Winter 2009 Issue

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 Hartman

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 be e-mailed to markenberg at yahoo.com.

Ruby

Ruby
by 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, but the edict of expulsion soon followed. In 1497, Joao’s son Manuel, bowing to the Spanish monarchs and to the Infanta, whom he was contracted to marry, ordered that all Jews in his land, both those native to Portugal and those who had lately found refuge there, either undergo baptism or face death. Zacuto, whose charts and metal astrolabe, the first of its kind, had guided Vasco da Gama to India, found himself once again in motion.

At the port of Lisbon, those under edict struggled to board waiting ships. Forbidden to take anything of value with them, most had nevertheless managed to secrete about their persons a few gold coins or small gemstones, hoping to exchange these for the necessities of life in whatever miserable place the Highest saw fit to bring them. Rabbi Abraham boarded a ship that was bound for Salé, on the Maghrebi shore. He brought with him a small trunk containing his charts and astronomical tables, as well as his holy books, and, sewn into the hem of his round cape, a ruby of considerable worth. It was the gift of his housekeeper, Mirem, who had submitted to baptism rather than flee again, and was now a Christian. “Take it, Rabbi,” she had told him, “you will need it more than I.” This was not true, as events proved.

In Salé, the itinerants were not allowed to land until they had forfeited something of value to the agent of the Moroccan King, a tall Ishmaelite who stood at the head of the gangway, stopping each passenger with a jab of his upturned palm. Rabbi Abraham understood at once what was expected and, not wishing to part with his charts or tables, the work of his life, nor with his books, he carefully undid the ruby from the hem of his cape. It was a clear, fiery stone, the size of a quail’s egg, ingeniously faceted and cool to the touch. When he reached the gangway, he placed it in the palm of the agent, who received it with a murmur of satisfaction and stepped to one side so that the Rabbi might disembark.

From Salé, Zacuto traveled inland to the capital city of Fez, and there, in the neighborhood known as the mellah, where the Jews of Fez were domiciled, he found lodging in the family of a well-known physician. The house was modest, like all Jewish houses in the kingdom at that time, having been constructed by themselves out of simple planks and roofed with a patchwork of skins. But in the courtyard there was a bathhouse, and here the Rabbi made a surprising discovery. When he had removed his cape and begun to brush it, he felt a round something sewn into the hem. Tearing away the stitches, the same tiny stitches Mirem had used, he was astonished to see the ruby lying there, couched in the dust of travel. It was the same stone, it could be no other, unless—and this is what he finally concluded—Mirem had given him two such stones, a magnificent pair.

Not long after this, violence against the Jews of Fez began to swell, as it periodically did, and Rabbi Abraham traded the second stone for passage across the Maghrebi desert to the city of Tlemcen. And here he discovered, as at Fez, that the stone had reappeared, sewn tightly in the hem of his round cape. Now he was truly frightened. The stone shone brilliantly in his palm, the very same stone, and as he looked into its red depths, trying to make out its strange power, it occurred to him that this was the beginning of idolatry, and that he should surely destroy the stone and save himself.

He did not, however. He kept it, and exchanged it a third time for passage to the port of Oran, and a fourth time for passage on a ship bound for the city of Tunis. From the ship he threw the stone far out into the sea, but upon arriving in Tunis he found it sewn as firmly as ever in the hem of his cape. Only now, when he examined the ruby, he saw in its depths a small flaw, a black speck that had not been there before, and he wondered if the Highest had sifted him and found him wanting.

He turned his attention to the past. In Tunis, he wrote his Sefer Yuhasin, tracing the genealogy of his people back to Creation. On the day he finished it, on the other side of the world, Cristobal Colon consulted the Rabbi’s astronomical tables and understood that he could save himself and his men with what he found there, an impending lunar eclipse, foretold to the exact hour. Also on this day, the Rabbi’s old housekeeper Mirem, having been worn down by her Inquisitors, was burned at the stake in Lisbon after admitting to certain Judaizing practices.

The ruby remained with Rabbi Abraham to the end of his days. It carried him from Tunis to Cairo to Jerusalem to Damascus and finally to Istanbul, where he died, it is said, sometime after 1515. Whenever the need to flee arose, he exchanged the ruby for safe passage, only to find that it had returned, sewn into the hem of his round cape, its deep flaw more pronounced than ever. In the end, the black speck had grown to a cloud, eclipsing all the brilliance of the ruby, and the Rabbi, seeing this, was grateful to know that he would soon be gathered in.

