Into The Glen: Into The Light: Into The Glen, #1 161y2x

Copyright © 2021 by Fae Corps Inc

All Rights Reserved. Al l rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

Cover designed by Patricia Harris

Micheal Gillen To my editors: Josh, Lise, Angie, Bennett, and Laura

Patricia Harris Dedicated to those I call home. (Cyndi, Gabrielle, Nick, Nate, Joe)

Serena Mossgraves Dedicated to the dark places in the human imagination

B.F. Vega dedicated from H.Q. to Agents: “The Kid”, Migs, The Man, V, Spam, Hobbe, Chicken, Minya, and Frank-a-Roni, and Agent Lily the ginger T-rex.

Contents

Across the Southeastern Country – Sergio Palumbo Berwick Law – Kate Meyer Holly Fairy by Vonnie Winslow Crist Faerie – Mark Jabaut Faery Falls - Patricia Harris She Seeks- Jericho Hockett The Monks' Fosterling – Vonnie Winslow Crist The Fae Places – Serena Mossgraves In a Wood – Vonnie Winslow Crist The Honorable Quest – Justine Johnston Hemmestad Weavers of Words and Worlds – Raz T. Slasher A Fay’s Playful Dance – Kristin Roahrig Under The Mystic Moon - Kristin Roahrig The Banshee Temple – B.F. Vega Crocus – Vonnie Winslow Crist Walk With Me, Will-o-the Wisp – Fred Gerhard Teine Sith – Fred Gerhard Maple Wings – Fred Gerhard

Dandelion Fairy – Fred Gerhard Slow Silver – Fred Gerhard Forest Cemetery – Vonnie Winslow Crist Real Happiness – Micheal Gillen The Blue Fairy - Allene Nichols The Garden Shop – Vonnie Winslow Crist The Faerie Shelter - Ivor Steven The Banshee – Patricia Harris Finding Faeries– Vonnie Winslow Crist Ocean Lure – Vonnie Winslow Crist Land of Play – Kathleen Murphey Pruning the Orchard – Buffy Aakaash Paradise – Buffy Aakaash Common Ancestors – Buffy Aakaash Walk in the canyon – Buffy Aakaash The Goat Boutique – Buffy Aakaash

Contents Continued

The Fabulous, Interconnected Living Root Bridges of the Fairies - Katherine Quevedo The Harbor Master – Andrew McDowell On the Edge – Vonnie Winslow Crist Skinny-Dipping – Vonnie Winslow Crist About the Authors About the Publisher

Across the Southeastern Country by Sergio ‘ente per ente’ PALUMBO

“Do you know of that tale, the one about the caves situated under Nullarbor Plain?”

Our species, the Little people or Lucharacháin, was not native to this land, to this country, but some of our ancestors boarded a wooden sailing ship in 1840 that transported convicts to Western Australia. It came from Great Britain to what is now modern Sidney, and here we have stayed since then, living in lush areas like Kings Park in Perth or Manea Park in Bunbury, hidden among the shrubs. The small trees and the local vegetation are very different of course from the territories our grandparents inhabited in Europe. Australia was a new home far away from their homeland, undoubtedly!

And now, sitting on one of the tallest branches of a cold-tolerant broad-leaved tree next to a tall Moreton Bay Pine and the rounded, flat crown of a Kauri I just can’t help but what happened at that time to one of our next of kin, Dhearg. In those earliest of times he accompanied, though unbeknownst to that man, the sheep farmer known as Edward John Eyre who was the first European to cross the area called the Nullarbor Plain. At that time Australia was largely unexplored, a difficult country.

It seems that, in December 1837, Edward John Eyre himself, originally born in England, started driving 1,000 sheep and 600 cattle overland from Monaro, New South Wales, to Adelaide, South Australia. Eyre, with his livestock and eight stock men, arrived in Adelaide in July 1838 and there he sold the animals for a large profit. Soon thereafter, with the money from the sale, Eyre himself set out to explore the unknown areas of South Australia. By 1839, he had already gone

on two separate expeditions: north to the Flinders Ranges and west to beyond Ceduna. The northern-most point of the first expedition was Mount Eyre; it was named that way by Governor Gawler on 11 July 1839, if I well … Afterwards, in 1840, Eyre went on a third expedition, reaching a lake that was later named, by the humans, Lake Eyre in his honor. But I certainly wouldn’t like to go into a detailed description about these facts… Then, the same Eyre was the first European to traverse the Nullarbor Plain overland in 1840, on an almost 2,000 mile trip to Albany, Western Australia.

It is known that the party was composed of six white men, together with his Aboriginal friend Wylie, and Baxter, his station manager. They took with them 13 horses, 40 sheep and enough supplies to last three months. But there was also somebody else, unbeknownst to all of them… Would you like to hear the full story of Edward John Eyre and his unknown companion, my ancestor? If you have a few moments, we can sit here and I will tell you the story.

*****

Dhearg was neither tall nor showy, and he could not have ever been so, after all. Being a Lucharachán, he was about one foot tall, more or less – which was not much even among his own species, which resembled diminutive elves but with long legs. He was two-hundred-years-old, which was also not too much for one of his kind.

A large nose, long hair, an old jacket, some worn tros full of holes – that was all the clothing he had. That was him.

After he disembarked, the Lucharachán had ed that bearded sheep farmer who wanted to get to the interior of the territory, exploring and discovering what might be there. Actually, Edward John Eyre had not noticed him yet as this member of the Little People was hiding, but Dhearg had not followed him to be of help, of course. Instead, he wanted to feast upon the many food provisions he had spotted in the possession of that human, food meant to be eaten during his long journey. All that had the appeal of great riches to a small and hungry Lucharachán like him. This was especially true in those lands where food was scarce at that time, and travelers didn’t have many chances to eat anything delicious in those arid places, or in the few small villages that one might by. It seemed that many of the humans had crossed the oceans like him, hoping to become wealthy farmers, but the different soil and the lack of rain was not what they had expected, and their dreams of great abundance soon turned into disappointment. This wasn’t true for everyone, but it certainly was what had happened to several among those seeking a better life. As for him himself, this member of the Little People had left his homeland as it was quickly changing for the worse, with men destroying the ancient forests and building new factories everywhere that took the place of the previous rivers and lakes, turning their ancestral lands into something completely different from what they once were.

Dhearg could never have imagined, however, that all the food provisions the bearded man had with him wouldn’t last for long and that the desert he was going through, with the small Lucharachán in his knapsack, was so fatally arid and so without life. During the trip, there would be no way to find anything to eat or even water to drink! How could anyone have known that things would become so desperate that three of the human’s horses would die of dehydration? The little creature should have thought better than to follow these humans, as they didn’t seem to be very lucky, nor did they have a clear plan about how to survive on their way to Fowler’s Bay.

‘Damn’, damn’, damn’!’, Dhearg thought.

He should have decided against going with Eyre when the party started traveling westward across what is now known as Eyre Peninsula. As it turned out, along the coast the arid conditions and lack of water or rain would force Edward John Eyre, eventually, to send all of the of his party back to Adelaide.

The Nullarbor Plain was an area of completely flat, almost treeless, arid country. It was a featureless terrain that looked like the largest single exposure of limestone bedrock the Lucharachán had ever seen. He could not have imagined that such an empty place might exist, until now. Occupying thousands of square leagues, within that sort of area one only saw in nightmares there were no fertile lands to entice humans to settle in. The only vegetation was the low salt-bush and Blue-bush scrub. The Nullarbor represented the boundary between eastern and western Australia and, covering the whole distance of it, which was situated in ‘the middle of nowhere’, would apparently be a significant achievement, if it could be done. Who knows, maybe Eyre thought that a smaller party would have a better chance, and he wanted to have the possibility to become the first man to cross that hard plain. But the desolate country wasn’t what those four men with 11 pack horses and 6 sheep expected to find along the way. At a certain point, the Aborigines showed them how to break off the organs of the plants that typically lay below the surface of the soil and suck those to relieve their thirst. Eventually there was no relief because the Nullarbor Plain had no trees, so there was no shade from the fierce heat of the sun during most of the day. Besides, there were almost no ways to reach the sea because of the huge cliffs.

The pack horses found it difficult to travel through the sand so Eyre was forced to leave the party’s firearms behind. He also left horseshoes, spare water bags, and even clothing. One by one the animals had to be left behind as well. Soon their water was gone. Food became scarce so they killed a sick horse for food, but that meat made Eyre and Baxter very ill.

The Aborigines tried to go on alone, but returned after a couple of days almost starving. They were now about halfway to the West Australian coast and it was

winter in this strange southern part of the world. Because those humans had been forced to leave their clothes behind, they suffered from the cold at night. The Lucharachán, at least, was more used to it, thanks to his inhuman physique, anyway.

There was not much hope left, at that moment, or so Dhearg thought. At first, he had even considered that he might try to bite, and eat, a portion of a finger of one of those bearded men when they slept and dreamt at night, but he had soon removed that image from his mind as the difference in size was all in favor of those humans and against him. It might provoke those men into eating him when they saw him! Other than that, he had never been very gifted at using the crude tricks that came from the sorcerous strength all of his species were endowed with, so he knew he’d better not try anything funny. That was one of the reasons why he and his family had left their homeland to begin with: they were weak, the weakest among their kind, and just wanted to start a new life elsewhere, and become wealthy, possibly, one day. However, in this desert it wasn’t going to happen for Dhearg.

So this was also the reason the Lucharachán decided to leave that starving party in the end. Actually, this was also why he saw those strange creatures, the flying Keen Keengs, while he alone was searching the ground trying to find anything useful like a small native waterhole. Sadly, that was where he was captured.

*****

Those winged monsters, that Dhearg only later knew were called Keen Keengs, came down from the sky like birds of prey, taking his debilitated body in their claws. They took him into the high sparse clouds from where he could see the desert under his feet whose boundaries stretched wider and wider, further than he could have ever imagined. The Lucharachán didn’t if he fainted due to the sight of those creatures which were built like tall humans with bat-like wings attached to their arms, or if it was his hunger and weakness that made him

blackout eventually.

All that he knew was that he woke up some time later and found himself imprisoned in a small barred cave that was connected to other larger caverns underground. It had to be said, at least according to the Lucharachán’s limited experience, that from his point of view this might be the world’s longest cave system, and it seemed to run beneath the entire length of the plain.

‘At least, the sun isn’t beating down on me now,’ Dhearg thought at first. Then other worries popped-up in his mind. Had he been left here to starve to death, or was there a fate worse than starvation waiting for him?

The image of him starving to death disappeared as soon as he looked around. While the wild animals of the Nullarbor seemed to be very few and far between, here in the underground caves there were small communities of crustaceans adapted to the darkness of the place. So, at least he would have the chance to take some of them to eat, if he was quick enough. Perhaps he could still survive…if he wasn’t eaten first by some of those large colonies of wattled micro-bats who also lived in the caves, of course. Anyway, Dhearg didn’t think the creatures that had captured him would let him live for long. He feared they had other purposes in mind… Then he spotted something else. He wasn’t alone in that small barred cave! It seemed that there was another shadowy figure not far from where he stood…

“What are you?” he asked the other creature.

“I’m a trickster…” the figure said. “Ngandjala-Ngandjala is my name.”

“Pleased to meet you, if I may say so. I’m Dhearg, a Lucharachán.”

“A what?” the other asked him.

“Forget about it…Let’s focus on our present situation. How did you end up being caught and brought to this cave?”

“I can change my shape as I like, and I turned my body into a young Laughing Kookaburra, but I possibly chose the wrong moment to do it…” NgandjalaNgandjala replied.

“Why? What went wrong? If you can change your shape at will, you could still turn your body from the Laughing Kookaburra’s appearance you presently have into something else if you want to, maybe a smaller animal, for instance. You could then escape from this cave very easily.”

“Fact is that when I change my shape and turn myself into a sort of animal-like creature, then I have to keep that shape for at least 2 hours…I can’t turn myself into something different before that time is up…” the trickster added.

“I see…” the small creature nodded. “Tell me how you were caught and brought here.”

“As I told you, I’m a trickster, I like to make fun of others, and I’ve never liked the Flame God that lives in this hole in the ground. So, at times, I took the shape of a bird, like I am now, and I defecated on this hole, while flying over this area,

so I could have a laugh and befool that deity.”

“That sounds like a very dangerous activity, if I may say…” Dhearg pointed out.

“Yes, it is. But this is what I am, and this is what I do…” Ngandjala-Ngandjala replied. “Most creatures like me enjoy destroying crops and generally cause trouble. I’ve already seen the Keen Keengs capturing other animals, bringing them here and then dropping those bodies into the flames to feed that deity. I don’t like that, and I don’t like the Flame God. Today I hid high in the clouds before approaching this place so I could defecate on this hole again and befool the bloody Flame God. But those Keen Keengs were flying in the same area protecting their deity from the sky and they noticed me before I could get away. So, they took me. I was helpless against them, as they were too many and I had no way to protect myself.”

“You can’t say you didn’t try your best to get yourself in trouble…” Dhearg commented with a large smile.

“I never said I didn’t like what I do. But I simply can’t stop myself from doing it. Being a trickster is part of who I am…”

“Maybe you won’t be able to do that anymore, the same as me, if they drop us both down that pit where the Flame God lives.” The Lucharachán looked dejected. “What can you tell me about this unknown deity?”

“He is not unknown in this country, because he is the Lord of this place. So, being eaten by its flames is how we’ll end, sadly…”

“I don’t want to be eaten by flames. So, the question becomes: how can we get out of here alive before it’s too late?” Dhearg asked.

“In about half an hour I’ll be able to change my shape again, and move silently and unseen out of this cave.”

“By that time, I’m afraid we’ll already be fried, burnt up and dead,” the Lucharachán said, looking dejected.

“I think you might be right, my fellow prisoner…”

“So what can we do, trickster? What can we try to save our skin?” Dhearg demanded.

“I’ll have to think of it…”

“Think quickly, trickster, or your God Flame will have the last laugh at your expense,” the small Lucharachán said. ‘And at me,’ he told himself in his mind.

No words came out of the other’s lips for a while, Dhearg becoming more and more worried as time went by. Then, the trickster had a new thought and said, “Even if I can find a way to get out of this prison, I could be recaptured.”

“Maybe I can buy you some time by attracting their attention or fighting against the Keen Keengs…possibly not for long, but enough to let you turn again into another creature that might be more useful to both of us.”

Ngandjala-Ngandjala laughed. “I was only thinking about helping myself. So tell me, why should I help you?”

“Because…” the Lucharachán said without finding at once the right words. “Because I could be very useful to you…and if we unite our chances will be better at surviving…”

“I’m not convinced yet. Alone I could move more easily, or walk about unnoticed maybe.”

“What if I beg you…?” Dhearg told him.

“Begging might do you some good but…maybe I would consider helping you, if you promised me something…”

“What do you want me to do?” the Lucharachán stared at the trickster.

“Once out of here, if we survive, maybe we could play a game. But you would need to promise me you would keep playing it using my rules, of course…”

*****

Ngandjala-Ngandjala, still being a Laughing Kookaburra, made use of his pointed beak to hit the bars of the cave repeatedly, harder and harder until he made the hole large enough so they could both escape.

