat in her basket;we’ll bring shadows to mask our facesa book or two and a change of shoeswhite gloves and carnationsin

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The Hidden Riverby Nicole VottaThe Pavillion had been busy until twenty minutes ago. It was a spring day of a particularly soft, poignant beauty, fresh and sweetly scented by tender spring flowers. The City was so full of green and budding things that the light was tinged a hazy jade, and the River coruscated with viridian glints deep in its steely depths. Everything was steeped in languor and

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The Modern Procurement of MusesA. J. Huffman It was youwho built these stringsfrom my wrists.From my back.And turned meinto a play.For death.But now my dancing is not enough.Not dark enough.Not deep enough.For you to seep into.So you cut my face.Into a deeper smile.Frozen.For the feelingit scrapesinto your skin.* * *A. J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has

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Kashcei and the Firebird, at Peaceby David BrookesKashcei the Deathless, so called by the Persian Lords, and by the djinni of the realm that rests between light and darkness, and by the fearful peasants of his Kingdom, reclined in his mighty throne and twirled his fingers. The dancers – each one of them a stolen princess from a neighbouring fiefdom – whirled their ribbons faster. They pointed

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The Lunar Childby Melinda GiordanoOne night, when the moon was heavy and full, its curiosity got the best of it. It slowly lowered itself through sapphire clouds and rippling twilight…it shouldered its way past bristling stars, past their astronomical arrangements that made the sky a sparkling atlas. Down these gilded maps it flew on its celestial quest.It avoided the tangles of constellations,

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The Forest Without Song Robert Shmigelsky In the forest caught in the grip of a dimensional rift tall and narrow and evenly spaced chestnut trees, wearing their bushy green crowns, ran in sequence into the distance left, right and before you: their boughs coming together at the ends to form forest halls. Songbirds sang their tunes, but their voices were not heard. The calls for mates were not

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Mirabilisby Dora Badger The closer she got to home, the more upset Mary became. If I was so simple, she thought, I wouldn’t even be angry. Billy-the-gardener’s-boy is really simple. I know because I can kick him and he still never gets angry.I don’t even think he’s a real Bishop. He doesn’t look anything like those pieces on the chest game. Lost in thought, Mary nearly bumped into their small

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Welcome to the Spring 2011 Issue of Mirror Dance! We didn't intend to have a theme, but it looks like our fiction this season places a special emphasis on otherworldly beings--elves, faeries, trolls, and more! In this issue…• Fiction by Chrystalla Thoma, Laura Kjosen, Cheryl Wood Ruggiero, and Crowerd Robinson• Poetry by Laura Garrison, Sari Krosinky, Robert Shmigelsky, and Deborah Walker Feel

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Indra's Returnby Chrystalla ThomaBeyond the sea of Bara lay the land of exiles – human and troll cities, merchant harbors, thieves and whores. I was supposed to be there, leading a life of nostalgia and pain, languishing in Queen Syrana’s memory.Dying inside.But here I stood, well within the forbidden borders – forbidden only to me – of the human-elf coalition, polishing the tables of this

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by Laura Garrison The Wife of PygmalionMy life began in his imagination;my form was drawn forth from an ivory block.No living woman earned his admiration,but I was perfect, though as pale as chalk.He brought me gifts and laid them at my feet:tame songbirds, pebbles, seashells, yellow flowers.He brought me wine and food I could not eat,then dressed me up and gazed at me for hours.When Venus

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Realismby Laura Kjosen I tripped on the bottom step as I left the Red Oak Tavern. Of course I did not fall flat on my face. That would have been unthinkable. However, such a stumble was so uncharacteristic for those of my graceful race that some fellow revelers seated outside a nearby café had a good laugh at my expense. “Mind your roots, Aspen. They appear a bit tangled tonight!” shouted a