* * *

Michele Stepto says: I have taught in the English and African-American Studies departments at Yale and at the Bread Loaf School of English in Vermont, and have published a translation from the Spanish of the Catalina Erauso memoir under the title, Lieutenant Nun: Memoir of a Basque Transvestite in the New World, along with works of history and fiction for younger readers. An earlier short story, "Pagoda," appeared in the magazine Italian-Americana.

Where do you get the ideas for your work?

My chief inspiration as a fantasy writer is history, what of I know of it and what I learn of it through my reading and travel. I am especially drawn to stories of persecution or oppression, in which fantasy elements can play such a crucial and liberating role. I first read of Abraham Zacuto in Ronald Sanders's Lost Tribes and Promised Lands, and afterwards could not forget him. I knew I would write something in homage to Zacuto, but it wasn't until I began writing about him that the fantasy element, the ruby Mirem sews into the hem of his cape, emerged, a startling gift from the past.

The Demon Dance

The Demon Dance
by Ryan Stothard

McRoy 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 reasons unknown even to himself, but that probably had basis in alcohol, McRoy had offered to try his hand at banishment. After all, priests did it all the time, and in his opinion they were all skinny little sissy men. McRoy was a dwarf, and a damn proud one at that. How hard could it be to send some nasty little spirit on its way?

The temple was more eerie than foreboding, with polished, white marble floors and walls. At least the demon kept the place tidy. Other than the small stone altar that was set towards the back wall, the single room was completely empty. On the altar sat what looked like a normal, wooden music box. McRoy stared at it for a moment and then prodded it carefully with the end of his axe. He scratched his beard as he gave the situation some more thought. Sitting his weapon down, he picked up the box. It was beautifully ornate, its wood painstakingly carved with scenes of music and frivolity. Against his own better judgement, McRoy began to turn the handle. The music was haunting, like nothing he had heard before. He felt compelled to keep turning and turning, mesmerised by the melodic sounds. The music came to an end and the lid clicked open. What appeared to be cold, black steam began to billow out into the temple, causing McRoy to drop the box. The darkness slowly took shape; a very unpleasant shape that vaguely resembled a man sitting on a crab. It had four long legs that ended in points, a strong, toned torso and a handsome face. McRoy knew immediately what he had gotten himself into. He had heard tales of this dread beast told, always in the kind of hushed, fearful voices reserved only for the most terrifying and nerve shattering creatures of the most horrific nature. It was Ceilidh, the Demon of Dance.

“What say you, short one?” the demon inquired. His voice was cool and silky.

“Who are ye callin’ short, ye spindly-legged bastard!” the dwarf snapped.

“I meant no offence,” came the wispy reply. “I just wish to know how I can help.”

“You can help by packin’ up your things and goin’ back where ye came from,” said McRoy, trying to look as intimidating as he could. This was made especially difficult by the fact that he had to crane his neck upwards to see above the creature’s waist.

“I was afraid of this,” Ceilidh sighed, his gaze drifting off to some unseen point beyond the ceiling. “The villagers do not understand the intricacies of Dance. They fear it.” He lowered his head to look at McRoy. “I will make you a deal,” he said. “If you can outdance me I will leave as you command.”

“Oh, what?” whined McRoy. “Can’t I just hit ye with me axe?”

Ceilidh answered by raising his hands above his head in a dramatic pose. A jaunty but eerie melody began to rise from nothingness into the temple. His claw-like legs began to tap rhythmically around each other as he moved gracefully across the floor. He had the balance of a gymnast and the speed of an athlete. McRoy watched in awe as the demon took a tremendous spinning jump to make a sliding landing on his knees as the music stopped.

“Your turn,” said Ceilidh, gesturing the dwarf to the center of the floor.

The music started again and McRoy began to move. He was the perfect contrast to the grace of the demon. He clumped around awkwardly, his arms swaying at his sides to keep balance as his legs threatened to kick one another.

“Stop! Stop!” called Ceilidh, clapping the air and stopping the music. “What was that?” he said to a dejected-looking McRoy. “I know dwarfs can dance. I’ve seen them. You do that thing where you all stand in a line and sort of kick together.”

“That’s a highland jig,” the disappointed dwarf explained. “Bit hard to do if ye never learn how.”

Ceilidh looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. “Okay,” the demon said, leading McRoy back to the middle of the temple. “I’m going to teach you to dance.”