Then, Dhearg’s plan was ready. At just the right moment, as those winged creatures were almost on them… When the required time had gone by, the trickster started slowly turning himself into a fictitious Keen Keeng. As Ngandjala-Ngandjala was transforming, he briefly displayed his true original shape after ceasing to be a young bird, and it was at that point the first moment when Dhearg saw his true appearance. Actually, he looked very similar to one of the Little People, although his skin was darker and unusual in comparison with a typical fairy-like creature’s skin. So Dhearg concluded that his power had to be sorcerous, allowing him to change his appearance whenever he wanted. He wasn’t too different from the Little People it seemed. Okay, Dhearg itted to himself, that trickster was undoubtedly much better than he was at using sorcery.

Then, the trickster – now turned into one of the Keen-Keengs – took the Lucharachán in his claws and it appeared as if he was bringing him to the site of the Flame God to be killed. But he flew away soon after and took Dhearg instead out of the large caves. The two were followed by many Keen Keengs, which hoped to re-capture the trickster once they discovered he had taken the shape of one of their kind and fooled them.

But Ngandjala-Ngandjala soon outdistanced the other creatures behind him, moving through sparse clouds and down to some low hills below. When they were safely away from the caves, the trickster – sill looking like one of the Keen Keengs – dropped the Lucharachán down to the ground. This was when their game started…

*****

It had been three days, now, Dhearg considered. He was still walking in that arid territory, having difficulty finding water or some shrubs to be eaten to keep him alive. He wasn’t sure he would have ever left that area alive, or ever reach a better place. But that wasn’t his only problem. The Tricker’s game also had to be considered…

Because, as the Lucharachán had previously accepted, on the condition that the trickster would take him away from the caves of the Flame God, NgandjalaNgandjala - now in the shape of a huge bird, a White-Faced Heron - swooped in every day from the sky, trying his best to defecate on the Lucharachan’s head. Dhearg tried to move out of the way to escape, but that was impossible at times. Truth be told, the trickster hardly ever missed his target and the Lucharachán usually finished the day being dirty because of that defecation drying on his long hair.

Dhearg did not know how long he would survive in that place, or if he would ever find the food and water he needed to get out of it alive. But one thing was certain: he might have his head full of ordure, that had hardened and adhered to his hair over the course of the day, given the great precision of that trickster who thought it was funny – at least funny to him – but that heron would be back over and over again to hit him from the sky.

The Lucharachán at times deeply regretted the deal they had made. Though the trickster had helped Dhearg escape from the Flame God and the Keen Keengs, undoubtedly he thought he had been befooled in some ways…

Berwick Law

By Kate Meyer

You cannot find me

With maps or road signs,

Even on this level terrain

Of harvest fields

Highlighted by the sun.

I should be visible

Miles off; rising proud

From the land’s smooth skin.

I’m a master of disguise

Cloaked by coastal mist

Lurking at every turn

And rising bend in

The road; as you seek

My elusive presence.

I can’t be caught

Or held like that,

Or I’ll melt like

Fool’s gold in your

Grasp. But I will keep

You safe on your

Journey, like the flash

Of rowan-red, glimpsed

In ing, as your vehicle

Labours in its quest

To find me; safe from the

Clutch of witch-fingers

In the clumps of dark

Trees guarding my feet.

Catch as catch can;

Finders keepers.

And, as the summer melts

Into autumn, then is

Your journey’s end.

Holly Fairy by Vonnie Winslow Crist

FAERIE

An excerpt from the novella

By Mark Jabaut

1

There was a place in the neighborhood that only the children knew – a small glade that opened suddenly in the woods where the sun snuck through the trees. A meager brook plashed and rippled through the center of the glade, swirling around polished rocks, and carrying minnows against their wishes. The heat of a summer day was instantly chilled by the moist air, and so the local children would go there to escape summer’s fury. It was quiet, and smelled of wet pebbles, pine needles, and rich dirt. And there were mushrooms, and toadstools, and other types of fungus.

And it was definitely not a place where anything surprising would ever happen.

#

The Princess strode royally down the dirt path, being careful to keep her new Nike sneakers clean. As usual, Ellie – being seven – got to be the Princess, and her younger sister Lizzie was stuck playing her handmaiden, Lady Elizabeth. Ellie didn’t actually know what a handmaiden was, but she believed that, as Lizzie had two hands, she was probably well-qualified.

Lizzie, being three and a half, had no opinion on the matter. She dutifully played the part of Lady Elizabeth, trudging along behind her sister. She also wore new Nikes, but she was not as fastidious as the Princess – in fact, her sneakers were already coated with a layer of brown dirt, as were her jeans and her “Girls Rule Boys Drool” t-shirt.

The sun was warm on their backs and made the dirt path smell like curry powder. Suddenly, the Princess stopped short, and Lady Elizabeth, who had been staring at the ground as she walked, bumped into her. The Princess turned and, in the most royal voice she could muster, said “Try to stay out of my butt, Lizzie!”

Lizzie stared at her older sister. “I’m sorry,” said the Princess, “try to stay out of my butt, Lady Elizabeth.” Lizzie smiled.

The Princess felt herself losing control of the game, so she took a deep breath and said, royally, “Let us go down to the glade, Lady Elizabeth. This heat is asinine.” With a sense of pride at using the word she had only yesterday heard her mother mutter, she turned again and led Lizzie on down the path.

At the point where the path began to curve toward the little stream that ran through the glade, the Princess saw a flash of blue, high behind a large honeysuckle bush. “Oh!” she exclaimed, and stopped suddenly again. This time, however, Lady Elizabeth was on her best behavior, and avoided her sister’s butt altogether.

“I think I saw a butterfly!” the Princess said excitedly. “C’mon, Lizzie, let’s try to catch it!” She grabbed Lizzie’s hand, and dragged her around the bush. This time, she didn’t notice when Lizzie slammed into her butt because she was

frozen in fascination, staring at the beautiful sight hovering before her.

“Look, Lizzie!” she whispered urgently, “Look! It’s— “she stopped and furrowed her brow, unsure how to continue. Lady Elizabeth stood beside her, silently watching, and picking her nose.

The blue creature fluttering before them spoke, and Ellie’s mouth formed an amazed capital O to match the ones her eyes had made.

“Whadaya think yer doin’ here, ya little brats?” said the creature.

“Oh!” exclaimed the Princess, regaining a bit of her royal composure, “this is wonderful! You must grant me a wish, mustn’t you? Lady Elizabeth, what should we wish for? Glass slippers? A royal coach?” She was nearly hopping with excitement.

“A wish?” said the creature derisively. “Here, wish this!” As he hovered, his hands reached down and undid his delicate belt, and he shoved his tros to his knees.

The Princess and Lady Elizabeth turned and ran back toward their house. Their screams merged into one long siren that didn’t end until they stumbled through the back door and spilled into the kitchen.

#

“Let’s try to keep the dirt and noise outside, girls,” their mother said as Ellie and Lizzie picked themselves up off the kitchen floor. Their mother was sitting at the kitchen table where she was working on a crossword puzzle, her usual Sunday activity. Their brother, Jack, was slouched on the living room sofa, playing a video game. The girls scrambled to their mother’s side, and Ellie began speaking in tongues.

“Mom! – fairy! – wish! – blue pants! – we ran! – Mom! – Mom! – Mom!”

“Ellie, please,” said her mother, setting down her pencil and turning her attention to her over-excited daughter. “Take a breath. I have no idea what you’re trying to say.” Her eldest daughter was a sweet girl, but tended to get overwrought easily, and this was likely to turn into a crying fit if she didn’t calm her down now.

Ellie nodded, and tried to calm herself. She slowed her breathing as her mother had taught her until outwardly she appeared in control, although inside, her seven-year-old brain was scrambling around like a frightened rabbit. She took one last deep breath and then started again.

“Mom,” she began again slowly, “Me and Lizzie— “her mother frowned – “Lizzie and I, we saw—” another deep breath – “a fairy!” She smiled and looked to Lizzie for confirmation, and Lizzie began nodding her head repeatedly. Ellie continued. “It was blue, and it had wings, and it was beautiful, and— “

“She’s talking about a Smurf, mom,” Jack called from the living room. “Smurfs are the blue ones.”

“Do you mean a Smurf, honey?” asked their mother.

“Nooo,” whined Ellie, getting annoyed. Why didn’t parents ever listen? And why was Jack butting in? “It was a fairy. It was flying, and it talked to us. And – and – it showed us its – doodad.”

Her mother frowned. “It showed you what?” she asked, unable to follow her daughter’s story.

“It showed us its – its –” Ellie didn’t want to come out and say it to her mother. “Its P... E... N...” she began spelling.

“It showed you its pen?” asked her mother, still in crossword mode.

“Nooo!” Ellie whined again, exasperated. “It showed us its penis!”

Lizzie nodded, and shrieked joyfully, “Penis!”

“What?” exclaimed their mother. “Ellie! What are you talking about? Lizzie, you stop that now!” Lizzie had her hands down at her crotch as if holding a penis, and was miming spraying down the cabinets.

“This is inappropriate!” stated their mother. “You two go up to your room right now!” She pointed toward the stairs. Ellie, realizing she had lost this meeting of the minds, slouched her way toward the stairs, Lizzie, as always behind her.

Their mother stood up and watched them go, shaking her head. What had gotten into those two, she wondered? She walked over to the living room where Jack was still deeply involved in his video game.

“Jack, honey,” she said, “do Smurfs have penises?”

2

Jenny Wilson, twelve and serious, bounced out of bed and went to her window. It was the first day of summer vacation, and as much as she enjoyed school, her true ion was nature, and summer presented nature in its full glory, seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day. She quickly dressed – tee-shirt (100% recycled materials), shorts (cotton – yuck), but no socks, or shoes, not on the first day of summer. She ran a comb through her long, chestnut hair, scrunched it into a ponytail with a rubber band, and dashed into the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth. Then she zipped down the hall to the family room, where she booted up the family PC, briefly messaged two friends, and checked on the polar bear population.

“Morning, Mom,” she sang as she entered the kitchen moments later.

“Good morning, Jenny,” answered her mother. “What’s on the agenda for your first day of summer vacation?” She was cleaning out the refrigerator, and halfempty jars of pickles, crusty bottles of catsup, and Tupperware containers of unidentifiable leftovers populated the counter tops like deserted cities of glass and plastic. Sticky cities.

“Not much,” said Jenny. “I thought I’d go down to the woods, and play around

in the stream, check on the minnows. You know.” She reached between a tower of mayonnaise and jelly jars, to open an upper cabinet and pulled out a granola bar.

“Okay, Jen, have fun. And be careful.”

“Don’t worry about me!” Jenny called out behind her as she zipped out the back screen door.

It was a perfect, early summer day. The sky was a robin’s egg blue, and the robins’ eggs were sky blue. The sun shone at a sharp angle to the ground, lighting everything from above, and causing leaves to glow from the underside highlighting chlorophylled veins and making pistils and filaments in the cups of flowers almost incandescent. Jenny took a moment to close her eyes and turn her face to the sun, a flower herself, and breathe deeply the scents of the back yard. She smelled dianthus and lavender, alyssum and sweet peas, the rich, loamy odor of earth, and the tang of the neighbor’s freshly cut lawn. She felt the grass beneath her feet raising its million tiny arms to tickle her toes. Jenny was almost dizzy with sensation.

Enough, she thought. I’ve got lots to do today. There were minnows to observe, and insects to catalog, and chipmunks to converse with. It was going to be a glorious day.

Jenny cantered down the worn grass path (some might have said skip, but twelve-year-olds did not skip) that led from the rear of the Wilsons’ backyard to the small woods that sat in the middle of the development. Forever Green, the realtors and brochures had called it. It was a promise that it would never be built upon and would always remain natural. For Jenny, it was the main selling point for the house her parents had bought the previous year, and she had been quite

vocal about it. She liked to think that this input had swayed her dad to make the purchase, but she wasn’t sure, and really, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that it was there, and always would be – Forever Green.

Jenny slowed her gait when she reached the margin of the woods. She felt the temperature drop a few degrees as she entered the shaded canopy and the cool quiet of the woods enveloped her. She examined each maple leaf and acorn she came across, collecting some, rejecting others as less than perfect. As she neared the stream, she thought she heard distant voices, and disappointment rose in her throat – she had hoped to explore in solitude.

Stepping carefully to avoid dry sticks and leaves in an effort to hide her approach (and as always to avoid treading on insects or worms), Jenny crept in stealth mode toward the stream. The voices grew louder, but not any—well, larger. She could hear them more distinctly now, could almost make out individual words, but the tone sounded unusual. It didn’t sound like other children, nor did it sound like adults. The voices sounded like – cartoons. Like Mel Blanc having an argument with himself.

Jenny furrowed her brow, and redoubled her clandestine efforts. She didn’t want to be seen just yet – she wanted to know who these people were before deciding if she should reveal herself. She held her breath and crept slowly to the top of the small rise that overlooked the stream.

At the top of the rise, she froze. She blinked. She ed to breathe, then blinked again. Her mouth dropped open, inviting a few nearby insects to investigate.

Impossible, Jenny thought. It was the only word that would come to her shocked mind. It arose there and bonked around inside her seemingly empty skull, trying

to find the path to her lips.

Two small creatures – two exceedingly small creatures; tiny, man-like creatures, were standing on the shore of the stream, holding tiny little fishing poles, and taking turns casting them into the water making tiny little splashes. While they fished, they chatted with each other in – Jenny realized she was being repetitive – tiny little voices. Jenny listened while she concentrated on ing to breathe.

“Uh-ho, Jasmine, you almost had the pecker. He was huge,” said one small man. He stood slightly shorter than one of Jenny’s old Barbies, but was otherwise completely proportional. He was dressed all in shades of green – a green shirt of some kind, and darker green tights, a little green vest and tiny little doll-sized forest-green shoes. His face was pale and sharp-edged – somewhat like Mr. Jefferson, Jenny’s math teacher, she thought – but he had long, curly blonde hair that reached almost to his Ken Doll shoulders.

The other tiny man, the one apparently called Jasmine, was the same height as the first, but was far more slender, what Jenny’s mom would call California thin. He also wore his hair long, but it was brown, as was all his identically styled clothing. “They must both shop at the same tiny clothing store,” Jenny thought inanely.

They both had a pair of diaphanous-looking, dragonfly-type wings attached somehow to their backs.

That was the kicker, Jenny itted. Tiny men fishing by a stream – yeah, that was odd enough. But men with wings – holy crap! Jenny would be the youngest person ever to receive a Nobel prize.

“Remind me why we’re doing this again, Rag,” said Jasmine. “I don’t even eat fish. What are we going to do with it if we manage to catch one?”

“It’s for the sport,” replied Rag, casting again into the stream. “Of course we won’t eat one if we catch it, dickweed. It’s the thrill of the action, the contest versus nature. C’mon, you little bastard, take the hook.” He raised one fist and shook it at the minnows.

Jenny felt a flutter in her mouth and reached in to gently remove a small gray moth. She carefully placed it on a stick to dry.

She was stunned. She had discovered a race of miniature, winged people. Miniature, winged people that used words like “pecker” and “dickweed,” but still, Jenny felt that it was an amazing discovery. Unfortunately, she didn’t know what to do next. She was afraid that if she approached them they would be frightened and disappear, and she might never see them again. She decided that this situation required a delicate touch.