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Parallel Universesby Sari Krosinsky ILocking her fingers around a mug of bitter chocolate, Connie tells me Irene has breast cancer. “Any time I talk about the future,” she says, “like getting dinner with my parents or cable, Irene says, ‘If I’m still alive…’ As if I needed reminding.” She sucks her teeth like the thought curdled in her mouth. Sometimes, she draws Irene as she sleeps. When the

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Botch and Taxesby Cheryl Wood Ruggiero“Slug, Wart, Belch . . .” The Queen enjoys the names she gives us. She has to suppress a grin, which would be inappropriate to the occasion of sending forth her Tax Trains.After roll call, twenty-one trolls bow ponderously and prepare to turn massively away from the face of the Most High Indwelt of the Supreme Trait, Her Sovereign Ilf Majesty.“Not you, Botch.

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The Gaze of the Gorgonby Robert ShmigelskyThe presuming herowho, well-versed in the ways to slay me, will come—unlike those who came before him—bearing a golden mirror shield alongside his sword and torch.In his thirst for adventure, spoils, the hero’s glory—my supposedly slithering serpent head held aloft in his hand,to be paraded around as a trophy before those that now denigrate me—he’ll

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Spirits of the Moonby Crowerd Robinson A bead of sweat dripped from Kulzar’s forehead and down his nose, finally coming to rest on his upper lip. His tongue flicked out and picked up the drops of perspiration, rubbing them against the inside of his sore, parched mouth. The temperature was always just above freezing, but moments like these made him nervous. Not that he was involved in any way. He

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Perseus by Deborah Walker I can find you by scent alone. You wind through the broken, stone relics, the reminders of the disappointing performance of your predecessors. I wonder why they sent you alone. One man against a monster can never be enough. Will they send an endless procession of you? With your clever, mirror tricks and your painful unquestioning belief. Until I put aside my

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Welcome to the Winter 2010 Issue of Mirror Dance! In this issue…• Fiction by M. V. Montgomery and Mike Phillips • Poetry by Deborah Walker, Joshua Hampton, Rosalind Casey, Jerome Brooke, Shelly Bryant, and Radek Ozog Feel free to leave comments on the individual pieces. Mirror Dance welcomes letters to the editor! Questions, suggestions for the website, and comments on the stories and poems may

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IMPOSSIBLESby M.V. Montgomery catacorner A woman claimed to live “catacorner” from my parents. She looked vaguely familiar, with startling green eyes, but I couldn’t really picture the place where she lived. So she led me there—we had to duck through another yard first. From her porch, where a lazy cat was curled like the letter C, we had a perfect view of my parents’ backyard. Not only

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Madam White Snakeby Deborah Walker At evening tide her spirit sisters gather outside Leifeng Pagoda. They beg Madam White Snake to shed the prison of her flesh and rejoin them in their endless dances. Madam White Snake shakes her head and reties the garment of time around her body. Through the window of the pagoda she sees a heron swimming in low beats in the water of the sky, flying low

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The Lay of Erwyn the Youngby Joshua HamptonO Father dear, I’ve heard you tell much of Erwyn the YoungWho came to bear the gifts renowned that oft in lay are sung,And how it was this knave’s own grief that cursed them under spell.Please tell it to my ears once more before your sweet farewell.O handsome Son, ‘tis true I spoke that long and troubled taleOf sorrow and a mother’s hope to save her son

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Ariel Imprisonedby Rosalind CaseyThrough sky and sea and lightning once I’d roamIn airy days before the cloven pineThis knobbed and stunted prison not my homeThis narrow world of dirt and earth not mine But memory is battered at by painAnd grows moth-eaten, ragged, worn and thinI lose my shape, my story, my own name Till chance presents a glimpse of sky againAnd now the days and nights are all

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The Planting of the SpectreA Story of the Crow Witchby Mike Phillips A spectre rose from its hiding place. It was hungry and it craved the souls of the innocent. Testing the wind, it splayed its bony fingers and stretched its gaunt arms, reaching toward the sky. Releasing a long, cruel breath the spectre floated into the air. It breathed in and released, rising until it was higher than the

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Cruel and Fleetby Jerome Brooke Our Lady of Wolves, soft and kind,           Dance with us, brave one. Run, leader of hunters, cruel and swift,            Slay her, the waiting, swift deer. Our Lady of Wolves, with fangs,            In dark shadows, is seen. Howl, children of darkness, follow,            Run with your White Queen.