There was music again, but this time it was a less lively melody. Ceilidh taught McRoy the basics of balance and stance, the difference between 3:4 and 4:4 time, and how not to step on his own foot. He found out pretty quickly that he couldn’t stop the dwarf from waving his arms about, but at least he had him waving them in time to the music. He was quite a fast learner and under Ceilidh’s instruction had ceased to be a danger to himself and those around him. Most importantly of all, he was enjoying it. McRoy had always been of the mind that dance was just difficult and pointless, but with his beard flapping and his toes tapping he was starting to see the attraction.

McRoy stepped out of the temple to a waiting crowd, breathing hard from overexertion. The whole village came out when they had heard that someone was going to face the demon. It was about a 50/50 mix of people who wanted to see the demon gone and people who also wanted to see the demon gone, but would settle for seeing a smooshed dwarf. There was a hush of expectation as McRoy caught his breath.

“Dance is not something to be afraid of,” he announced. “Embrace the Dance and your lives will be the richer for it! I have looked into the cold eyes of rhythmic movement and I know this to be true.”

A cheer went up in the crowd for McRoy. Their new hero celebrated by dancing a little jig. He fell on his face, but felt that he had still made his point.

* * *

Ryan Stothard is an Australian short story author and perpetual dreamer. When he isn't writing he is thinking about writing (or chocolate). He is often found in the garden with his cat, Justice.

What do you think is the attraction of the fantasy genre?

Fantasy and science fiction are the only genres in which anything can happen, and in science fiction you're still expected to explain how. In short; fantasy is magical.

Long Compton

Long Compton
by Shelly Bryant

Danish troops
on the hillside stopped
dead in their tracks

silently they keep watch
over the northern gate
never English soil to tread

from an old hag’s lips
a lonely laugh
brushes their stone cold ears

its undying echo
centuries after her victory
carried on winter winds

* * *

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 the works for her first collection of poetry to be released late in 2009. You can visit her website.

Where do you get the ideas for your poems?

I would like to have some fantastic explanation, like saying that aliens visit me once a quarter to give me ideas. But then, on top of being untrue, that would do an injustice to any intelligent life that exists out there. The fact is, I get my ideas the old fashioned way — lots of reading, some research, and listening to what is going on around me. Long walks or long cycling trips help flesh out the ideas.

The Fish and the Mermaid

The Fish and the Mermaid
by 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 those who adjust to change. But they never forgot. The unwary mermaid, dallying in the anemone beds where the piscine giants churn the waters. Indeed, absorbed with the antics of clownfish within the sweet-smelling poison blooms, she doesn't see a glittering eye rise like a baleful sea moon, doesn't feel the sucking current until it is too late, swimming, swimming, no, thrashing, horror leaking dry tears from almond eyes. It swallows, her golden hair sweeping forward like the tentacles of the anemone to wreath the beast's mouth.

Its stomach has eaten away her fins, and as she ages she has pressed its laboring gills closed. Trapped in this hateful symbiosis, they will die together when the day comes. The elaborate cuisine of the merpeople and the sweeping movements of their nautilus ballroom are but a dream for the mermaid who is mindlessly propelled through the depths, resigned to opening and closing her mouth for random bits of sustenance. She has but one consolation.

She sings to herself, to all that would hear.

* * *

Sam Sanders hails from Olathe, Kansas where he tries to write while maintaining a living by mindless drudgery. His writing, often tinged with a strong science-fiction and surrealist tang, tries to incorporate something from every genre. You can visit his blog.

What do you think is the attraction of the fantasy genre?

The rules one doesn't have to follow. In literature, you are committed to authenticate every aspect of the story, to make it as realistically believable as possible. In fantasy, you define the rules within your worlds. The reader automatically surrenders the mechanism that nitpicks at details when approached with such a story and is more willing to suspend judgment.

Rebecca Finds Her Way

Rebecca finds her way
by 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 exactly where to go.

Ahead was the turn she had to make to get to Steve's new apartment. He’d found the place on his own. "For the both of us," he told her, but that had been his plan, not hers. He'd loaded his new address, "our new address" he called it, into the navigation device and gave it to her as an anniversary gift. He got it for her so she wouldn't get lost, so she'd come straight to him. He told her that sometimes she was aimless. "Come by Saturday. Between ten and ten-thirty," he said, handing her the heavy, wrapped box and heaving one of his toothy smiles her way. "Wear that new top I got you."

"Turn right now," said the box.