It was at this precise moment, however, that the previously evicted, and now happily dry, gray moth decided to return to the warm, moist cave it had recently been exploring. Venturing far into the depths, the moth’s wings brushed Jenny’s uvula causing Jenny to cough loudly, expelling the stunned insect wetly through the air. The two small creatures – Jasmine and Rag – looked up simultaneously in surprise, and dropped their fishing poles into the water. Jasmine fluttered his wings, and immediately prepared for an emergency dust-off. Rag found himself hypnotized by an object that appeared to be heading directly toward him. Before he could shake himself out of his trance, he was struck in the face by a soggy, phlegmy moth. It knocked him off balance and flat on his back into the stream.

Jenny, completely forgetting about stealth, jumped up and hurried toward the stream.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed. Despite being a naturalist and an adventurer, Jenny also considered herself a lady, and ladies did not generally spew moist insects at strangers. She was terribly embarrassed.

Rag had no particular thoughts about spitting insects at people – in fact, the concept had never previously crossed his mind. He found himself concentrating on other more immediate concerns, the primary one being getting off his back and out of the water before one of the minnows’ larger and hungrier relatives decided to make him their lunch.

Jasmine fluttered about, wanting to somehow help his friend, but too frightened to come very close. The huge human was approaching, and Jasmine had no wish to spend his remaining days slowly suffocating in a glass jar, or living in a shoebox filled with grass and twigs. He didn’t know anyone who had suffered such a fate, but he had spoken with more than a few grasshoppers who were adamant about the story. He therefore made a decision which, he hoped, would prove in the near future to be the best for everyone – he flew away.

Rag found himself spinning slowly with the current toward some of the larger, slower pools where undoubtedly mama trout lived. His wings were wet, and useless, and seemed to be holding his light frame to the water’s surface. He wanted to shout for help, but he was too scared. Also, he still had some bits of moth wing-scale in his mouth.

Jenny saw the tiny man slowly drifting away with the current, and she ran to help. She had completely forgotten about her Nobel prize and instead was totally focused on saving the little creature. She reached the stream in a few quick

strides, and skidded into the water. She knelt, and gently placed both of her hands in the water beneath the little man and, cupping them together, lifted him up. The man sat up, sputtering. His wings drooped behind him like wilted flowers.

Now that the emergency was over, Jenny found herself mesmerized by the creature in her hands. Still kneeling in the stream, she stared in awe at his wings, her mouth once again agape.

“Please don’t eat me!” said the little man.

Jenny froze, and then self-consciously closed her mouth. Trying to keep her mouth as tight and non carnivorous as possible, she said, “What?”

“I said, ‘please don’t eat me.’ It’s not an unreasonable request.”

“Eat you?” said Jenny, confused. “No, of course not. I was just trying to help you. Here,” she said, and set the man gently on a rock at the stream’s edge. “See? I’m not going to eat you.” She smiled in what she hoped was a disarming and non-hungry way.

“Oh,” said the man. “Good.” Then he made a sound like ‘boink’ and zipped unsteadily into the air, disappearing quickly behind a bush.

3

It was depressing.

The glade seemed to be losing its magic. The sunlight that filtered through the leaves and sparkled on the little brook that ran through the glade felt just a little dimmer, and not quite shimmery enough. The water in the brook, as it splashed between and across the perfectly rounded stones in its bed, didn’t have the same music as it had the week before. And the pale orange fungus that grew on the underside of the lowest branches of the Great Oak didn’t taste quite as, well – fungy.

And there were the flight issues.

“Crap!” shouted Buttercup as his left wing clipped the top of a young sapling that had chosen to grow directly in front of him, and he went into a tailspin. His arms and legs were whipped by leaves and twigs, and he landed with an unfairylike splat in the moist sand next to the brook. He emitted a breathy “oof” as he hit, which was unfortunate as his open mouth served to shovel up a nice divot of sand.

Buttercup rolled over and sat up, spewing sand. He brushed off his face and fluttered his diaphanous wings, and then felt around for injuries. He appeared to be fine, if more than a little embarrassed. At least no one had seen him fall. Fairies never fell. It just wasn’t done. A Fairy who failed to land as gently as dandelion fluff was no better than a, a – a people.

“Nice touch-down, Buttercrap,” a voice far above him called down. “Way to stick it.” The words were followed by a long, liquid belch. “Great,” thought Buttercup, “of all the fairies in the glade to see me, it had to be Tinkerballs.” He was too ashamed to even look up.

The insult and juicy emission were immediately followed by a “Whoa!” and a sound like a butterfly in a wind tunnel. Buttercup heard Tinkerballs’ “Look out below!” dopplering toward him, and just as he glanced skyward, he was struck by twenty-two ounces of flabby fairy flesh. Buttercup was mashed down into the gritty sand.

Tinkerballs rolled his bulk off Buttercup and lay in the sand next to him. “Oi,” he said, “I think I sprained my left nut.”

Buttercup sat up and began brushing sand from his arms and legs. He ran his fingers through his long, blond hair. The sand felt embedded in the back of his head.

“Did you have to land right on me?” he asked, annoyed.

“I said ‘look out below’,” answered Tinkerballs, who was still flat on his back. “I must’ve landed right on it,” he moaned.

Buttercup got unsteadily to his feet. “How do you land nut-first?” he scoffed. “I’ve never heard of a sprained nut.”

“When they’re as big as mine,” explained Tinkerballs, “it can be a daily occurrence.” He struggled to prop himself up on his elbows, and looked over at Buttercup. “What were you doing, flopping into the sand like that?”

“Me?” said Buttercup, feeling a mix of embarrassment and indignation. “You fell, too. And you had the bad manners to fall right on top of me!”

“Pinpoint accuracy, that,” answered Tinkerballs. “I can’t help it if you’re sitting where I’m landing.” He dug some sand out of his ear with an index finger, and absently wiped it on his blouse. He groaned, and shook sand from his hair.

Buttercup stretched his wings; they felt a little tender but alright. What a mess this was. But it appeared that he wasn’t the only one having trouble flying. He felt the need to ask Tinkerballs about it, but it was a subject that fairies were reluctant to bring up. It was like questioning someone’s manhood (or fairyhood), and Tinkerballs was not the most understanding of fairies. In fact, he was the least understanding fairy in the glade. Still, it was driving Buttercup crazy, and at least they had seen each other fall. They could both be equally embarrassed, or insulted, or whatever.

“Hey, uh, Tinkerballs,” Buttercup began. “Have you ever fallen before? Before today?” Buttercup faced away from the other fairy, and waited for something to strike the back of his head. A small rock, maybe. Or a boot.

“No,” grunted Tinkerballs, getting to his feet. “Once.”

Buttercup was brushing sand from the seat of his fairy tros, and staring off into the forest. “Last week,” he said. “Three times, actually. Kind of a lot. Must be getting too fat.”

“No, I don’t think it’s because you’re getting too fat,” Buttercup contradicted, noting mentally how fat Tinkerballs had recently become. “I think there’s

something going on. I mean, I fell, too. I’m not fat. There’s something else happening.” A worried expression came across his face, and he looked up into the branches above him.

“What?” asked Tinkerballs, as he tried to hide a baritone fart with a cough. “What’s happening?”

“I’m not sure,” said Buttercup slowly, still staring into the web work of leaves and branches. “But I think we better get everyone together and discuss it. Let’s tell the others we need to have a meeting, right here, in an hour.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” said Tinkerballs. “I’ll wait here.” He kicked off his boots and slipped his feet into the brook with an audible sigh.

“And bring back some fungus,” he added.

Faery Falls By Patricia Harris

She Seeks By Jericho Hockett

In the evening woods something moves, she freezes; the woods move in November breezes by. She catches it again, in the corner of her eye. I’m waiting, she whispers, I’m open.

The trees gently hold their breath. Alert, a doe trots over the hill. Her breath catches the woman’s scent, she freezes. The woman’s breath catches cold wind off leaves reddening and silvered.

A sliver cuts across both their faces: sunfall preserved in amber and blue; the other eye of each preserving shadow, too, and reflecting like a bright dark mirror each other’s quiet apprehension. I’m waiting, the doe whispers, I’m open.

In the fading light, comprehension dawns. The doe walks on into the darkening thicket, and the woman walks on through the thickening dark.

The Monks' Fosterling by Vonnie Winslow Crist

The trills and clicks of meadow wrens echoed about Brother Andrew, but he did not notice the bird sounds. In an attempt to keep his emotions in check, he instead concentrated on each rattle of cart, each pad of dog foot that carried him away from Clearflow Bridge.

“Foolish old man,” he said out loud. The pair of mighty canines that pulled his rig paused. They glanced back at him.

“Sorry, pups,” apologized the monk. For a split second, he considered turning the cart around and driving back to the toll bridge. But reason got the better of him, and Brother Andrew lightly flicked the reins. He commanded the dogs to proceed forward.

Though the still air and afternoon sun of a too warm autumn day caused sweat to bead on his forehead, dribble from his chins, and darken his nappy robes, it was not the weather that bothered Brother Andrew. It was a terrible foreboding that he would never see Seamus, the lad he had help raise, again.

He and the other monks had done their best for the boy by securing the toll collector position on Clearflow Bridge after much negation with the Duke. It was a well paying job with a minimum amount of danger. In truth, there were limited opportunities for an orphan with no property, despite the fact Seamus was raised under the watchful eyes of twenty monks. Other than seafaring or soldiering, there were few honest occupations for a seventeen-year-old lad.

The monk rubbed his sleeve across his brow and shifted his position on the cart seat. The parting had been more painful than the monk had anticipated. He wished he was already back inside the walls of the monastery surrounded by the other Brothers. Though he knew they, too, would be in a melancholy mood.

But they had a right to their sadness. Seamus and his mother, Brena, had arrived on the monastery's doorstep fourteen planting seasons ago at the height of a storm. Through females were usually not permitted to stay at the stone retreat perched high on a cliff above the sea, due to the relentless rain, obvious poor health of the mother, and youth of the boy-child, an exception was made.

An apparent case of snowgrip had weakened the woman. Brother Andrew and the rest of the monks, moved by her frail beauty, had promised to care for her son until Seamus was grown. They had also promised never to allow Seamus into the ocean. An odd request for a sea town woman, even someone new to the area, but the Brothers had assumed Brena's husband had drowned while fishing or sailing on a schooner. A gesture of charity, the monks had labeled their actions. But quicker than a bee could zip by, the little lad had wormed his way into the heart of even the sternest of them. The hooting of the evening's first owls reminded Brother Andrew of the late hour. He sighed, mopped his brow, and made a clucking sound. The dogs' ears pricked. Eager to be home as well, the canine pair hurried their pace.

#

The parting had been painful. Seamus shook his head and touched the beautiful Celtic cross on a silver chain that the Brothers had given him as a parting gift. He loved each of the kindhearted monks. He ired them for their humble ways and service to the community. They had taught him to read and write, how to tend a garden, and simple healing methods. Although he tried not to dwell on his loneliness, his thoughts kept drifting back to the bustling stone monastery.

It had been three weeks since he'd last seen his adopted fathers, and the Brothers were the only parents Seamus really ed. None of the monks knew anything about his father. Not even his name. They had told him when he'd first arrived at the monastery, his mother had hummed sea songs and lullabies to him even as she lay dying. And though it would seem impossible, he thought he ed her voice.

Seamus scratched the back of his neck. He also vaguely recalled his mother's gray eyes, straw-colored hair, and smooth hands. There had been something she'd whispered about his father at the end. But try as he might, Seamus had been unable to recollect what she'd said. The rattling of an approaching cart and the rhythmic clop of horse hooves brought Seamus back to his duties. He hurried over to the waiting trader to collect the toll. After the coins were deposited in the metal coin box attached to the toll house, he lower the bridge.

First, he turned the crank, then teeth caught teeth, cogs turned, chains strained, and the bridge lowered, then slammed. Next, the pony cart laden with barrels of bee-sweets, barley, and oats began to rumble across the planks. Seamus ambled along side the nearest spotted pony, occasionally patting its rump. The cart's driver walked on the other side of the team.

“Been to Hartshorn of late?” Seamus inquired as they crossed.

“Aye, lad. I've just come from that sea town,” the rot-toothed peddler answered.

Seamus could not suppress a smile. “Did by chance you see any of the monks? A

Brother Andrew, perhaps?”

“Aye. I was in Hartshorn on Sabbath and visited the worship place to pay my respects. Your Brother Andrew welcomed all who came to hear the evening chants. A good friend of yours?”

“Aye, sir. A dear friend.”

Seamus could almost hear Brother Andrew's deep voice greeting those who had made the climb to the monastery's chapel. He could almost see the light filtering through the glass windows and illuminating the faces of the Brothers as they chanted songs of praise and thanksgiving.

“Of course, he has seen many winters. So there is no telling what the morrow will bring,” added the peddler as he climbed back up onto the cart seat while Seamus held one of the pony's halters.

“I know he has lived a long life, but—“

“He ain't worm food yet, so be grateful for that,” the trader said with a wink.

Seamus chose not to respond to the man's comment, through he was indeed grateful that Brother Andrew remained in good health.

“Nice speaking with you, lad.”

“Good day to you, sir. And safe journeys.”

The peddler grunted, jiggled the reins, and called to the pony team. After a few snorts and head shakes, the animals began to walk down the dusty road to Eggton.

Seamus gave a quick wave, turned around, and started back across the toll bridge.

The last three weeks as a toll collector felt like three months. Thankful for their years of care-giving, he wanted to please the Brothers. He wanted them to be proud of him. They had insisted he live in the outside world before allowing him to commit to a monastic life. To please the monks, he was trying to make the best of living in the stone house by the bridge, tending his vegetable garden, and meeting travelers. But he missed the rhythm of monastery life and evening vespers. Most of all, he missed Brother Andrew, Brother Calum, Brother John, and the rest of the monks. Lastly, he missed the sight of the ocean far below swirling around the rocks, washing the beach, and stretching to the horizon. “Baa! Baa! Baa!”

Seamus turned to stare at a small he-goat prancing across Clearflow Bridge. He glanced about the shoreline for its owner. Instead, he saw two additional goats peering from between alder trees. The animals' pale eyes grabbed sunbeams and glinted with an eerie light.

“Go back, goat. Unless you want me to roast you for supper,” joked Seamus uneasily. He tugged on his belt, located his dagger. The animals' otherworldly

eyes bothered him.

The goat studied Seamus, pawed the bridge, then spun around and trotted back to his comrades. The trio put their heads close together. They appeared to have a discussion as to their next course of action. After glancing over their shaggy shoulders at him several times, a consensus of some kind must have been reached, for a second goat clamored onto the far end of the bridge.

A bit larger than the first he-goat, the second creature was no less uncanny.

Knowing he probably did not have enough time to lift and secure the bridge before the goats could make it to the other side, he nonetheless vowed to prevent this trio from crossing to Hartshorn's side of the river. With as much courage as he could muster, Seamus frowned at the he-goat. He stood in the middle of Clearflow Bridge with legs slightly spread and arms crossed over his chest.

“Go back, goat, lest you become my dinner. These fields,” he gestured toward the countryside behind him, “Are no greener than the grazing land on your side.”

The cloven-hoofed beast cocked his head, pawed the planks, but backed off of Clearflow Bridge and reed his friends. Another heads-together goat discussion ensued, after which the goats approached the toll bridge again. Seamus's stomach tightened like curing leather as the three beasts marched up onto the wooden access ramp. This time, the third and largest he-goat moved ahead of the others. With unnatural confidence, the beast strolled forward with his ghostly eyes gleaming like two full moons.

Though not an expert in local legends and dark tales, Seamus was positive shape-changers of an evil sort were trying to make their way to Hartshorn.