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Her Light Extinguishedby Shelly Bryant Parading beasts audition, each seeking to serve as companion to man. One by one passing before him, one by one rejected. His eyes to the heavens turn, sighing toward one bright spot.“Why is there nothing like that for me? Her light twinkling beauty suits me better. How can mere beasts compare?”From her lofty home, Lilith looks on. Moved by his longing

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Psychological Endingby Radek Ozogthe smell of antique books which infectedmy mind to become a classic wordsmith,the imaginative aroma of the poem I'm readingby Robert Frost, "Fire and Ice"I see the fire extinguisher in the corner of myeye, above that is a old exit signblinding and making that short circuit sound(beez,bez,beeey) on the fifth floor.Should a fire happen the old fire exit door is

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Welcome to the Autumn 2010 Issue of Mirror Dance! In this issue…• Fiction by Bryan Lindenberger, Laura Rheaume, Alva J. Roberts, Troy Morash, and Allen Kopp• Poetry by Robert Shmigelsky, Shelly Bryant, and Alec B Kowalczyk • A review of Heather Kuehl's Promises to Keep Feel free to leave comments on the individual pieces. Mirror Dance welcomes letters to the editor! Questions, suggestions for

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Master of the Kingby Bryan LindenbergerQueen Sera’s love for Ybn came as no surprise to the court sorcerer Jamish, though some considered the affair a secret. Sera had grown up the daughter of a shopkeeper. His ailments kept him home most days, and at age thirteen Sera took employment in one of the town’s many dingy taverns. She soon blossomed amid the drunken stares and the moldy floors, wearing

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Illusionist Blossomsby Robert Shmigelsky Stretching, spreading upwards from the ground, the stemfrom which bends—a bulb,white, funneled, and closed. Opening only once before withering,illusionist blossoms do not open for any ordinary reason:a certain time of day or night or only during a certain season. Each flower waiting for a specific moment, illusionist blossoms only bloomon those rare

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How to Bake the Perfect Pie for your Husbandby Laura Rheaume First, the olives must be stolen in the cover of night, and/or preferably the rain. Climb barefoot up the tree branches, making sure to remove any white cats that might be prowling in the bark, as they would only be a hindrance and possible witnesses. Taste the olives while still in the tree, knees bent and ankles dangling. They must

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Byblosby Shelly Bryant the whole earth wanderedin search of her lost loveonly to find him in Byblosat rest beneath palm frondsnot a single feast missingin the halls of its king* * *Shelly Bryant splits her time between Singapore and Shanghai, sometimes teaching English literature, and sometimes studying Chinese language. Her first poetry collection, Cyborg Chimera, was released in 2009, and her

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Epimetheus’ PalaceBy Alva J. Roberts Cyrus Pelagious stared at the structure before him. It was a massive looming construction that filled him with a sense of pure dread. It was impossible to imagine men building such a thing. It was larger than some of the small mountains he could see in the distance. His grip tightened on the rough leather hilt of his shimmering bronze sword. Usually the weapon

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U…by Alec B Kowalczyk Late at nightthe conning towerof a scaled-downsubmarine rearsits head outof the watersof WashingtonPark Lake.Drowned raysof light spillfrom flankingport windowslike stunted oarsin the turbid water.Parallel propelledstreamers crossthe wake of moonlighton the disturbed lake.Cigar-sized torpedoescharge full speed ahead.* * *Alec B Kowalczyk is a native of South Troy, New York,

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The Picky Dragonby Troy Morash Once there was a fierce and grumpy dragon that dreamed only of leaving his cave and flying away to the brilliantly bright castle in the sky. A castle made of flames and light, where everyone danced with speed and joy. But according to the legends this was only possible if a dragon had a kind master who would jump on its back, and guide it with love. And this