Rebecca waited for the light to change, but when it did, she continued without turning.

"Recalculating."

Steve didn't like Cindy. He told Rebecca she should hang out less with Cindy and more with him. He pretty much didn't like any of her friends. They only needed each other, he said.

"Turn right on 31st Street."

Rebecca looked briefly at the screen then signaled to change lanes. She swung around a slow truck but missed 31st Street before she could get back in the right lane. Already it was a quarter to eleven.

"Recalculating."

Cindy laughed when Rebecca told her about the navigation device. "I used one of those on my trip to Colorado. If I did what it told me, I'd have driven over a cliff!"

"Proceed three blocks. Turn right on 23rd Street."

Rebecca wasn't familiar with this part of town, though she thought that Steve may have taken her to a few bars nearby. She always let him pick because that seemed important to him. Tall buildings hemmed in on each side. She could barely see the sky.

When 23rd Street came, she went through the intersection without turning.

"You missed your turn. Recalculating."

Around her, people went about their lives. Saturday midmorning lives that looked busy and purposeful. Steve told her she shouldn't waste her time at college. She was as smart as she needed to be. He would take care of her. She didn't have to worry about a thing.

"Turn right on 19th Street." When she got there, the woman's voice nudged her. "Turn right now."

Rebecca didn't turn.

"You missed your turn again, Rebecca." A pause. "Recalculating."

Steve would be angry that she was late, but then he'd calm down and say they would just have a late lunch. He'd probably found some place nearby where he already knew what was on the menu, and he'd tell her exactly what she should order.

"Turn right on 15th Street. We have to backtrack a long way."

The left lane was closed at 15th Street, so the traffic was congested. Rebecca stayed in the right lane and let a half dozen cars merge in ahead of her before the man behind her leaned on his horn for her to move. She let one more car in before easing forward.

"You missed 15th Street. Steve will be angry. Recalculating."

Rebecca looked at the display. The grid of crisscross streets and the red arrow were now approaching a blue band at the top of the small screen.

"Turn right at 11th Street," the box said, but Rebecca didn't.

"You'll only make Steve more angry."
Rebecca drove on. The blue band was taking up more space at the top of the display.

"Why do you hate Steve?" But Rebecca didn't answer. She just drove.

"Rebecca, you're making a mistake." Rebecca didn't think she was. "Listen, I'll calculate a route so you can turn around on the other side of the bridge."

Soon they were at the very edge of the blue band and Rebecca rolled down her window.

"Rebecca, why can't you and I be friends? Don't be foolish now."

When the blue band filled the small display screen, Rebecca removed the device from the windshield and continued driving.

There were so many roads to choose once Steve's instructions were at the bottom of the river.

* * *

Paul Lamb hails from Kansas City, but he retreats to the Missouri Ozarks whenever he can steal the chance. He's currently at work on a novel about art versus mundane existence and the strange demands the can result when they intersect. His fiction has appeared in the Platte Valley Review, Present Magazine, Danse Macabre, the Beacons of Tomorrow second anthology, and Wanderings. He rarely strays far from his laptop.

Where do you get the ideas for your work?

I love reading maps, and I have a pretty good sense of direction, so when I tried using a GPS navigation system in my car, I felt offended that some electronic voice was telling me what to do. Where's the adventure in that. It didn't take much of a leap of imagination to come up with the idea of these devices having personalities, very controlling personalities. Thus my story.

Sea Nymph

Sea Nymph
by Stephen Jarrell Williams

After 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 wanted
as 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 waves
invigorating, salty mist upon his upper lip,
and something else...

He closed his eyes, still seeing
dreamlike, lifting his arms, fingers outstretched
for a touch of meaning...

She startled him with her words.
"Are you praying?" she asked.

Opening his eyes, taking a step back,
recoiling all of his digits,
a sudden forever
picture of her stamped into his being:
dark hair, dark eyes, skin as white as the moon,
lips perfect, naturally puckered, a questioning stare,
standing before him in a slick swimsuit of iridescent blue.

"What?" he asked.

"Are you praying?" she asked again.

"Not exactly. I'm a little drunk."

She frowned, made an "O" with her lips, blew air
into his face, a succulent swish
fluttering his eyelids, sweep of waves singing
in his ears, her voice as if inside a seashell,
all the world in the space between her lips.

"Only love drowns
the evil in your heart,"
she spoke from depths he would never attain.

Swaying, he craved her
against him hard, her body, her lips.

She hugged him, pressed into him.