“Imps, bugbears, pucks, whatever! Return to your forest home,” he ordered, then pointed to the woods on either side of the road to Eggton before adding, “I will not step aside and let you .”

The goats bleated, then pulled their pink lips back to expose long fangs and carnivore teeth. They growled, lowered their heads, and charged. Seamus gasped. He tried to jump aside. But there was not enough room for him to avoid their lowered horns. The impact first knocked his breath away, then shoved him over the edge of the toll bridge.

Though the distance from the bridge to the water was little more than fifteen feet, time seemed to slow for Seamus. He felt like he was floating through the air, held aloft by prayers and unseen hands for several minutes. But eventually, the river won.

Water closed over his head with a chilly slap. He felt a prickly tingling like thousands of thistles were being pressed against his skin. His hands ached, and Seamus looked at them in the dimness of the river. Webbing stretched from finger to finger. Stroking his arms and kicking his feet, he was able to poke his head above water and breathed in the cool air. Seamus felt his clothes slipping from his body. He glanced down and saw his skin was now gray and covered in fine hair. Where he expected to see arms, he now saw flippers. Suddenly, summoned by the feel of the river water washing over his body, the words of a childhood conversation returned. He recollected his mother's voice whispering, “Selkie. I'm sorry, my Seamus, but your father was a selkie.”

“Selkie?” he had repeated.

“A magical kind of seal that becomes a man when on land.” She'd stroked his hair. “You must never go in the sea, Seamus.” Brena had added, “If you ever enter the sea, you will have to live among your father's people.” What his mother had not told him, or perhaps she hadn't known, was rivers that emptied into the brine were as powerful as the ocean itself. He glanced up at the goats. They were leaning over the edge of the bridge gawking at him with eyes wide, ears askew, and mouths hanging open. Aware the jabbing needle sensation had ceased, Seamus considered climbing from the river in seal-form in the hopes he would change back into a human once on dry land. But the banks on either side of the water were too steep to climb. Brother Andrew, he thought. Yes, the Brothers would know what to do. He was sure the river where he now found himself emptied into the ocean not far from the monastery. So seeing no better option, Seamus faced downstream and began to swim.

#

The peddler had witnessed the incident. He had tied his team to a tree and run back to the toll bridge, but the unnatural goats and lad were gone by the time he arrived. As he traveled from hamlet to hamlet, selling his wares, he told the tale of a toll bridge, three goats eager for greener grass, and a toll-collector who was never seen again. Weeks later when he returned to Hartshorn, he drove his pony cart to the monastery. With as much detail as he could , the peddler told the Brothers the fate of their fosterling. Though no body was found in the river or along its banks, the Duke's record books listed Seamus's death as a drowning. In addition, the records indicated there was a significant increase in disappearances and unexplained deaths in

Hartshorn and surrounding hamlets for several months following the drowning of Seamus, son of Brena, Monk's fosterling.

#

Heartbroken, Brother Andrew spent most of his free time by the sea. He sat on the rocks at the foot of the cliff on which the monastery had been built. Dozens of seals came up from the depths and surrounded him. Led by an especially friendly male, they always brought the monk an abundance of fresh fish which he dutifully carried up to the Brothers for evening meal.

The townsfolk of Hartshorn said nothing. Fisherman bobbing past in their boats said nothing. The Brothers gazing down from the clifftop said nothing. But all knew the truth. For each day when Brother Andrew stood at the edge of the water, he would call, “Seamus. Seamus.” Then, the seals would pop their heads from beneath the waves and the monk on the rocks. And always at the head of the pod was a large gray seal with a beautiful Celtic cross on a silver chain hung around its neck.

The Fae Places

By Serena Mossgraves

Tear down the trees, bleed the forest dry. Vacate the fae places all with out a reason why.

We have forgotten nature and her way, just wanting to make money ill gotten and pretend that we know that right way.

The fae places are breaking, Mother Nature cries, for humans are mistaking truth for their own lies.

In A Wood By Vonnie Winslow Crist

The Honorable Quest By Justine Johnston Hemmestad

Sir Cai ducked his head beneath the door frame as he stormed into Arthur’s palace; he went unchallenged, for he was the King’s knight and had a right to walk in. Deep and complex shadows of the castle interior blanketed him as he rushed through the corridors and threw the doors open of the great hall. Torches were affixed to the walls in four places, but their work seemed futile amid the concealed secrets that fluttered in the corners. He squinted and peered over both shoulders. Earthy, red-toned curtains that flowed unto the stone floor managed to block out the afternoon sun almost completely, yet he was not deterred. He had grown up with Arthur, sparred with him in their youth, and would not be intimidated by him in their manhood; their history ran deeper than the Devil’s Hole in the Morimaru Sea.

“Arthur!” he called with fury in his voice, embellishing an echo-filled room with a sense of power. He ignored the cluster of servants that ed through carrying ingredients for that night’s banquet – newly slaughtered chickens and sacks of flour, armloads of cheeses and green apples, all that he could smell more than see. “Come down here and face me like a man!” he shouted. The loud crash of an abruptly opened door sounded nearby. He rushed out of the dining hall and whirled around, glaring up toward the shadowed stairs and the indoor balcony; he reached up toward it, sure that he could almost touch it and swing himself upon it with his height. He heard the shifting of stiff material before he saw anything, thus he raised his voice even louder: “Arthur! You cannot hide behind Guinevere now!”

“Who tells you that I am hiding behind my wife?” bellowed Arthur, suddenly appearing on the balcony with heavy footsteps, his purple and gold-embroidered cloak swaying with his movement. His eyes glistened with dark humor that he did not share, a darkness that contradicted the righteousness he projected to the

world. “Say what you mean to say, Brother,” he growled.

“Brother?” questioned Cai. “Brother is the word our father forced us to use when he found you in the wilderness and brought you into his home. Oh, he was your father, but I was never your brother.” He crossed his arms over his lion-crested cloak, resolute in his stance; his ebony hair brushing upon his ears. He grimaced but stood his ground, trying to remain unaffected as the scents of roasting meats and baking bread crept upon his senses.

Arthur sighed, not as though exhausted in body but rather, exhausted in mind. He shifted his royal cloak. “Go home to your own wife and stop worrying about mine,” he ordered. The dismissal infuriated Cai and he thought about calling the havoc of the fairies into Arthur’s life.

“It was my father who brought you into our house and made you who you are – do not shun me,” Cai regained his senses and said with narrowed eyes. Then, gripping his sword, he added, “I do not worry about your wife, but I will stop any evil that threatens her.” He raised one hand toward the ceiling of the castle room. “My will is greater than you ever had the time to learn, my magic is ed down through generations.”

“You are not worried about her?” the king asked with one eyebrow raised. “Leave the magic to those little creatures that followed you in your youth – you have what you want, and you will pay the price for your deception.” “My magic is more powerful than you dream,” Cai raised his chin and announced, his full red lips compressing in anger; his eyes hardening with single-mindedness. “Your thoughts are elsewhere.”

“That may be so,” Arthur itted, “but my thoughts are elsewhere as they have

a right to be. I care not for your magic, nor do I care for what your magic can do. My might resides in my faith in Christ.”

Cai grimaced, but fought through his anger to speak: “Your thoughts are with Guinevere, as you said they have a right to be, but are your thoughts on rescuing her from Moloas? He is not King of the Summer Country for nothing; he knows how to disturb you in your sleep, he raises the dead to fight in his ranks – his furthest reaches are beyond mine.” Out of the corner of Cai’s eye, shadows danced upon the walls like in a memory, in sync with the flaming torches affixed to the wall. He could easily be enchanted by the shadows as he had once enchanted the afternoon’s heat with a magical breeze, but he commanded his own thoughts to remain steadfastly present in the moment. He would not be confused as easily as he had confused an enemy with manipulation of the weather. He focused his mind.

“We are leaving upon twilight and will ride through the night,” Arthur said as his robe rustled. He backed away from the balcony’s edge as though he would turn and leave Cai’s presence, but instead he looked back and added, “Moloas will not expect us in Glastonbury, and he shall not disturb us in our sleep because we will not sleep.”

“No, he will not,” fronted Cai more forcefully than he should, for his hair shook beside his eyes. “You give no credence to magic when you should. You were raised in the house of my father, you were nursed by magic, and yet you do not see what is before your eyes. How could you have lived with us, from your most distant memories, and still not believe in what we ourselves believe? You make no sense to me, and further, you would destroy a kingdom.”

“I am a Christian,” Arthur asserted. “I believe in Jesus Christ, our Lord, as the only power in the world.” He raised his chin and continued, “For Him, I and my knights will find the grail that he used to drink on the last night of his life in the world. The power in the grail will bring in the power of Christ. That is how we

will win the fight against evil. I will search for it until my dying breath; you will search for it with me if you are a knight of my kingdom.”

“I am, and I am too Christian,” answered Cai, “you know that. I have felt the spikes driven through Jesus Christ in my own hands,” he held his palms toward the king. “You have seen the blood run from them. You the things that happened in our house, in our youths; you the testimony we uttered. Magic arises from the spoken word, as Jesus Christ himself entered the world as the word.”

“I everything, Cai. I the nights in search of relics, the secrecy and the disguises we used to accomplish our mission. I the places we went to acquire the sacred relics; the dust clung to my shoes as it clung to yours. I searching for your mother and father, and how that search took us to lands we had never imagined. I the fairy beings that swarmed around you between the trees, how they caressed you with their wings and whispered spells into your ear. But there is no room for magic in Christianity.”

“There are fringes to that belief, as fringes cling to every belief, and the fairies dwell on the fringes,” argued Cai, unconsciously brushing his hair back with his hand. “Jesus himself intended his relics to be found through magic – fairies are the embodiment of that magic. If he did not, they would not have been found. Jesus Christ is the magic. There is nothing ‘dark’ about magic, except for the dark thoughts you bring to it. There is no room for magic in true Christianity since Christianity is magic. I am of one belief.”

“Christ’s power was endowed by God, the Father,” Arthur said, clutching the railing with wide breadth. Cai shifted upon his boots as he answered, “He does not denounce the magic we will call upon to rescue your wife, for there is no ill will or pride in it.”

“We will not use magic,” promised Arthur. “We will get her back by the power of God alone.” “I am telling you that God is the magic! I shift the weather and my own appearance; I fly with fairies; I harness dragons. This is by the power of God.”

“You slay dragons, which is different from harnessing them. Killing and death run through your veins, not mine – fairies are as blood-thirsty as you. Christ has no place for your dragons, nor your shape-shifting, in His kingdom.” His downcast gaze was clearly one of disapproval, and his wringing hands spoke to his overwrought mind.

“We can use the stealth of the fairies to save your wife,” Cai said, “and so too the power of magic – you will see. We can shift the world until she falls back to us; we can invoke the weather and Nature herself.” He began to turn toward the castle entrance then and sighed, saying in parting, “I will go now, to allow you to think on these things that I have said, as you must. Hear the truth, Arthur, and stop being the judge of Christ, for it will save your wife. I will be back here at twilight, prepared to leave on our quest. Stop your petty jealousies from preventing her safety.” Cai left Arthur standing on the balcony and departed the castle into the brightness of daylight and the relevance of his quest.

***

The night stood as a silent witness to the power and invincibility of Arthur’s army. Sir Cai thundered his steed forth beneath great oak treetops, his chain mail armor stiffening his body but the cross and lion, embroidered upon his vest, strengthening his will. Arthur had made the decision to attack in the very early morning hour, as darkness still tossed a heavy cloak of secrecy over the knights. The plan afforded them the edge they needed; they would leave the sorcerer

frightfully aghast. Cai could see only shadows in the obscurity, but he sensed that something familiar raced along with his horse. He felt the horses beside him trample the ground in his soul, for his very heart trembled, yet flashes of light caught his eye as though what he sensed did not truly wish to become visible. Smells of fresh rain on the countryside threatened to pacify him in his lack of sight, but he girded himself and led his fiercely courageous soldiers toward the castle that lay beyond the field. Wind rushed past his ears and melded his hair back, though the natural breezes were still accented by something more he could only hope for. Moonlit crickets sprung out of their path, as though the insects were truly surrendering enemies. A thought dashed across his mind that perhaps they were not crickets at all, and perhaps their radiance led to a treasured world Cai once knew and wished he could know again.

Grass crumpled beneath horse hooves like Moloas’ castle and kingdom would crumble in the presence of Cai’s knight brothers. A surge of power rushed through his body and surrounded his armor as though Christ Himself were his battle shield. Cai’s heart was a sharpened blade in his quest, for his will to save Guinevere overcame his anger. Padded armor would provide his last defense beneath the chainmail, and so too the many knights riding beside him, their swords and lances held at the ready, reflecting glimmers and dashes of familiar light. He recognized the marshes they thundered beside, but he could not allow himself to be distracted. He knew Moloas’ castle, which sat on a hill cast aglow by torch flame and sporadic moonlight, relentlessly beckoned. He felt his heart tugged by the moonlight...and something within the moonlight.

“Cai!” shouted a small voice amid the chaos of stampeding horses. “Cai, do not go without us!” Cai caught his breath. He felt as though he had been struck by a bolt of lightning; his eyes widened, and he let up on the reins in shock. “Cai,” said the tiny voice, “do not go into Moloas’ castle without us! We live there and know every crack in every stone. We will help you like we used to.”

“Why,” he began, pulling the reins back slightly on his horse, “who are you? I am a King’s knight. I fear nothing.” Like the sky unleashed rain drops, countless

glowing fairies fluttered around him, and his horse, and he looked over his shoulder to see that they surrounded his men as well. Fine ribbons of gold swirled around them and streamed through their skin as though beholding the grace of a life force, and their golden hair flowing beyond their narrow shoulders with the power of a lion. Their eyes glowed so brightly they may have been diamonds possessing ether worldly sight. Their magnificence struck his memory in the most profound places. “Fairies of old…” he breathed, “I have waited for you to come back.”

“Go forth,” a hundred voices coaxed into his ear. “Come with us. You need us again.”

With renewed determination, Sir Cai raced his steed before his men, as the steam of golden, illuminated fairies flowed behind them. A few of the other knights seemed stunned when they saw the fairies, but Cai deeply ordered them, “Onward!” and they followed. An enormous, deep silhouette in the distance rapidly grew nearer and more defined, for the knights seemed to fly as they approached. The castle’s stone walls were haunting and imposing, and ominous shadows seemed to shift from one cornerstone to the next. Castle towers struck into the sky as though lances mercilessly pierced the heavens, as though the stone was darkened by evil rather than the hour.

Cai tightened his grip on the leather reins, his horse’s legs moving as swiftly as his breath. Still no obvious stir arose from life within the castle walls…and only one, small but empty boat floated through a moonbeam in the moat. He pierced his gaze to recognize that a torch flame was raised upon a castle ledge, then another and another. He clinched his teeth, his jaw firmed, for he knew they had been seen. Stirrups, specially made for his long legs, struck his horses’ sides. He felt his own fortitude like the fairies were themselves giving him strength.

“At arms!” called a distant voice from within the castle walls. The glow of torch flame within the castle hinted to where the inhabitants were. Though he heard

more yelling from within the castle boundaries, Cai failed to distinguish the words. Some knights dismounted by the moat to quickly set up the trebuchet they would use to pummel the castle. Heavy, flaming projectiles were launched into the night, striking the walls of the castle and ripping through the great door. He, a number of his knights, and the fairies rushed over the bridge and burst through the enflamed wooden door.