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The Business of Doing Goodby Allen KoppMr. Pfaff stepped off the train and set his bag down and looked in both directions. He had been in that particular town before but he couldn’t remember exactly when. While he was thinking about which direction he must take to get to the hotel, he caught the eye of a young woman standing not five feet away. She had about her the look of disappointment, as if

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Promises to Keep by Heather Kuehlreviewed by M. ArkenbergStarlette DeFore as spent the last decade trying to solve the mystery of her father’s disappearance. In the opening chapter of Promises to Keep, she gets the break she’s waiting for when one of the faeries she has been hunting spills a name—Sivad Night, of Randa, South Carolina. Starlette, the mysterious Sivad, and a witch named T.D.

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Welcome to “Whispers: Tales of Spirits and Hauntings,” the Summer 2010 Issue of Mirror Dance! In this issue…• Fiction by Kendare Blake, Michele Stepto, Steve Jensen, Jon Zech, and Simon Kewin• Poetry by Deborah Walker, Stephen Jarrell Williams, Shelly Bryant, and Evan PettitFeel free to leave comments on the individual pieces. Mirror Dance welcomes letters to the editor! Questions, suggestions

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Twilight, Choking on Owl Feathersby Kendare BlakeArtemis is dead. Torn apart, mud-streaked and mad amongst the trees. She died screaming, purging her lungs of wind until she was empty of pain, filled instead with rage and exhilaration. With purpose and insanity. Her death is the death that she craved, the death that she chased on four limbs, her nails cleaving into the bark and dirt. The only

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Blossomby Deborah Walker The cherry tree casts a dark shadow, two weeks of the years when bud bursts through to trembling tinged flower.Just two weeks of the years. Such a short time of exultation. Once, when I was digging at the roots, I found a small, old ring, woven vine, wire, delicate thin. I have never dug further.I leave the shadow as a recurring eulogy to something that was once in bloom

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Eggby Michele Stepto There was once a woman called Lillian who had an only child, a son, whom she loved very much. As long as the boy was little, everything went well, but as he grew older he began to wander further and further from home, and when he reached manhood he entered a line of business that took him often to other lands. Lillian, who was a wise woman, contented herself with the

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The Walkby Stephen Jarrell Williams We walk bone-deep in the city,faces drawn, eyes dull,eternal pain nibblingat our bare feet. World weary,undernourished,ghostly skin, we reekdown waterless streets. The explosions have ceased for the moment.Cosmic companions following,spilling out into the perimeters,but never taking the lead. You are whispering beside me,words I can't quite hear,but I know

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The Mirror of Venusby Steve JensenShe has the colour of my eye,She has the body of my hand...~ Paul Éluard January 1881This is my voice. You cannot hear me, but I hope you will read my thoughts.Mariana will relate our story, smiling to herself all the while, secure in her wretched vanity and the knowledge that the chances of a stranger reading this journal are small. Besides, she may just burn

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To Memory You Are Calledby Shelly Bryant tell me, Horatio   the tale of this prince       who killed his uncle       who killed his father       who killed mine   to memory you are calledthe ghost of his legacy   whose parapet    will you haunt?* * *Shelly Bryant spends half of each year in Singapore teaching English literature, and the other half in Shanghai studying Chinese language. She loves

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Legendby Jon Zech His hands were cold; colder than the night breeze; colder even than his eyes. But that was the normal condition for one of his race: Cold. His only heat was in his temperament and eagerness to be about his task. He wished that, like the legends, he could simply transform himself and with a flap of velvet leather wings be out upon the night sky, unseen by those he sought. But

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Watery Mattersby Evan Pettit With flowers in my hair, I dance around your lonely nights, With running on my mind, I dream of never-endless flights. I picture you, with a black coat on, and freckles on your face, I picture you within arms' reach and I want to fill the empty space. I spin a silk scarf, it's colder now. I light a candle for I know how. I lay down, in the way, and I count each