He said, "My apartment is not far from here."

"No," she whispered.
She pointed to the waves. "Out there."

He blinked, thinking of what it would be like,
to have her in the water...

He stripped to his boxers.
They swam out into the tide.

Pull of dark distance
in the glide of the sea,
the two of them, side to side,
swimming into euphoria.

Soon, floating over her,
her face underwater smiling,
drifting down into shadows blurry,
her face
disappearing...
Fading light into pings of glitter,
calm within the current's rhythm,
her touch everywhere and within.

He awoke walking the edge of waves,
bewildered days had passed
before he remembered her.

He panicked for a time.
Settled into her memory,
sharing her words with others.

Now
sitting on the beach,
facing the great waters,
rocking in the sand,
he thinks of her
satisfied...
with what he has become.

* * *

Stephen Jarrell Williams has done everything from mowing lawns to being an executive at a software company. His poetry and short stories have appeared in over a hundred publications. He loves to write, listen to his music, and dance late into the night.

Where do you get the ideas for your poems?

I get my ideas from observing the world around me, reading as much as possible, and especially remembering my dreams.

Anna Kavan and the Void

Anna Kavan and the Void
by 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 madness anyway.

This was in 2000, after another form of madness, Y2K, had passed. Since Anna had died years earlier, she came to greet me as a ghost. She occupied the cockpit of one of the biplanes suspended from the ceiling, looking very much unlike the kind of novelist who focused with intensity on the psychic lives of her characters. Still she was beautiful, sporting goggles, a leather helmet, and a scarf that fanned behind her.

I tried to talk her down and that was about the time that the museum guard approached. “May I help you, sir?”

“I have a date with that woman.” I pointed to the plane.

“I see no woman,” the guard said without sounding the least judgmental.

“Oh, she’s there. She’s about to break her moorings and head out into the sky.” And indeed that’s what she did. The cables holding the plane in place came undone with an exquisite snap. The doors of the museum had been propped open to relieve the heat inside since the facility had no air conditioning. This allowed her to easily fly outdoors.

I ran out onto the lawn where a few couples had settled in for picnic lunches. The air smelled of bus exhaust. Had Anna found me unattractive? I was a middle-aged man with luxurious curly black hair except for one round bald spot in back. My eyes glinted like sapphires. I was athletic enough to run and keep pace with a biplane down the otherwise congested streets of London.

Even beneath the goggles and helmet she looked fetching, with her addict’s spare frame and her blonde hair cut short. I knew she was headed toward her flat although there was no place to land. This did not halt her motion. Instead she flew through an open window and landed safely on the living room floor, which bore the weight exceptionally well.

I caught up to her there. She did not remove the goggles or helmet. However, she had removed her works from a dresser drawer and was proceeding to cook up the heroin in a spoon of authentic silver. I tried to disarm her but she disarmed me instead, pinning my arm behind my back at a perfect angle for her to inject me with the needle’s contents.

A wave of nausea soon gripped me. For the rest of the afternoon I sat on the floor and nodded off, listening down into myself as if I were a penny falling down a well.

Anna joined me in this state. That was the purpose of our meeting in the first place, to take me from pure academic research into her oeuvre into the sources of her consciousness. She was kind enough to put on the kettle for tea and so we drank that as well, laden with real cream and seemingly endless scoops of sugar.

The tea and sugar kept us awake so that the nod extended longer. I grew serene the longer that we sat, shadows coming in as the sky clouded up, an intense barrage of rain soon pounding down outside, some of it slipping in through the window, which of course had no screen. After the storm passed it would stay daylight until eleven p.m.

We were not lovers so we did not kiss. It would be hard to kiss a phantom anyway. But she seemed palpable against me, leg to leg. Silence trawled the room like a net at the bottom of the ocean. Anna removed a clove cigarette from her purse and its aroma filled the air. Soon we left the flat for takeaway Chinese, the rice and noodles and bits of fish coated with soy sauce so it all burned salty in the mouth.

On rain slicked paving stones we encountered a one-eyed man who guided us into a brothel. The entire décor was a deep and bloody red, its weight inside the retina almost too much to bear. We bore it anyway, accepting proffered seats on a divan. We soon stripped naked and entered a whirlpool, then went into a sauna where an attendant in a cat suit poured cold water over coals to increase the steam.