Cai could not distinguish words from screams amongst the scattered people inside. Maidens and ladies in waiting, their plain night dresses flowing in the stirred breeze, held onto each other as though protection could be had; young men and old, clad only in their long shirts and breeches, stood in front of the women in a futile effort to guard them with drawn knives and bare fists. The torch glow projected shadows upon stone walls like giant, hideous beings from Moloas’ manipulation, even as the fairies seemed to strike sparks among the stones to wage war with the shadows. A dog barked whilst women shrieked; men growled in anger as swords and knives clashed in battle. The thought shot through Cai’s mind that Guinevere would be held in a dungeon, amongst spiders and the old bones of those who had perished before. “Come with us,” the fairies called to him as though aware of his thoughts, swirling their glow upon the stone path that led deeper into the castle. “This way,” they chimed.

The glow of flame honored Cai’s surroundings like a crown and stood a ready sacrifice for his knights, while the fairy glow unlocked the door to the unknown. The hooves of his horse were thick and clumping upon the stone floor; he swung his sword toward a castle-dweller, as the fairies hissed, “Man of Moloas.” Cai’s blade struck the man’s unarmored throat chest and he watched the man’s blood flow from the wound and seep into his white shirt, as the fairies swiftly shifted their light down the stairs. He reined his steed deeper into the unknown to find Guinevere, the balance of his horse upon the stairwell had by sheer skill.

Cai caught sight of the molded dungeon door by the light of his fairy army and dismounted from his horse to rush toward it. He found the steel lock and, with great force and a silent prayer, used the handle of his sword to break it off. The

fairies leapt in the air for joy, fluttering and flashing light. He threw his weight into the door and shoved it open, then was overcome by darkness and dank air. “Guinevere!” he called, unsure of where to turn. However, the fairies had not flowed in after him, leaving him confused. Cold air stabbed him with a million unseen blades.

“Cai?” sounded a faint whisper from somewhere deeply beyond. “Do not come toward me. The ground disappears,” a delicate voice warned. “Moloas has cast an enchantment upon the stone.”

“Say something else so I can follow your voice,” he requested. “I will get you out of here, my love. By my life, you will be subject to Moloas’ sorcery no more.” He pulled off his helmet and threw to the stone floor with a loud, echoing clank. “How?” she pleaded, her voice hoarse and dry. “Do not risk your life. There is no way for you to get me out, even if our love were promised after this day. My love, if only to see you one last time, I would be fulfilled.” He heard her sigh deeply, for she had seemed resigned to her fate.

“No Guinevere, our love will not die – it can never die,” he assured her, his mind steadied as he carefully shifted his weight to determine the sturdiness of the floor. “We will have each other again, body and soul. Tell me where you are held…what lies there?” He had only his own keenness of senses to rely on. “God be with me,” he said under his breath as he listened for her words.

“Come no further!” she pleaded. “You will be killed in the abyss that I hang above – Cai! I cannot live if you become victim to Moloas’ sorcery. You must stay where you are!”

“Who told you there is an abyss below you? How do you see it?” Cai asked, tenderness intertwining his concentration. He felt prompted to stop and look over his shoulder toward the door in search of the fairies; he needed their glow before he could move any further. “Friends,” he said into the darkness, “come back and show me what I have come here to see. You said you lived among the stones, you said you knew how to free my Queen.”

In an instant, the musty smell of a dungeon transformed into the scent of English roses as the fairies overwhelmed the room with their glow and their colorful grace. “We do,” they sang. Cai’s eyes widened, his jaw lowered, and he heard his beloved gasp in her cage. His hair blew back with the wind created by the flutter of fairy wings over the gentle, green field of tall grass at his boots. Even the stone walls appeared to be a tranquil blue sky with few wispy clouds, gliding from horizon to horizon. There was no sun, but the light of the fairies was the sun. An essence of peace cast throughout the scene as a pink glow cascaded over the field. Small, yellow birds chirped in the sky and swooped down to perch on the top of Guinevere’s iron cage.

He ed his mission and looked into her eyes, in the midst of fairy magic, as she sat hunched in a locked cage that hung from the ceiling of the dungeon, cloaked as the illuminated sky. Her long dark hair clung to her tattered, white gown, and tears streamed down her gaunt cheeks. He glanced again to the meadow below her cage, as she stared to it as well, her jaw lowered in obvious surprise. “Moloas told you there was an abyss below you to force you to serve as your own lock to his cage,” he uttered.

“Moloas told her there was an abyss because hopelessness held her captive -” fairies darted to and fro like butterflies, saying, “this is our magic. We are hope.” Cai watched their glow in the land of their own creation, inhaled their peace and hope, and felt humbled to their guidance. They flowed toward Guinevere’s cage and landed upon the iron rods, leaving only the lock empty.

Grass shifted as Cai stepped toward the dangling cage, heaving his sword over the lock; the fairies fluttered into the sky in a great wave. He crashed the sword down and broke the lock off with great force – pieces of iron flew to both sides of the cage. “You are free, my love,” he said as he reached inside to lift her and take her out of the cage. He knew that regardless of finding himself in a fairy wonderland though, he had to move quickly. “Never let the unknown rule your life,” he breathed into her ear as he held her in his arms; her small, bare feet pressed upon his armored boots as he towered over her. Gently stroking her split lip, he warned, “Arthur is here with his knights.” She shuttered in his arms. “I believe now that he is aligned with Moloas.” The fairies gasped so profoundly that the sky rippled. “His knights do battle for him, but he has no intention of rewarding any of them. Rather, he will abandon them and reign over the land with Moloas.”

“I know how deceitful he is, we must escape him. I knew you would come for me – I never doubted it,” she whispered to Cai. “I want only to be with you.” He kissed the top of her head but glanced often to the doorway that appeared beside the meadow’s edge. “What will he do?” she asked, holding him tighter as a fairy of lavender gradients landed in her hair as though it were a lavish ornament.

Cai gazed upon Guinevere with sullen eyes and a furrowed brow. “I have realized that we cannot go back to London,” he said. “We can never go back. Arthur will never let us live if we go back. Even if we escape to the farthest reaches of the earth, Arthur and Moloas will seek us out and condemn us.”

Guinevere, her lips trembling, asked lightly, “What are we to do? I could live anywhere, with your love. I could never live without you.” The light of the fairies had begun to dim; Cai glanced over to see them shifting between the stones, now visible on what was once an endless horizon.

“Fairies,” he called. “Why is it that you disappear? Where do you go?”

“Moloas comes this way,” the last of the fairies whispered, pulling the grassland with them into the wall. “It is in your power to use the best of your tools.”

“How do we escape?” Guinevere asked, her voice shaken.

“The fairies want us to be challenged,” Cai understood aloud. “There is something we have to defeat with love, limitless and sacrificing, boundless and never-ending. Love sacrifices in its purest and most enduring form. Love is our greatest tool. We have to use it, and believe.” “I believe in you, I believe in your magic, Cai. I could be stricken with a thousand swords, burn in a hundred fires, and I will still long for you and believe in you, my love. You are my magic.”

“Moloas will stop you, though,” a man blurted from the fully re-appeared doorway. Cai spun around on his heels to confront the voice, and immediately recognized the darkness of the wicked man’s magic, in spite of not having Cai’s height. “Are you surprised to see me?” Moloas questioned, floating above the ground to swiftly approach them, his chestnut hair swimming beside his face as though it were eels.

“I am surprised by nothing you do,” Cai answered, grasping his sword. “Release us, Moloas.”

“Why would I ever release you?” the sorcerer asked. “When you could be of such use to me. You will help me destroy Arthur’s kingdom and make it my own kingdom of sorcery. He believes he will rule with me, but you will help me overcome him. I know you will; I know magic is in your blood; I know you were

taught by the fairies in your youth. You live and breathe magic. Think how magic will rule our kingdom.”

“Release the Queen!” Cai demanded.

“And allow her to think that she is safe? me; help me, and we will rule the kingdom together.”

“I do want magic to rule - but I will not you. Let the Queen go,” he ordered as he tried to thrust past Moloas, holding Guinevere’s slight frame tightly in his arms. But Moloas squinted and breathed fire like a dragon, contracting the walls that surrounded them, and Cai fell back with Guinevere still in his arms.

“I will never let you go – you know that.” Moloas raised his arms toward the ceiling of the room as though he could reign terror on heaven itself. “You are here now, and you will be here always – Cai, yours is the power that I have wanted; I do not want the Queen. I used her to lure you here. Why would I care about dust when I could have the whole stone?”

Cai stood up, raising Guinevere beside him. “What do you want with me? How could I help your magic?” he seethed with a narrowed glare.

“You are powerful – I have seen you tame a lion with one look; I have seen you bring forth life after death. Come with me Cai, and we will rule the kingdom together.” Cai quickly glanced to Guinevere. “Come with me Cai,” Moloas requested again, “and we will raise our dead ancestors together; we will rule our kingdom, and soon the world.”

“What do you want with our dead ancestors?” Cai asked. Moloas grimaced. “To raise an army that can rule the world! Cai, we will, and we will rule by magic. You want to rule with magic, I know you do. We will strip Arthur of his power. There will be nothing left of his reign. Cai, come with me.”

“As a victim of your sorcery?”

“No!” shrieked Guinevere.

“Come with me,” Moloas said, “you will rule by my sorcery and your magic.” He laughed from his bowels, then backed away from Cai and whirled, his arms outstretched, faster and faster until the stone had begun to fall away from the walls. “Come with me, Cai – save nothing, but come with me!”

Cai, still holding Guinevere despite Moloas’ threat, prayed in his heart, hearing nothing else, feeling nothing else, but only love…love for Guinevere and love for the cascading fairies that led him to her. Moloas’s sharp fingernails dug into the side of his face but Cai was unaffected and prayed - until he thrust his sword up, and plunged the blade into Moloas’s chest. “What have you done?” Moloas cried in pain, utterly shocked, his face twisted and a trickle of blood streaming over his lip. “Your swords should be powerless against me,” he gasped. Then he coughed and winced, slumping over and writhing onto the ground.

“I used magic greater than you could dream of – I prayed for your mortality.” Moloas heard Cai’s words and howled, then he closed his eyes as dark shadows reached out from the wall from wince the fairies had disappeared into and took

him into death’s grasp.

Cai, his gaze ever-deepening and fixed upon Guinevere, promised, “Our love is pure, just as the fairies wanted. Come, we will build a new land.”

Weavers of Words and Worlds By Raz T. Slasher

Come my children, follow me

To a world of make believe Where the faeries often tread To purge the darkness from your head

Come my children, walk a while Travel through this midnight mile Through the woods and past the gate Come my children, don’t be late.

Come my children, follow me

To a world you won’t believe Where the bards all gather within And the stories of old are told once again

Come my children; now it begins No need to be nervous; no needles and pins The curtain has opened, the hour is late Let’s travel through the worlds we create

Come my children, follow me

To a world where you’re well received Down through the fog, and into the plot The place where all great battles are fought

Come my children, this is no dream Between light and dark, we shall walk the beam. Resistance is futile; you’re under our spell For we have so many great stories to tell…

A Fay’s Playful Dance

by Kristin Roahrig

Leaves splash against the sky

creating a myriad of paints

reds, yellows, and purple smearing into one another

resembling impressionism while

a fairy calls,

“Come and dance with me against the sky,

let the orange clouds move you into a rhythm and

Stepping onto the green beneath your feet.

My eyes are vivid here -

glance into them, and you’ll see

a perfect image reflected back”

Under The Mystic Moon

By Kristin Roahrig

Dancing beneath the mystic moon

a fairy, light in form swirls

across the hills knowing soon

the morning will come

The sun brings no delight,

for only under the moon’s

shadow can she dance

She moves alone under the moon

-but be quick to watch,

for as the sun arrives taking the moon’s dust

she is gone into the forest beyond

The Banshee Temple By B.F. Vega

Penny’s family knew she was going to be something magical. Her mom had bad heartburn for the entire 9 months. From this Penny’s great-gran, who was the old Bruja who made Coyote settle down, predicted two things. One that the baby would be a girl, which she was. Two that she would not be a water elemental like her father, but a fire elemental (and that it was best if the family started to fireproof the house.)

Eighteen months later her older brother Dean was looking for any excuse to not have to watch his little sister. He loved her and all, but it was hard to be a 13year-old watching any toddler, let alone one that accidentally sets things on fire when she gets mad. So when his aunt called and asked his mom and great-gran if they wanted to go school shopping with her two girls that had just been rescued from the Fairies he asked if he could go too, and volunteered his great-gramps Coyote to watch the other girls.

So it was that Meredith dropped off her daughters, the changelings Sam & Val, JJ the Hobgoblin, Tilda the ‘outzide fairy’ as the family called her, and Frankie, who was normally a baby except for when the moon came out and then transformed into the cutest werewolf puppy this side of Transylvania, and left with the two older girls and Dean to the mall. Coyote was nonplussed and promptly fell asleep as the girls went to play in the backyard. At one point JJ and Penny came back in because they were thirsty. JJ was levitating the soda down from the high shelf and was busy trying to make ice appear in the glasses silently so as not to wake their great-gramps. Penny wandered into the living room where old Coyote slept while an old Dean Martin record was playing on the record player. Penny knew that she was not allowed to touch the turntable. But she was always curious as to what all the pretty buttons and dials did. She tried the big black one that went around and it made the sound louder. She pressed the

pretty red one and the sound stopped. She turned the big black one again until it wouldn’t turn any further but there was still no sound.

Penny stepped back to look at the turntable. Her little blonde eyebrows drew together as she tried to figure out what was wrong with it. She pushed some of the other buttons but still nothing. She went to find JJ.

“Sound shhh” she said

“What?”

‘Sound. Shhh.” Penny said pointing to the turntable.

JJ took a swig of her root beer and handed Penny a little sippy cup in the shape of a pink skull that also held root beer even though they both knew that neither was supposed to drink soda. She then walked into the living room and looked at the turntable.

“You turned off.” She said to Penny pointing to the red on/off button. Before she could say anything else Penny ran forward and pushed the pretty red button again.

This time the sound filled the whole house. It didn’t sound like the man singing anymore though. This was a high-pitched shriek that was so loud and so piercing that the glass on a nearby picture shattered.

JJ quickly turned it off again as all the other girls ran in and Coyote sat up with a “What happened!!!”

JJ chugged her root beer, thankful that she had chosen a plastic cup so it didn’t break when the loud noise happened. Then she crouched down beside Penny who had fallen to the floor and was covering her ears while she screamed at the top of her little lungs. JJ rubbed her little back.

Sam ran over and picked Penny up and hugged her while saying soothing things like “It’s ok. There-there. It’s gone”

Val looked at JJ and repeated Coyote’s question, “What happened?”

JJ recounted that they had merely turned the turntable on. Val walked over to see what the record was. “What we just heard was not Dean Martin.” she said and turned to find her great-gramps looking rather suspicious.

“What did you do?” She asked him.

“I didn’t. At least I don’t think I did. But it’s been a while since I’ve heard a banshee. I’m trying to figure out who she was warning.”

“A banshee.” Val and Sam said at the same time concerned.

Tilda who was holding Frankie and didn’t talk pulsed a yellow-green at JJ who

interpreted for the rest. “Tilda want know what banshee.”

“A banshee predicts death in the family,” Sam said, which made Penny cry even louder though it was probable that she didn’t really know what death was.

“How we know who die?” JJ asked

“I suppose we have to ask it.” Val answered, turning to look at their greatgramps. “Okay, how do we find the Banshee?”