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A Sorcerous Mistby Simon KewinQuirk stood on the quay, stared out to sea and swore. Nothing. A few yards of choppy, green sea, and then the whole world faded away into grey fog.He could hear ropes creaking in the thick, damp air. Men grumbling quietly to themselves. The hulls of the boats bumping and jostling against the wooden spars of the jetty, as if impatient at being tethered for so long. He

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Welcome to the Spring 2010 Issue of Mirror Dance! In this issue…• Fiction by Nick Poniatowski, Michele Stepto, Sylvia Hiven, Meghann McVey, Stuart Sharp and R. W. Nichols• Poetry by Changming Yuan, Shelley Bryant, Robert Shmigelsky, and Holly DayFeel free to leave comments on the individual pieces. Mirror Dance welcomes letters to the editor! Questions, suggestions for the website, and comments

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The Hattercap and the Comic Book Artistby Nick Poniatowski Tonight, Rachel dreams that she’s giving birth to an apple again. A few months ago, it was a red delicious with a dopey face that only a mother could love. But tonight—the night that her at-home pregnancy test reads positive—it’s not a red delicious. This one is black and rotten, like the apple a fairy-tale witch might give to a

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Dancing with Craneby Changming Yuan I show her how to move her stepsBut she’s much too timidWorse still, she cannot coordinate with my movementsAndAlthough she dances with me, to an unheard melodyIt’s her own music she’s dancing toShe likes the way I hold her AndEven lets me kiss her shoulder from time to timeso richly white and velvetyBut she always keeps me at bill’s lengthEach time I come

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Urnby Michele Stepto When Henry Morning let himself into his neighbor’s apartment one Sunday, thinking she was away from home, he found instead that she was very much there, lying dead on the floor just inside the front door. She had given him a key for emergencies, whatever that might mean. She had given him a key, he supposed, because she thought him harmless. And he was harmless, of

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The Day’s Workby Shelly Bryant bare feet pad forwardstopping before the shrub      in gentle mist coveredshe breathes the fragrant aira quick evaluationleads her to wait another day      for the blueblack berriesunder their dew-coat, leavessilvery, cool to her touch      and unyieldingdeceive with their soft appearanceshe withdraws her handbrushes the moist fingertipsacross her eyesand stretches

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And Athena Leapedby Sylvia Hiven Years later, Sebastien Joivin often wondered what would have happened if he had destroyed that cocoon the first time he had seen it grow in his shelter.He was not unaccustomed to sharing his makeshift dwelling with disgusting creatures. Cockroaches, rats and mice constantly nestled with him in the corner of the alley. Sebastien did not really mind. After all, he

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I am Golemby Robert Shmigelsky Almost as tall as these mountains,wider than the trunk of a tree,as unwieldy as cooled ore,yet as gentle as a faun.But as full as a shallow stream.Rocks and pebbles rolled into body and bone.Clumps of earth, between, jumble as I trundle. Vines and leaves tangled into shirt and sleeve.From emeralds green, from them I see the walls of a chasm split asunderafter Gaia

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Oblivionby Meghann McVey “Good evening, boys. Rascalpia.” Elerdim, my father-in-law, helped himself to one of my husband’s whiskey shots. “The old dispute rages, I presume?” “The inconstant sea will always be more difficult to map, Father,” K’harl said. I pounded the table with my fist to assert my agreement. While I sailed our boat, my husband recorded shallows and deeps, twists and turns

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Unencumberedby Holly Day oh, the whirr of wheels and wire and endlessscraping of skin on silvery track, my sleep, the scrape of skin onsplintered wood and wondering what they’ll say when they find me, the rush, the roar, racing toward the lightthe fading, floating echo of speedoh, the imagined eyes of an imaginary crowd as the trainpull into the station, the concrete landing, the eyes of