The heat and nakedness made me impossibly dizzy. Anna held my hand, assuring me that this was just another wave in our intoxication, that if I clung to her enough it would pass and calm would be restored. The attendant returned to escort us out of sauna and back onto the divan, where we remained naked. We soon held bowls of warm rice pudding laden with sultanas and ate until our bodies slowed.

We must have slept there for hours because when I next lifted my head the sky had turned a metallic sheen of black. Up there Anna reoccupied her biplane, flying sensational loops against the backdrop of a three-quarter moon, the stars like so many instances of camera flash. I could not breathe so I lay down on the paving stones and let the water creep inside my clothes. I smoked cigarettes to ensure that I was breathing something, even if it wasn’t air.

Soon enough Anna disappeared into those said same heavens, her plane like a comet only taking the opposite trajectory, away from Earth instead of toward it. I heard myself talk to her though the words were simply nonsensical syllables strung together. Cherry double-deckers passed. Passersby rattled their fish-and-chip papers to unveil a waft of stinking cod.

I wanted to arise and join the motion but the heroin had rendered me a ghost the same way it had Anna. My hand passed through the door of a red call box when I went to ring the authorities for an ambulance. Even though I spoke it was clear that no one could hear me, or else my voice had taken on the characteristics of any common magpie in the realm, pleasant to hear but strictly background in a city of such bustle.

The sole advantage of this change in my corporeality was that I could now move more quickly down the streets as the wind picked me up and carried me as softly as a red corsage down the streets where black taxicabs sounded their horns in vexed staccato. If I looked hard enough I could see ghosts of decades-old lamplighters at their craft, holding small flames at the end of long poles to illuminate candles inside streetlamp globes.

I flew all the way back to Bedlam and the museum. Inside, suspended from the ceiling, was the biplane that Anna Kavan had taken. Only now she was absent. The severed cords had been healed and held the plane in place. The guard stood watch near the door, nodding to tourists who came to ogle the violent regalia. It was unsettling how the metal of a tank could take on such smooth luster, approximating the pure whiteness of everything that Anna ever cooked to place in her bazooka prior to driving it into the crook of her arm. It shouldn’t have surprised me that one mechanism of mass death should so approximate another, although it was also easy to see the captivation that both held over the indulger: the risk, the fear, the rush, the nearing of the void.

* * *


Michael Fontana says: My work has appeared in a variety of publications, print and virtual, including Cezanne's Carrot, SamizDada, and others. I work at a community mental health center in northwest Arkansas, USA.

Where do you get the ideas for your stories?

I usually get ideas for my stories from an initial phrase or image that sticks in my head. In this case, it was the image of Anna Kavan, a writer whom I love and is very underappreciated, being trapped in a place like Bedlam Asylum. Fantasy writers might wish to read her books Ice or Julia and the Bazooka as introductions to her work.

The Price

The Price
by 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, working a piece of metal into a rough curve. “I don’t do that sort of work anymore,” he said. He turned from me, and continued working.

“Why?”

“It costs too much,” he mumbled.

“We have gold. Money.”

“I have no interest in that.”

“Land.”

“No.”

“Women,” I said. “I know your wife is dead. Delicious slave girls from the northern edges of the Empire, breasts the size of august ragberries, sweet as honey, and pussies as tight as cone-flies’ arses.” That would easily buy the services of most men.

He continued to ignore me.

“Boys?” I asked. What was his price?

He flung the horseshoe into a barrel of water, and turned to me. At last, I could see his full frame. He was broad shouldered, filled with muscles and blanketed in sweat. He towered over me, casting me in shadow from the forge fire.

“No. It costs too much.” He spoke with thunder, and welded his hammer in his hand. “I’m a family man now. I don’t work like that. Now go.

“Name your price.” This was going to be difficult. I was under orders, from the King himself. If I didn’t come back with the goods, it was my life on the line.

“I cannot be bought.” He raised his hammer up, and brought it down heavily into the palm of his hand. He didn’t even flinch.

I blinked. There was one more thing to try, before it became drastic. “Look, let me reason with you. You know what the King is like. He’s sent me here for to make him a sword imbued with an invulnerability charm. You’re renowned for it, and if you don’t make it, my family’s life will be on the line.”

Outside, I heard a low whistle. The soldiers were ready. The blacksmith raised himself up to tower above me. He flung his hammer across the workshop. I heard something break. “What do I care? What of my family? It costs them too much!”

“How much are your family worth to you?” I said.