Coyote loved the girls more than anything, but he was an old trickster god and sometimes he couldn’t help himself. Instead of saying something sensible like “let the adults handle this” he instead answered Val with, “I could send you to the banshee grove, but I don’t have access to a gaming system anymore and my magic is pretty weak right now.” He accentuated this by placing a hand up to his forehead and allowing himself to fall back onto the couch.

Val looked at Sam who looked at JJ who just shrugged.

Sam walked over and turned on the XBOX. She logged into her Minecraft and handed the controller to Coyote. Whatever hex their great-gran had put on his ability to play video games didn’t seem to apply if he was playing one of the kid’s games.

Coyote gleefully took the controller and then motioned to the girls to come in for a group hug. They all did so and in the blink of an eye, they were in Sam’s

Minecraft house. Coyote gleefully clapped his hands and rearranged some blocks into a roughly circular portal. As the girls started to go through it Sam turned back to say, “If you lose even one item in this house I will tell great-gran that you let us take both Frankie and Penny to see a banshee.”

She was then gone as Coyote’s smile turned to a look of pure dismay.

The girls emerged into a large fairy ring of trees. It was dark and they could barely see anything around them. They could hear the tinkling of water flowing over smooth stones, and that was all. They had discovered on a previous adventure that Matilda had the ability to photosynthesize. At least that is what they assumed it was ever since Val had learned the word in her fifth grade science class the preceding semester.

Sam was still holding Penny who had cried herself into a semi-stupor, so Val reached out to take Frankie allowing Tilda to glow a bright blue that illuminated the whole space. The space was amazing. The forest floor under their feet was covered in soft moss. The fairy ring of trees created an open space bigger than their school gym and rose up straight for 20 feet before starting to bend toward each other forming a natural ceiling. A small creek ran through the center of the space. Around the edges of the space tree roots had grown into benches and tables. At the end across from where they were they could see that the trees had elevated a small stage also covered in moss with three mossy steps on either side of it and a podium made of living saplings.

“Woah!” they all said except Tilda who pulsed pink, and Penny who immediately woke up and demanded “Down!”

Sam couldn’t see any obvious way out of the tree ring they were in so she allowed Penny to wriggle down onto the soft moss.

They heard a sound behind them, and Sam pulled the hair stick out of her hair allowing it to morph into a katana.

“Who’s there?’ she yelled.

A girl that looked to be about 13 with wild red hair, wearing a dinosaur onesie walked forward. They weren’t sure where she had come from, but being Fae themselves they were not super worried about that.

“You must be a fairy!” The girl said in obvious iration of Sam’s sword. She then seemed to think better of it and said, “Be gone Fae this is my enchanted realm. You can’t have it!” She then screeched. It had been bad in the living room coming through the speakers. Here in person, it was so bad that the force of the scream pushed the girls back. Val almost dropped Frankie and JJ only managed to grab the baby at the last moment and sat down rather hard with the now screaming infant on her lap.

Val snatched up a huge handful of moss and quickly transformed her bow necklace and arrow bracelet. She stuffed the moss onto a non-lethal arrowhead and shot it into the girl’s mouth.

Stopped mid-scream with a mouthful of moss, the girl choked. Sam went to attend to Penny who was again screaming, while Val turned to help JJ and Frankie up. Tilda glided over to the girl and pounded her on the back, then pulled a water bottle out of the backpack she always carried. She handed the bottle to the girl who took it and gulped it, spitting out moss between each drink.

Once things had quieted down a bit Val turned to the girl. “What the heck was that?”

“Yeah,” Sam said over the still sniffling head of the toddler she held.

The girl just looked at them. She seemed undecided so Tilda again reached into her backpack and pulled out a bag of chocolate chip cookies that JJ had stolen from their mom’s secret cookie stash before leaving the house. She handed the girl a cookie then ed them out to everyone else, except for Frankie who was too young for cookies.

Now forgetting her fear in the presence of a cookie, Penny again demanded to be let down and Sam obliged so that she could pick up her dropped sword. JJ also sat Frankie down onto the moss for her to crawl around so that she could eat her cookie without the baby trying to steal it, and so she could back up her sisters if need be.

The girl took a bite of her cookie and looked up to see the four girls in a line. Sam and Val had their weapons drawn, but Tilda was still her bright blue, and JJ was magicking another cookie out of the bag while no one was looking.

“You aren’t the Fae are you?” The girl asked.

“That depends on who you ask.” Sam answered.

“I hobgoblin. They changelings. Tilda outzide fairy” JJ answered her.

The girl suddenly sat on the soft moss, “I’m sorry. I thought you were the scouts for The Fairy Court.”

“You ban-shee?” JJ asked her while allowing another cookie to float over into the girl’s hand.

The girl looked up with a small smile of thanks for the cookie and said, “Yes, well sort of. My name is Lily. My mom is a Banshee so I’m supposed to be a Banshee. But my dad is a Gollum and he gets to go to like New York all the time because he works for the United Nations and I want to do that. Gollum’s get to actively avenge things while banshees only warn about it. It’s how my parents met.” She said, taking a bite of the cookie.

Suddenly the glen was flooded with a silvery light that wasn’t coming from Tilda. They all looked up to see a perfect circle in the middle of the canopy and through it shone the full moon.

“Moooooooonnnnnnnn!!!!!!” yelled Penny who had recently learned that the word went with the big bright thing in the sky and who had been refusing of late, to go to bed until she saw the moon. She was so excited that she dropped her cookie. She did her best to jump up and down but at 18 months she couldn’t quite get herself off the ground yet so instead ended up doing very animated squats while yelling, “Moon! Moon! Mooooooonnnn!” over and over, until the inevitable happened and Frankie transformed into her wolf form. Then Penny also started yelling, “Puuuppppyyyy!!!! Moooonnn!!!” Over and over again.

“I thought I was loud,” Lilly laughed as Tilda pulled Frankie’s collar and leash out of her backpack and JJ went over to help quiet down the excited toddler.

“Yes, Penny. That moon. Good job. Hi-five.” As everyone knows no toddler can resist a hi-five and thus distracted Penny started hi-fiving JJ, allowing Sam and Val to turn back to Lilly.

“Why would the Fae scouts be here?” Sam asked a little cautiously. The last time they had been to the Fae court had not ended very well for anyone involved.

“The court used to meet at an island in the middle of the swamp outside this ring. But humans have begun draining the swamp for more land to build houses on, and the island is not an island anymore. The Queen declared that a new spot must be found and somehow they found this place.”

“What is this place?” Sam asked.

“Oh, I thought you knew. This is the temple of the Banshee. Every banshee learns how to do their job here. Behind the podium is a trap door into the sacred roots which is where the name of the next mortal to die appears. My great-greatgreat- grandmother helped her friend Gaia plant the trees, flatten the floor and redirected the only fresh water around here to flow through our sanctuary. Everything outside the trees are brackish waters and you know for real earth magic…” “For real earth magic you need a source of freshwater.” Sam answered sitting cross legged on the soft moss. “The court doesn’t need the help of fresh water. And they use Fairy Fire for light so why would they want this place?” “I don’t know. I told the scouts that this place was sacred to the banshee, but you know how the Fae court is to non-Fae.” “They Stupid!” JJ piped up in response to that.

“Where are the rest of the banshees?” Val asked, “There is no way Queen Stupid-Butt would be able to stand against a bunch of Banshees.”

Lilly looked down at her cookie sadly before answering, “I don’t know of any others. There is just my mom and then me. It’s why I have to be a Banshee even though I don’t really want to be.”

“Well, how can we help?” Sam asked

“Oh, I was trying to summon an Elemental. I heard that Elementals can keep Fae away. Did you guys happen to bring an Elemental with you?” Lilly asked.

All the girls then turned to where Penny was happily trying to teach Frankie how to high five, but accidentally kept setting her paw on fire.

“She’s the Elemental?” Lilly asked. “She’s just a baby.”

“She toddler.” JJ responded, “Queen Dummy-Head scared of her.”

“What?” Lilly asked

“The Fae Queen is scared of Penny.” Sam answered. Then looking around her, “The ground here is unnaturally flat. And slippery with all this moss.”

“Hmm,” Val said.

“What?” Lilly asked.

“Dance floor.” Val answered, “Queen Buttface might need a new dance floor.”

“One with powerful earth magic.” Sam said almost to herself.

Tilda then tugged on JJ’s shirt sleeve.

“Tilda have idea,” JJ said and they watched as Tilda picked up a small tuft of the soft moss and took it over to Penny. Tilda turned orange and JJ said, “Penny burn moss.”

Penny looked up at her cousin, gave a slight giggle and set the moss ablaze.

“How does that help?” Sam asked

But Val was stamping on the moss underfoot and turned to Lilly, “How thick is this moss?”

“Three or four feet I think,” she answered.

Val gave a truly evil smile before saying, “Sam, when does the Fae court come to this part of the world next?”

Sam pulled out her cellphone and pulled up her calendar, “tomorrow night” she answered.

“Guys, I have a brilliant idea.” Val said. She turned to Sam, “Call Dean see if he knows what happened to the rest of the Banshee or if he can find out without alerting our mom, aunt, or great-gran.”

“On it.” Sam said

“JJ, when Sam finds the answer I need you to use your family magic and reunite Lilly’s banshee family.”

“K!” JJ answered

“Tilda, can you get Frankie to dig some tunnels?”

Tilda pulsed blue

“She say yes.” JJ interpreted.

“Penny, want to play a fun game?” Val asked

“Game!!! Game!! Game!!” Penny answered.

“Perfect.” Val answered then turned to Lilly saying, “You should probably go get your mom, and your dad if he’s around. We might need them”

“I don’t know what you’re planning,” Lilly said, “but I’m glad you’re on my side.”

“Oh, we are on any side that annoys the Fae Queen.” Sam answered before turning back to her conversation. “Dean I don’t have time to listen to your video game nonsense, I know you’re playing Ark I need….What? At the mall? Um, but that can’t….No, he’s stuck in my Minecraft house, or at least he better be. Yes, we will but we have an emergency here too…”

“What is going on?” Lilly asked in regards to Sam’s conversation.

“We never know what’s going on with any of our family.” Val answered before thoughtfully adding, “It’s better that way.”

Lilly didn’t know what to say so she went to a tree somewhat close to them and pulled open a very ordinary looking door that led to what looked like the

underside of a staircase, but once she was through the door and it closed behind her there was just a tree with no opening.

When Lilly had gone and Sam had hung up with Dean they turned to look at each other. Val didn’t even whisper the Elvish she usually needed to summon her bow, the anger she had at the Fairy queen was enough to make her weapons refuse to be jewelry.

JJ noticed her sister's agitation and asked, “What wrong Val?”

“Queen Stupid-Face” Val answered.

“A Fairy only needs Earth magic if they are trying to take something that is not theirs.” Sam answered. “What Butt-Face want?” JJ asked. “I don’t know.” Sam answered. “But she’s not getting it” Val said, holding her bow so tightly that if it hadn’t been enchanted ash it would have snapped. The girls got to work helping Frankie dig tunnels through the moss and setting up some traps that a Boggart had taught them the last time they had been out to their mom’s cousin’s farm.

Because The Banshee Temple existed in magic time, what would have been a full day in the normal world only took about half an hour in the temple.

“Weird.” Sam said

“What?” Val asked.

“Time moves faster here than it does anywhere else that we have been, even in the Fairy worlds. How do the Banshee get to all the mortals they have to warn in time?”

“Maybe that’s why they only warn certain families?” Val asked.

Sam shrugged and looked over at Frankie and Penny who were lying in a heap on top of each other in a moss nest that Tilda had made for them when they started to get tired.

JJ was singing them a lullaby which since she was a hobbe had put them straight to sleep. Sometimes JJ felt bad for not telling her mom and aunt that she had that ability, but not bad enough to give up an extra hour of T.V. having to put her sister to sleep. She loved her sister, but she also loved Big City Greens and her mom said that it wasn’t appropriate for Frankie.

JJ was just about to stop singing and let the girls sleep when Tilda flashed a bright red.

“Fairies coming!” JJ hissed at her sisters, interpreting Tilda’s warning. She quickly summoned some moss to grow over her sisters to keep them warm and safe, and asleep until they needed them.

“Did you know that JJ could summon plants to do things like that?” Sam asked Val

“I don’t think that JJ knows what JJ can do.” Val answered with a characteristic shrug. Then she and Sam heard what Tilda must have sensed. It was the sound of crickets. On normal nights in a normal place this would have gone unnoticed, but in The Banshee Temple no outside sounds had penetrated the entire time that they were there. This meant that either there was an opening somewhere or that the crickets were themselves magical.

All the girls knew that when The Fairy Court was near human settlements they used crickets to mask any sounds that might have raised suspicions. There were not crickets outside the trees, there were Fairies, and Lilly had not yet returned.

Tilda flashed red then yellow and back to red. JJ interpreted quickly, “Tilda say we hide til we know what Butt-Brain want.”

Sam and Val nodded and they all ran over next to the nest the other two girls were still sleeping in allowing themselves to ease into the tunnel they had built that was big enough for the four of them.

A tree suddenly grew a doorway and it opened into the temple. A guard entered, then another, then The Queen herself. The rest of her royal guard followed her but not The Fairy Court.

“Whaaa? Val started, but Sam shushed her.

The queen approached the freshwater stream that ran through the moss floor. She stopped by the stream and then looked around as if she was expecting something.

“Light!” She said and the tree door opened again. Six Gnomes ran in with lit torches. The queen waved her hand and all Gnomes floated to encircle her and her guards.

“Book!” She said and one of the guards handed her a really old looking book. It had a picture of what looked like a Kelpie on the front cover. The Queen turned the pages rapidly with her magic until she found what she had apparently been looking for.

“Sound!” She said and all the guards took out various instruments. The whole banshee temple was soon bouncing music off of the impenetrable wooden forest that composed it. The Queen waited a moment before levitating the book so she could read it without her hands. Then she started singing in the language of the Fae.

Tilda poked JJ and shrugged her shoulders. JJ poked Sam and said, “Tilda want know what she sing?”

“No she doesn’t” Sam whispered back. But Val had no scruples or misguided notions about protecting her younger siblings from harmful truths.

“She’s singing that humans are horrible and that she needs the noise to arise and

avenge the humans aiding the traitors. She also said – Hey!” Val called out as The Fae Queen mentioned her by name in the song followed by a very unflattering observation.

The Queen’s head turned sharply toward where the girls were hiding. But then it turned quickly back as something was happening to the water in the stream. It seemed to be pulling itself in from either side and then gathering in the middle. All the girls watched wide-eyed as the water started to take the form of a giant horse. This horse, though, had a tail that looked more reptile than horse. Its mane was formed of water taking the shape of tangled tree limbs. Its front hooves ended in claws instead of hooves, and its mouth split its head open all the way up to its ears.

“Woah!” all the girls said together.

The giant horse reared back and stood on its hind legs, snatching one of the torch holding Gnomes out of mid-air and crunching the little creature loudly between its teeth. Then it landed on its front paws and shook its head before lifting its head to the tangled canopy roof and letting out a screech that was so loud even The Fairy Queen herself fell away from it and covered her ears.

“Look!” Sam said, pointing at the ceiling.

The branches seemed to be reacting to the horses call and were rearranging themselves to make the ceiling opening larger.

The Fairy Queen quickly recovered and said, “Go Bukavac! Find the humans aiding the traitor fairies and bring them back. I have need for new servants.”