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Your Evil Horde Needs YouStuart Sharp Marie stared across her desk at the figure Ms Harrison had brought with her. He seemed very nervous, though that was usual for anyone who spent more than half an hour or so in her boss’s company. He was also shrouded from neck to ankle in a voluminous black robe, which wasn’t quite so usual. Other than that, his appearance seemed normal enough. Perhaps a

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Just a Game of Chanceby R. W. Nichols I stare at the pill wrapped in clear cellophane that I hold in my hand. I was told to take it as soon as I got back; it would take away the pain and help me sleep.. But I want to get all this down first. It’s been an unbelievable night. I start with what I can remember, because it’s fading fast; I guess it has to be that way. * * * I recall

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Sex Dungeon for Sale! by Patrick Wensinkreviewed by M. Arkenberg Patrick Wensink’s first short story collection will go down in history as the book that made me love Bizarro. These stories are page-turners; short, witty, unapologetically entertaining. But don’t mistake them for light reading. Wensink uses bizarre, often ridiculous situations to make us step back, look at our world and see the

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Welcome to the Winter 2009 Issue of Mirror Dance! In this issue…• Fiction by Michele Stepto, Ryan Stothard, Samuel Sanders, Paul Lamb, Michael Fontana, Damon Lord, Stefan Bachmann, Christina Murphy • Poetry by Shelly Bryant, Stephen Jarrell Williams, and Michelle HartmanFeel free to leave comments on the individual pieces. Mirror Dance welcomes letters to the editor! Questions, suggestions for

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Rubyby Michele Stepto Among the many Jews set wandering by the Iberian expulsions of 1492 was Abraham Zacuto, astronomer and cartographer to the court of Ferdinand and Isabella. On August 2, the day before his protégé Christobal Colon set sail to the west, Rabbi Abraham, having refused baptism, slipped over the border from Spain into Portugal. There he found work at the court of King Joao II,

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The Demon Danceby Ryan StothardMcRoy nervously stepped up to the altar. He still had no idea how he managed to get himself into these situations. Less than an hour ago he was sitting in a nice, warm tavern, nursing a pint. He was listening to the barman tell a tale about a local temple that had fallen into disuse and had become the residence of an unholy demon from another plane of existence. For

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Long Comptonby Shelly BryantDanish troopson the hillside stoppeddead in their trackssilently they keep watchover the northern gatenever English soil to treadfrom an old hag’s lipsa lonely laughbrushes their stone cold earsits undying echocenturies after her victorycarried on winter winds* * * Shelly Bryant spends half of each year in Singapore teaching English literature, and the other half in

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The Fish and the Mermaidby Samuel Sanders Its great dumb gaze trawls the gloaming depths, the language of the merhead bubbling effluent from its gaping mouth. The mistake, lodged in its mouth, has grown like coral through the contours of its body. The greed of gluttony, a single, futile delicacy repaid with an lifetime of execrable monotony. They have adapted, of course, for the sea welcomes

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Rebecca finds her wayby Paul Lamb"Turn right one half mile ahead."The box stuck to her windshield was telling her what to do.Every time the woman's electronic voice squawked, Rebecca glanced at the colorful map the device displayed, but she trusted her view of the real road better. The display showed little streets and cross streets, with a bright red arrow snaking through them so she would know

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Sea Nymphby Stephen Jarrell WilliamsAfter a party, drunk more in mind than body,walking down cement stairs to the beach,already a leech, sneak, consumer of innocence,he didn't like what he had become...The darkness a calling he wantedas much as the black wrap of the vast ocean... He removed his shoes and socks,dug his bare feet into cool sand,breath of breaking wavesinvigorating, salty mist upon

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Anna Kavan and the Voidby Michael Fontana I located Anna Kavan inside the Imperial War Museum in London, once upon a time the infamous Bedlam Asylum. Anna had stayed in Bedlam, a madwoman and heroin addict. To commemorate this, the museum had placed a small plaque just inside the front doors. How appropriate it seemed to place a war museum inside an insane asylum, since war was nothing but