“More than anything. I’d do anything for them. But not that.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” I said. Now it was turn. I whistled long and hard, and the two soldiers stormed in, pulling the blacksmith’s daughter in with them. They held her hard, and she struggled, but was weak against the soldiers.

“Nu’er,” the blacksmith sobbed at last. That must be her name, I thought.

“We have a deal then,” I said. I had broken him, and my family was safe. “Your daughter’s life in return for a sword. And to show I’ll keep my side of the bargain, I’ll still reward you with gold.”

“You still don’t know what you ask of me.”

“A sword. A charm. It can’t be that difficult?” I said.

He looked again with mournful longing at his daughter, then strode over to the window. “Look,” he said, and beckoned me over to see. Outside, in the distance was a small graveyard. “My other children. You have the last of my family, my beloved Nu’er.”

“Plague?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I killed them, making my previous charmed swords. That’s why I don’t make them anymore.”

“You mean -”

“For the making to work, it requires the magical harming of an innocent, someone beloved. Beloved to me. She’s all I’ve got left.”

I looked down at the ground, then back the child. She was small, wide-eyed, a tear forming in her left eye. For a moment, I saw my own beloved daughter there. I could not let it happen to my family, though.

I breathed out long and hard, then spoke. “Can it be done without killing her? Will she survive?”

The blacksmith sighed. “Yes.”

“Then do it.” I stepped back away from the child, but the blacksmith grabbed me by the shoulder. Before anyone could react, he shoved me towards my soldiers and the girl.

“No, you don’t. You will hold my daughter, look her in the eyes, so she will remember your face, and know it when she comes to judge you.”

At the anvil, he raised his hammer to deliver the first blow to the steel, as the child’s skin began to glow. As he struck, the first blood welled out and the girl screamed.

* * *

Damon Lord writes dark and speculative fiction. He lives in the West Midlands of England, exiled from his native Wales for the inexcusable shame of not being interested in the national sport of rugby. When not found scribbling down his shadowy and fantastic thoughts, he can be found learning obscure languages, and may even occasionally be observed holding down a day job. His writing website can be found at http://www.damonlord.info

What advice do you have for other fantasy writers?


Write something every day. Set goals, and try to send something out regularly. Most importantly believe in the magic of your work.

for the courtier and the lover

for the courtier and the lover
by Michelle Hartman

          to draw attention of the queen
perform well in that masculine arena—
          tension between desire and ambition
           beating the air above her—
tilting war with masculine conceit
          desire
he loses control in arenas of imperialism
           governance and war
resents prizes lost
          successful courtiership
          aristocratic conventions
and practices of erotic desire
          drain the masculine ambition

he depends on grace and favor

long live the king

* * *

Michelle Hartman is allowed to wander the grounds at the Fort Worth Home, for the Terminally Bewildered. She likes Craft Day and loves the taste of paste. She has been published in several journals which you have to be on Prozac to receive.

Where do you get the ideas for your work?

A tiny wizened hand reaches out from under my bed with imaginative scrawls on chewed looking post-it notes.

The Remembering Trees

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 just be seen, poking feebly through the gloom.

Two men are scrambling up toward the snarl of trees. They are running frantically, tripping, falling, only to drag themselves up again and continue on. Heavy packs weigh them down and one of them is limping badly. Lights are bobbing up the track behind them. Shouts ring against the stone.

Moments later, a group of figures emerge from the trailing fog, lanterns in hand. Some brandish pitchforks; one is flailing a blunderbuss. They are swifter than the two fleeing, wending their way skilfully among the rocks, gaining on them with every step.

The two men know that on these barren slopes they are no match for their pursuers. So when they reach the trees they do not hesitate; they wriggle in, scrabbling through a thicket of trunks and branches, coarse bark and pine needles, until tumbling into a small clearing. There they stop, winter-still, holding their breath and listening.

Outside, the pursuers halt. One of them flings his weapons to the ground, cursing loudly. His wrath is little more than a mutter, though, to the two men inside. For suddenly it seems there are no longer only a few crooked trees separating them, but a deep forest, an endless tangle of aged wood, branches and needles and quiet decay. Even the air is changed, musty and close like the attics of an old, old house.

A sense of safety washes over the men and they collapse, winded, to the floor of the clearing. It is soft with dried pine needles, and, they realise, strewn with an abundance of rubbish: rope; buttons; shreds of clothing; a rusted blade and the rotting remains of a wicker basket. The men heave off their packs and run their hands through the objects, sifting.

And then the trees begin to remember.