The Bukavac screamed again and the queen fell back as the mighty water horse sprouted wings from its sides and started to lift off from the now empty streambed.

It was the second scream that woke up Penny and Frankie.

Penny sat up and rubbed her little eyes. She saw Sam first and made the sign language sign for milk. Frankie though still in puppy form saw the Bukavac first and gave a little growl then a bark. She had slipped from the nest before JJ or Tilda could grab her and was now dancing around the feet of the Bukavac barking her little head off.

“The traitors are here!!” The Queen yelled. “Guards! Find them! Kill them!”

Tilda had just handed Penny a sippy cup with juice in it as they hadn’t brought any milk with them. Sam shouted to Tilda and JJ “Stay here with Penny.” Then she and Val broke cover, weapons ready and started attacking the fairy guards, who had apparently forgotten that they were not supposed to attack of the royal household, which Sam and Val were.

JJ was concentrating all her family magic on Frankie to keep the Bukavac from being able to eat her sister.

Tilda was trying to entertain Penny who was very cranky having not gotten a long enough nap. Penny turned to JJ who was busy doing something that Penny couldn’t understand.

Then Penny looked for Sam and Val, but they were fighting Fairies. Sam’s blades slicing through wings and uniforms and Val’s arrows popping out eyes and penetrating hearts. It was gloriously gory. For a second it made her laugh, but then she looked for Frankie and that’s when she saw it!

“HORSEY!!!!!!” Penny screeched out as she tumbled out of the hiding place. For a second everything stopped. Even the Bukavac stopped flapping its wings as the tiny humanoid toddled toward it as fast as its little legs could carry it.

“HORSEY!!!! Penny screeched again.

This time the Fairy Queen screeched out, “Guards! Protect me!!”

But Sam and Val got in front of the guards and though there were more guards than girls, Sam and Val were able to keep them away from Penny.

“JJ! Tilda! Get Penny!” Sam yelled.

“I protect Frankie!!” JJ yelled back and her little voice was colored in fatigue.

Tilda then did something very unexpected. She dashed from her hiding place and ran toward the tree that Lily had disappeared into. She touched it and a door appeared. Then she left.

“Tilda run away!” JJ reported to her sisters as they clashed with the guards, and Frankie continued to bark at the huge monster horse, which was trying to stay away from Penny because in her excitement she had set all of herself on fire and the horse seemed to be afraid of fire. All the while the Fairy Queen was screaming for more guards.

“Ran Away?!” Sam said as she blocked a fairy dagger that had been aimed at her face. “Not the FACE!” she yelled at the offending guard, knocking him on his back and using his own dagger to pin his wings to the ground.

The guard gave a very low “sorry” as Sam rushed to help Val take on two guards who had ganged up on her.

“Sam! Your phone is ringing!” Val yelled above the din of the battle, the magical horse creature, the toddler yelling “HORSEY”, the yipping werewolf puppy, and the Fairy Queen still unsuccessfully yelling for more guards.

“Seriously, how can you hear that?” Sam asked

“I think I’m part Elf.” Val answered

“Val. We’re sisters. If I’m not part Elf, then you’re not part Elf.” Sam answered her, giving one final thrust with her blade and then whipping out her ear buds so she could connect with the call while keeping her hands free for battle.

Just as Sam answered the phone the door through which Tilda had exited swung

back open and Tilda glided quickly back into the field followed by Lilly and a woman that looked like a taller older version of Lilly who had to be her mother. The woman saw the Bukavac and took a step back.

“Lilly Mom!” JJ yelled to Sam.

“Tilda. Get Frankie!” Val yelled, then added, “I’ve got this Sam. Go!”

Sam nodded and as soon as Tilda scooped the squirming puppy up from between the now seriously spooked horse's legs. Both Sam and JJ ran toward Lily and her mom.

Lilly’s mom looked at the horse then the girls. “I can’t tame the Bukavac by myself and neither Lilly nor I can fight alone.

“We need more Banshee.” Lilly said, her eyes wide as the horse almost squashed the Fairy Queen under its great claw as both of them tried to dodge the tiny moving bonfire that was still yelling “Horsey! Pet Horsey! Come Horsey!!”

“Ok. Dean tell me where the banshee are.” Sam said into her mic. “Right. Okay. JJ- Sydney Opera House, The Bolshoi Theater, Teatro San Carlo, Teatro Colon, are they all theaters?...Okay are they all opera houses….yes, I guess it makes sense for Ban--HEY!” Sam yelled as a guard got past Val and tied to impale Lilly. “Dean I gotta go. No, I still don’t know how that is happening, but I have to go kill some guys.” Sam hung up and jumped back into the fray of the pitched battle as JJ took Lilly and Lily's mother’s hands and shut her eyes tight.

All around The Banshee Temple lights were appearing. At first it was like a thousand fireflies were flitting around. Then they started to coalesce into twelve large oval portals. Each portal seemed to be looking into one dressing room or another. At first nothing happened, and then the first person stepped out of an oval followed by another and another. A dozen Banshee from all over the world now encircled the flat mossy ground.

Lilly squeezed JJ’s hand who let go of both Lilly and her mom and fell onto the soft floor to lie on her back as she was exhausted. Tilda came over and pulled JJ closer to the tree line where she and Frankie had been waiting, with Frankie barking the whole time. Now Frankie jumped on JJ and started licking her face until the hobgoblin laughed. “Stop Frankie. Still battle!”

JJ sat up as Lilly yelled, “Sam! Val! Get Penny!”

Sam looked at Val who looked back at Sam then grabbed one of the fairy guards by the cloak, cut it off of him and ran toward the screaming toddler. She tossed the cloak around Penny so that she could pick her up and then both she and Val ran outside the circle of Banshee to their sisters.

Relieved of her fear of Penny the Fairy Queen finally realized what was happening.

“Oh no.” She said as all of the Banshee opened their mouths at once. The noise was overwhelming. The sisters and Penny all huddled together covering their ears. The trees of the banshee roof reacted to the sound and all the doors hidden in the bark could be heard locking.

JJ opened her eyes to see the canopy up above closing into a full roof and the remaining torch Gnomes were blown to various trees which seemed to catch them with their branches and light vast braziers that the trees seemed to be forming as they went.

The Bukavac slowly came to a standstill as it seemed to absorb the voices. Val looked up just as the Fairy Queen was trying to sneak away with the remainder of her guards. She grabbed Penny by the hand and scrambled over to the nearest moss fuse that they had placed earlier. Fireworks erupted around The Fairy Queen, causing The Queen to scramble toward another part of the temple. Penny, realizing what the fuses were for, decided to light them all on fire at once. Fireworks erupted all around the perimeter of the Banshee Temple. The Banshee screams got louder to counter the fireworks and thick white smoke filled the now closed off temple.

Slowly the Banshee screams and the smoke cleared through a hole that had opened in the ceiling. The girls all got up and looked at the ring of Banshee. The Bukavac had disappeared and the clear lively stream once more ran through the moss floor. The Fairy Queen and her remaining guards were now sitting in the middle of the stream looking around them at some large and fairly pissed off Banshee.

“Um...misunderstanding.” The Queen said, “I was definitely not trying to steal the Bukavac to enact revenge on some enemies. I know it’s the source of Banshee powers. I would never….”

As one the Banshees screamed again and the moss reacted this time growing up into the stream and gagging The Queen.

Lily left the circle to come to the girls, “Thank you.” She said

“Bah, no prob!” Val answered as Sam’s phone rang.

“Hello? Oh, hey Dean...wait...what? Okay, we’re on our way.” She hung up and looked at her sisters and her cousin who was now searching through the moss looking for more fireworks. “Um, we need to go to the mall. Apparently there are dinosaurs.”

“Cool. Robot dinosaurs?” JJ asked

“No.” Sam replied, “Somehow there are real dinosaurs. And Dean is freaking out, because they closed the arcade until the dinosaurs are caught.”

“JJ!” Val said, but JJ had already opened a portal linked to their mom. All the girls and Lily looked through at the mall where a pack of velociraptors was encircling Wetzel’s Pretzels.

“Cool!” The girls said.

“Pwetzilll!” Penny yelled and jumped through the portal.

Crocus By Vonnie Winslow Crist

Walk With Me, Will-o-the Wisp By Fred Gerhard

Walk with me I am still walking With you

Our feet leave no mark The forest floor Keeps falling

Branches, twigs Pine needles Bodies and ribbons

Seasons and songs You spoke As we searched

A path out of the

Deeper wood beyond The breath on our lips

That earthy scent Long after the tune Turned dark

Teine Sith By Fred Gerhard

Give me arrows of reed

Give me throat of wren Loose me in a meadow of papyri Birch-bark forests glowing white and pungent

Dip my finger in your darkness

And draw in secret letters Derived from a treehouse pact Turn my head with a glance

A demure look of nonchalance

And abandon me to my reverie In inebriated tiredness I scribble hypnogogic visions

Across the remainder of a note

I do not send

Give me the full stanza The knell of the rhyme

Returning the slap in the

Bell cast of my torso a Deafening song of life My pen will roll in fingers

Like Hitodama deciding

Which way to alight And carry a message to you Where you dare read

A madness for life

A madness for joy or pain Or both

And the poem is unlike a Page of inked words

As unlike as a landscape

from the iridescent paint of A shimmering vista Glimmering

Glowing and

Gone

Maple Wings

By Fred Gerhard

Dew circle droplets dawdle on the page of a body on the forest floor – exposed text illustrating unnerving patience

in sympathetic systems which unaware sprout wings of maple patiently grown through the hole in a heart and shoulder blade –

Wings! split a cocoon body syrupy, seeking light

in dappling day my sweet maple wings facing the ground

I no longer walk

Dandelion Fairy By Fred Gerhard

The English Garden returned this spring, tulips tall and strong opening first, hovering in May breeze waiting for flocks and fuchsia to the Victorian afternoon garden party on the lawn.

And gazing long from the lawn to see pink, white, magenta petals, I absently drew my finger across your lips, collecting yellow pollen – a dandelion fairy in the grass, here today in full yellow blaze of sun, sitting at ease in the verdant afternoon, and free upon the gentle green rippling day.

I would not pick you from your fuzz-lined stalk or your tale about living for a day, but listening to your golden plea, Alaya, I touched your yellow face, amber heart, powdery joy knowing you cannot be planted, or tamed for English Gardens or painted ladies.

And in a madness I have fallen in love with a dandelion sprite, even knowing that the will of the wisps of us tomorrow blow away to nothing, scattering our hopes to the wind, dancing pa de deux currents to alight only upon a planet too small to contain

our garden in bloom.

Slow Silver

By Fred Gerhard

Afternoon sky silver behind cloud mountains shining like a ghostly tune

The final petite daisies of summer blaze across forest floor in farewell when daisies are no more

If you should stand near to see this sylvan glade – and touch my sleeve

For a moment the forest observes

Not even the leaves breathe

a word

Forest Cemetery by Vonnie Winslow Crist

In the chill of frequent showers, persistent lichen clung to encircling fieldstone walls, chiseled monuments, headstones, brick walkways. And they thrived.

Encouraged by wet leaves and tree shade: fungi flourished and carved minute niches, mushroom spores etched a bright swath across rock, mosses rooted among bricks. And they multiplied.

Then, rain trickles eroded avenues in mineral. Sunken burial plots collected moisture, filled with pine needles, nurtured wild flowers. Termites and skittish black beetles feasted on tree bark and winter-kill branches. Sapling roots pried apart baked clay.

And they persevered.

Yesteryear, elegant figures and pristine markers with readable inscriptions stood in orderly fashion, bands of bricks separated graves into a tidy grid, and family by the hundreds frequented this place. But ing eons allowed Nature's artisans to make their mark. And they conquered.

Gone now the people, the names and dates, the paths, the sculptures... Only wild bees, spirits of the dead, woodland creatures, and faeries visit this tangled thicket where the trees reign.

Real Happiness By Michael Gillen

Caelia liked it better when they called her a goddess. All that was long gone, of course, but the thought of it still made her happy. Those brief centuries she was called a saint were the worst, of course; she hated being nice to everyone. And a virgin. And the clothing was the worst. Her kind had no name. They had existed as long as the mountains and the seas, long before human tried to categorize everything in the world. Still, her new role as the “Fairy of the Wood” was fine enough, if a bit boring. Yes, she had no need for the statues or burnt offerings, but it did make her feel appreciated. She would kill for a votive candle these days.

Caelia woke from a long nap to the sounds of another mortal begging for help. This year, winter had continued through April, so the shivering petitioner was wrapped in a heavy brown cloak, kneeling in the ankle-deep snow. She felt bad for him. She reminded herself to make a big stink at the next party that spring should come sooner. Not that Caelia was invited to parties.

She decided to play into expectations and appear as a beautiful, slender maiden with gossamer wings and a green robe. She dismissed her veil of invisibility right as the man looked up to warm his face in the sun, appearing so gradually it was barely perceptible. Maybe if she rode in on fiery horses throwing lightning they would call her a goddess again, but the cleanup alone would be terrible. Caelia rolled her eyes and did her best to put on her most majestic voice: “Speak, O mortal. I shall answer your request.”

“Great lady,” the man said, quickly lowering his head in respect. “I beg of you. I

wish to love my intended.” Caelia had never heard that one before. At first, she assumed he had misspoken. She was an immortal being of near impotent powers, after all; maybe he was nervous. If not, human beings had changed since the last time she spoke to any of them. And they never change.

Sensing her hesitation, the man continued: “It has been two years since I was told to find a wife, and I have found a local girl. She is kind, and she is beautiful, but I don’t love her. Please, Great Lady, use your magic so I can be happy.” “So, what’s the problem?” Caelia asked. Biting her lip, she added: “I mean, brave mortal, why do you need me to make you fall in love with her? Surely a woman like that should be easy to love.”

“I have never loved a woman,” the man said, shaking. “I have tried, prayed to all the saints, fasted, did everything I can think of, but it never happened to me.” He blushed. “Only once did I feel that, for a traveler who left before I got his name.”

“Oh,” she said. She circled around the man, resting her hand on his shoulder as she ed. “I mean, I can do it, but why?” Now she was curious.

The man seemed confused. “A man loving a woman is what is done.”

“Yeah, sure,” she said, unsure. Still, the man had come all this way, and letting him go away empty-handed would be terrible for her reputation. So, she drew a circle in the air with a finger. There was a burst of light and a small, multicolored dog leapt into existence, landing in the shocked man’s arms. “As long as you have this dog by your side, you will be happy. He will live forever, of course, and, when you die, he will return to the realm of the fairies.”

The young man seemed profoundly grateful, but Caelia was already growing bored with him. She sent him along with his fairy dog, certain that she had solved whatever problem it was.

As he left, Caelia wished it were so easy for her to be happy. If she were able to cast a magic spell and make herself content with her existence, she was sure she would. Oh well. Her kind was much more complicated than humans. For her, happiness was recognition: to bask in the sun of her queen, Titania, and her court. That would be true, honest happiness.

Caelia really didn’t have time to worry about this: she had a lunch date to get to, and those came less and less frequently these days. For the date, she chose to manifest herself as a shockingly beautiful old woman with jet black hair and red eyes. That should get them talking. Certain she would make a splash, she cast the spell to transport her to Titania’s domain.