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The Priceby Damon Lord “You two: go. You know what to do.” I gestured to the two soldiers, and they quietly slunk off towards the cottage. My orders were to negotiate reasonably first, but they were backup. I entered the blacksmith’s workshop.“I have a commission for you. From the King himself,” I said, striding forward.The blacksmith turned around. He was hammering away, leaning over his anvil,

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for the courtier and the loverby Michelle Hartman          to draw attention of the queenperform well in that masculine arena—           tension between desire and ambition            beating the air above her—tilting war with masculine conceit          desirehe loses control in arenas of imperialism            governance and warresents prizes lost          successful

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The Remembering Trees by Stefan Bachmann Halfway up a bare and rocky mountainside, there stands a knot of ancient pines, bent and twisted against the wind. Their roots claw for hold on the unforgiving slopes, their branches intertwine like the arms of old men huddling round a coffin. It is raining softly. A fog is gathering in the valley, creeping up. Far below, the lights of a village can

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Serenataby Christina Murphy The moon spread a silver path along the ocean as he waited for the tide to bring in the wave of dreams. Tonight was to be the biggest assemblage yet in all the years he had stood by the sea and watched for the first signs along the horizon.The broken dreams came in first, and he worked to gather up the pieces so that the brightest dreams would not get trapped in the

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Welcome to the Autumn 2009 Issue of Mirror Dance! In this issue…• Fiction by Robert Keller, Sheena Williams, John Whitehouse, and Heather Kuehl, • Poetry by Shelly Bryant, Sarah Wagner, and Jess C Scott• An interview with D. Harlan WilsonFeel free to leave comments on the individual pieces. Mirror Dance welcomes letters to the editor! Questions, suggestions for the website, and comments on

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The Weeping Wellby Robert E. Keller Elleese touched the bruise on her cheek, which was still tender from last night’s beating, and gazed into the well, wondering if this was the day she’d throw herself in and end her life. It was a lonely old well, made of crumbling, vine-covered stone blocks, lost in a deep valley amid grassy hills miles from town. It was the perfect place for a quiet death. “

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Cave Drawingsby Shelly Bryant simple lines and dotswashed out ancient colourscoded imagessecret knowledgeopenly concealed* * *Shelly Bryant spends half of each year in Singapore teaching English literature, and the other half in Shanghai studying Chinese language. She loves to read, write, cycle, and travel. Her poems have appeared in numerous small press publications, and there are plans in

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The Danceby Sheena Williams Music. It’s the only thing that makes this place bearable. I sit watching the drunken patrons in the tavern. Some are chasing girls, some drinking heavily. Hell, most are doing both. Not rich enough to live a life at court, we must make money the best way we can. Although perversely the very life we’re barred from is the very life that feeds us money. They use us and

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Sedukaby Sarah Wagner She dreams the lives of menIn splendor, in vibrant huesThe Creator of All ThingsHonored in the songs of childrenThe whispered prayers of womenWatching their mates ride to war.She weaves the heartstrings of mothersIntricate knots and braids in patternThe Designer of All ThingsBinding generations together unseenUmbilical life-thread bondsStretching across time and space.She

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A Matter of Honorby John Whitehouse Tarmerius heard a rapping on the door, loud and insistent. The priest paused in the act of dipping his quill and looked up from some half-finished writing. The sound continued. With an irritated sigh, Tarmerius laid down his pen, rose from the table and moved across the room. In his early sixties, he was tall and slim with a bush of white hair. A small

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Haikuby Jess C Scott the unicorn drinkswhen hounds come near—in a flashshe’s gone—water’s still* * *Jess C Scott is currently working on a short story collection. She runs a website collective, which can be found atwww.jesscscott.com. Work has appeared (or is shortly to appear) in Yareah, an English-Spanish literary and arts magazine, 55 Words, Clean Sheets, FlashShot, Blink Fiction, Bare Back

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