High above, where the black branches of the pines writhe and twist into each other, a tiny pale hand reaches down. White fingers brush the dark needles, silently, gently, feeling for something. The fingers close—around a branch perhaps, long broken off and gone—and a little boy swings down out of the shadows. Every whit of his features is white and sharp as a shard of porcelain, his clothes too, and his hair. He clambers into a sitting position on his invisible bough, opens a letter and sits reading it, over and over again, a joyful expression on his face.

The men do not notice him at all, continue picking through the rot.

A lady in a great dress emerges next. She holds a child in each arm, and two more trail behind her, clutching at the buttons of her skirts. Unlike the boy on the branch, they are all rather hazy (it has been ninety years since they sought refuge from a raging storm). And yet still some details stand sharply out. The little girl's smile, for instance, when her mother leans down and murmurs something in her ear. The child's eyes are invisible, forgotten in time, her clothes a mangy blur, and she has no hair to speak of, but that smile... As bright and clear as a moonlit road. The trees had remembered that.

At the sight of the woman and her children, the two men leap up with a shout, only to step on the toes of a giant figure grasping a long and dripping knife. After him comes a man bound in ropes, then a wild-looking hag holding a basket. A wrinkly baby slumbers inside it.

Within moments, the entire clearing is thronging with misted shapes. Some are no more than a wisp, a breath of smoke. Others seem almost solid, even giving off a scent, a sound, whatever the trees can remember.

The two men back away in terror. The one with the limp slips, skids on the pine needles, sweeping them aside. A little skeleton lies underneath, broken over the knobbly roots of the trees. And high among the boughs, the memory of a boy sits swinging his legs. The other man kneels to aid his comrade, when a glint in the darkness catches his eye—a set of tiny teeth, smiling a smile as bright and clear as a moonlit road.

Out on the mountainside, the pursuers have encircled the thicket. A gut-curdling scream sounds from within, fast-followed by the two men. One of them drags the other beside him, who groans in agony as the trees rasp against him. Straight they rush into the ready hands of the pursuers, and inside, on the soft floor of the clearing, they leave behind two heavy packs, laden with gold from the village vault, and a leg, a limping leg wrenched from just below the knee.

Something to remember them by...

* * *

Stefan Bachmann is sixteen years old and lives in Switzerland. Despite what this story may lead you to believe, he absolutely adores old and twisted trees. He has been published by Every Day Fiction and is a book reviewer for the best review site in the world: thebookbag.co.uk"

Where do you get the ideas for your work?

Usually from other writings. I find a sentence I like, or an image that sticks in my mind, and try to make something of my own out of it. By the time I'm finished with it, though, the idea will have changed so much that you'll never guess from where I first snitched it. I also sometimes get ideas after I've practiced the piano for several hours. To me, it seems writing and music are two rivers from the very same spring.

Serenata

Serenata
by 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 wreckage. He was quick and deft at catching the pieces and stacking them in piles along the shore. The moonlight gave a bone-like quality to the piles and the chill in the air made him shiver.

She appeared at the top of the dunes as the brightest dreams began to glow in the water and ride the crest of the waves. Tonight there was a strong current, and the whitecaps broke into tiny stars that danced in the wind until their return to the sea. Her voice caressed the waves, inviting each dream forward. He moved swiftly, gathering up bundles of dreams alive with such energy that the shore and the sea became an intense golden light.

She came to the edge of the sea and embraced him. He placed the brightest dreams in her wings and handed her his dream, which she held gently as the sound of the surf became a long echo in the night. The moonlight opened a path, and his heart filled with loneliness as She flew into the heavens, streaks of starlight on her silver wings. He stood on the shore, watching, as She rose through the clouds and the sea was at rest once more.

* * *

Christina Murphy lives and writes in a 100 year-old house along the Ohio River. Her writing has been published in Modern Short Stories, Greensboro Review, Crescent Review, Descant, Bartelby Snopes, and Storyscape, among others, and has received an Editor’s Choice Award and Special Mention for a Pushcart Prize. She always appreciates hearing from readers and can be reached at 446river3@gmail.com.

What do you think is the attraction of the fantasy genre?

Like many a good Freudian, I believe in the power of the subconscious mind, which interprets and experiences the world through images. Much like dreams, the fantasy genre, through its use of images and metaphors and its capacity for the visual, opens a way of experiencing the world that engages both the conscious and subconscious mind. The attraction—and the power—of the fantasy genre is its ability to reach the reader on multiple levels of awareness.