Today the palace was in the form of a massive, damask tent glowing with motes of light under an enormous golden moon set against a starless sky. To be honest, it wasn’t Titania’s best work. Not that Caelia would ever say that. Maybe in a few centuries she could cackle with some friends about it on a windswept moor. Assuming she made more friends, of course.

Caelia’s date Dressamor was in the form of a bright-green stag with antlers twenty feet wide, laden with golden bells and silver trinkets. She (or perhaps he; Dressamor was a stag at the moment) was waiting by a roaring emerald fire, lapping wildly from a massive pool of blood-red wine.

“No need to wait for me,” Caelia said, pulling up a chair for herself from the

ether.

“Darling, I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come.” Dressamor’s voice was like a thunderstorm. “Please, have some.”

An ivory goblet appeared in Caelia’s right hand, and she sipped from it slowly. Dressamor was the last one who still called on her, Caelia reminded herself. If she were to somehow land an invitation to the good parties, she needed any connection she could get.

“Delicious,” Caelia said. “You always have such amazing taste.”

“How have you been doing with mortals?” Dressamor wasted no time. “I had the most interesting person the other day. There’s to be a Roman Empire!”

“Oh. Another one?”

“Yes,” Dressamor said. “But this one is Holy.”

“Oh, my.”

“You know about what’s going on with Charlemagne, of course.”

Caelia did not. “I do,” she said.

“Well,” Dressamor said excitedly. “His kingdom is going to be the Holy Roman Empire.”

“Really?” Caelia bit the inside of her lip. She wanted to avoid appearing rude. “Good for him.”

“Titania says they won’t actually call it that for a few more centuries,” Dressamor said. “But the emperor himself begged for my aid. It was absolutely wonderful. He was alone in the woods and prayed to my sacred tree. You do how Gloriana got her start by helping that Caesar fellow. Well, this is my chance to show her up! Her Roman Empire fell, and now mine is ascending!”

It took all of Caelia’s strength not to mention that Gloriana still had a bit of her empire around and kicking, somewhere around Constantinople. Such knowitalism did not do well for her at court, of course. Instead, she forced a grin. “Well, you know me,” Caelia said. “I always had more of an interest with helping out the common people, you know. You should see the harvests I bring to my village!”

“Sure, dear,” Dressamor said, her palpable pity infuriating. “No kings or queens or anything from your village yet?”

“Oh, well, that’s not really something we do. You know, we like to keep it small. The common touch. Not everyone can rule the world, Titania says. I take pride

in how I can bring quality magic to people who really need it.”

“Yes, dear.” Dressamor took another huge drink of wine. She was about to become insufferable. “But, the same thing, year in and year out, I’m sure you must crave something really adventurous.”

“Well, we can only give what we’re asked for,” Caelia said, desperate to avoid this topic.

“I think it’s great that you stay so devoted to common people for so long.”

“And, it’s not all the same stuff all the time, you know.” Caelia downed her entire goblet and summoned another. “Why, just today I gave a fairy hound to a mortal who, get this, was trying to make himself love her, and not the other way around!” She put on her best face. “I think it’s that kind of out-of-the-box thinking that Titania would love to hear about!”

“Caelia, sweetie. I love you. You know that.” Dressamor’s stag eyes were sad. “But how is that going to make them blossom? You know, my neck of the woods wasn’t a potential capital of Europe forever. You need to start planning long term, Caelia. I’ve been very selective with the requests I fulfil. Guiding my people. We can’t be too ive, nor too permissive. Titania has us working to--”

“I know what Titania has us working toward,” Caelia interjected, with a bit too much venom. She calmed herself and immediately added: “This is a plan, dear. How many great artists and kings have been held back due to their fears and despair?” She tried to go poetic: “I will lift the darkness from their eyes and have them all reach toward heaven.”

Dressamor smiled at Caelia, as much as a giant stag can smile. “That sounds wonderful.”

The rest of the lunch went about as well as the first part did, and Caelia would have gnawed her leg off to get out of it if she could. Hearing about how the others were thriving with their charges was not something that Caelia enjoyed at the moment. She seethed with jealousy at the thought of her fellows being so wonderfully happy: respected, lauded, celebrated, talked about. Caelia wished she could actually get drunk and not think about the most beautiful ones, flitting about at their extravagant parties, chatting with Queen Titania, showing off whatever wonderful thing they came up with next. Bitches.

Still, she laughed at all of Dressamor’s jokes, and made sure to “ooh” and “ah” at the high points of every meandering story to which her friend subjected her. If Caelia wanted real happiness, she would have to suffer.

When Caelia got back to her grove she saw it was autumn, and from the growth of the trees about twenty to thirty years had ed. The fairy dog wasn’t waiting for her, so she guessed it was going well. Caelia turned her efforts toward making the leaves turn the proper shade of crimson and settled in for a nice, long nap.

About ten years later, she was interrupted by another penitent: a plain woman in a wimple and the black habit of a novitiate at the nearby convent. Caelia hadn’t seen them much since her sainthood days. Truth be told, Caelia missed them: too serious, perhaps, but joyous in their own ways, moving through their daily prayers, chatting with friends beyond the abbess’s watchful eye, sneaking off occasionally with a strapping young traveler they would never see again.

“Great Lady of the Woods,” the novitiate said aloud, kneeling in the grass. “I beg of you a favor.”

Caelia really hoped this one would be an artist. Dressamor, Yoseijo, and Orizaba all had people who made their requests in song, and Gloriana once had an epic poem. Still, there was something to be said about the power of the prosaic. At the next party, she decided that she would lean into the whole “fairy for the common people” thing and say her petitioners were too “real” to put up with any of that artsy-fartsy stuff.

“Greetings, my child,” Caelia said as she materialized into her usual form with the green dress and gossamer wings. “I shall offer you a wish.”

“Jesus, help me,” the novitiate said as she placed her hand over her chest in shock. It took her a few moments to gather herself. “I beg of you, Great Lady: happiness.”

“Happiness?” Caelia perked up at that. Perhaps word of her work had already gotten out?

“Yes,” the novitiate rose. “Growing up, I had a neighbor who took all of the sorrow of life with a smile. The death of his children, his wife leaving him, losing the use of his leg...he was able to take them all. Now he lives in the remnants of his house and begs in the village, each day with his little dog. No matter what happens to him, he smiles. People kick him, beat him, steal his food, and he’s content. He never once made any attempt to improve his situation, like Jesus when tempted in the desert during his forty days.” She paused. “I have never felt as serene as when I see him.”

“Oh, yeah...yes. I can help you with--” “The sisters at my order no longer pray to God,” the novitiate said. “They chafe at the constraints the church has put upon them. They escape each night for drink or a man. When they pray, they move their mouths, but I can tell in their hearts that they only look forward to the end.”

By Titania’s Terrific Tits, what a loser, Caelia thought. And she spoke like an idiot. Okay, Caelia would puff up her words when speaking to humans, but that was just theatrics. Putting on a show. This woman probably spoke like this all the time. Still, if she didn’t grant the wishes of boring people, she would never grant wishes at all.

Caelia summoned another multicolored dog from the realm of the fairies., The novitiate named this one Guinefort, after some dog who had been sainted (they were sainting dogs now? Caelia wondered). The novitiate was extremely grateful and promised to tell the tale of the wonderful gift from the fairy that waited for people in the forest.

Fabulous, Caelia thought. I’ll be swapping stories with Queen Titania in no time.

As this one left, Caelia thought about what would happen to this incredibly boring, but earnest person. They were both, in a sense, about to be delighted, each surrounded by others all serving the one they worshipped. Whereas the novitiate had to satisfy herself with a distant and silent god, Caelia was going to prove herself before her queen and fellows. Caelia decided this was better; at least she was going to get some really fantastic parties out of it.

Over the next few decades, she received dozens of penitents, all of whom left happily with their very own multicolored fairy dog. Slowly, the dogs would

return. When their master had ceased to be, they would find their way back to Caelia, where she would send them back to the realm of the fairies.

They really were wonderful dogs, even if the enchantment did not work on her kind. They always seemed to be happy to see you, and their tails never ceased wagging. When Caelia had bad days, the dogs would nuzzle her gently and rest their heads on her lap.

It had taken about two hundred years since the first man and his fairy dog for Caelia to become a real celebrity, with people making pilgrimages miles long in order to get their own source of eternal happiness. People started to refer to her as a saint again, which made Caelia roll her eyes again. So, she changed her appearance again, now speaking to mortals as a withered old crone with a hunch, leaning heavily on a gnarled staff and clad in a red cloak covered in silver spiderwebs. She hoped she would be called a witch or something interesting like that. They still called her a saint. That aside, Caelia was happy.

One night, she was resting comfortably on a mound beneath a fantastic crescent moon. One of the fairy dogs was snuggling next to her, snoring softly in the summer grass. The air was thick with moisture and dazzling green fireflies, who darted to and fro with merrymaking pixies that glowed pink or blue. A family of deer rested at the edge of the clearing, and exhausted wolves slept nearby. But none of that held her attention because Caelia had received a handwritten invitation to the Autumnal Tea, where no less than Queen Titania herself would be in attendance.

Caelia rolled onto her stomach and held the letter close to her face and thought of how long this had taken. When Caelia was very young, she found the court of Titania as an alabaster palace with delicate towers that reached the moon. Despite being an immortal being of infinite power, she had never conceived of

creating anything like that with her magic. She had contented herself to dancing on lakes and making dresses from the endless varieties of flowers she found in the fairy realm.

It was at this court that Caelia first learned of the mortal realm and how to travel there. The mortals, with such a short time and little ability to influence the world, fascinated her. The first one who truly interested her was a mother rabbit who struggled to find enough food to feed her children during an early winter. Summoning food for this family thrilled her, but Caelia loved the attention she received from Titania’s court more.

For many years, she worked to make the court love her, by saving dolphins and healing bird’s broken wings. It was a beautiful time for Caelia, even if she was never invited to any of the famous parties where there would be singing and dancing for centuries at a time. In those days Titania’s court was a grotto with rivers of flowing emeralds, a city of purple flame built on silver reeds, a barge made of obsidian that sailed on oceans of singing flowers, and many more wonderful things, different each time.

Caelia’s face turned sour at the thought of where it all went wrong: the arrival of human beings. She loved them in their own way, yes, but the added complexity of their hopes and desires was something that she never seemed able to master. Whereas others of her kind were able to guide human beings to the very heights of art, conquest, or love, Caelia was still struggling to figure out the best ways to keep them alive. She never seemed to get the hang of inspiring religions, deg kingdoms, or anything truly exciting like that. But none of that mattered now. She was invited to a party at Titania's Court. This was not the time to stew about past failures. She was finally going to get everything she wanted. At last, Caelia was to be one of the wonderful people. She was finally going to get real happiness.

On the day of the event, Caelia decided if Dressamor was appearing as a fantastical forest creature these days, she would go as a shaggy multicolored unicorn with a mane of wispy moonlight and a horn ten feet long. Her hooves would ring like a bell with each step, and her eyes would be two platinum stars. She was sure that would turn a few heads. Titania’s court had taken the form of a massive green ocean with pink coral and scarlet anemones. The other courtiers were all sea creatures in majestic colors with bodies made from what looked like thousands of tiny interconnecting gears, with glowing eyes of pearls. Caelia’s panicked mind tried to take in the various forms and come up with one that would fit the theme while also not copying anyone else. “Caelia, darling!”

She had been spotted. Changing now would be shameful. She just had to grin as the sapphire blue shrimp trailing an endless cape of silks and feathers swam towards her.

“How retro,” the shrimp said. “I loved when we used to look like that. What was it: two hundred years ago? How droll!”

“Why, yes,” Caelia said. “I had this form available, and I thought it was so beautiful, I said, ‘Damn it! I’m going to use it again!’”

“It’s just so clever,” the shrimp said as it swam around her, investigating. “Having a horn, like a narwhal, but still evoking the classic unicorn image. You’re right in the moment and still evoking the past!”

“You’re very perceptive to notice that.” Hesitantly, she added: “I’m so glad to

see you, um, you.”

“Oh, Caelia!” The shrimp led her apparent friend to the party. “You must tell me everything! Your new plan of eternal happiness is the only thing anyone is talking about!”

“Yes, of course,” Caelia said. “I’ve been meaning to do this for the longest time, and, after many centuries of planning, I went for it. It’s been fantastic, let me tell you!” Caelia sat down at an underwater table and started to munch on the cucumber sandwiches. “How have you been?”

“Fabulous!” The shrimp sat next to her and poured some alabaster tea into a hollowed out ruby. “I have a nun who is this fantastic poetess. First real drama in hundreds of years, if you can believe it! Hrotsvitha is her name. ‘Mighty Shout’ in one of those ghastly human languages. They said we would never get a woman to do anything like that, what with the mortal’s obsession with gender and everything, but I said that wasn’t good enough!”

Ugh. Her nun was an artist. “Always a forward thinker,” Caelia said. “That is one of the many things I have ired about you, darling!”

“How did we go so long without talking?” The anonymous shrimp rested her head on her claws. “Caelia, a few of us are going to be crazy withered hags like in the old days in a couple of decades. You should come! Make a coven out of it.”

“Oh, wow,” Caelia said. “With a cauldron and everything?”

“Oh my!” The shrimp gaggle madly. “A cauldron? So retro. I. Am. Living for it.”

Caelia struggled for something to say, gave up, and blurted out: “Everything old is new again.”

“How clever!” The shrimp was thrilled. “You just come up with amazing new turns of phrases of all the time!”

By now, the rest of the attendees had arrived. Dressamor, a sky-blue salmon with orange pelican wings, sat right next to her and told everyone and anyone that Caelia was her best friend, that they actually worked on the eternal happiness plot together, and that the two of them had fabulous collaborations in store for the future. Dressamor’s words were about as pleasant as a kick to the shins, but Caelia had lied enough that day as well, so she didn’t have a leg to stand on. Neither did Dressamor, of course, but that was mostly because she was currently a fish.

All at once, it occurred to Caelia that if she were lying, and her only friend was lying, then everyone was lying. Even the shrimp (who Dressamor called “Undine,” although Caelia swore she had never heard the name before), with her endless exclamations of envious ebullience, was certainly full of shit as well.

Caelia bit the inside of her cheek, hoping the pain would make her forget that. She had what she wanted; what everyone wanted. As the cutting pain proved too much, she realized all she had to do was lie to herself to enjoy it. Queen Titania, appearing as a sparkling manta ray with a forest of purple leaves

on her back, arrived and took her seat at the front of the party. The assembled beings chatted and feasted for about a year. Each one with the guts to do so, taking their turn ing by the Queen’s table, hoping to get enough of her time to show the others that they were worth talking to.

Towards the end of the party, just as the most decadent cakes were wheeled out by chefs that looked like rainbow lobsters, a chartreuse angler fish arrived at Caelia’s table and informed her that Titania wished to speak to her privately after the party. Undine, Dressamor, and the others at the table gasped in delight at this and even Caelia, bad mood aside, put a unicorn hoof to her mouth to hide her excitement. It took another six months for the guests to finish up and leave, after which Caelia gingerly made her way to Queen Titania’s table, where she bowed deeply.

“Oh, do stop that,” the queen said. “I’m not really a queen, you know. They just call me that.”

“Of course, Titania.” Caelia raised her head and tried to make eye . She didn’t quite succeed.

“Come with me.”

Titania led Caelia away from her palace, silently at first, into the vast, empty ocean that currently made up her realm. Eventually, the water faded away into endless, uncreated night. Caelia had never been that far before. She shivered at the thought of what could be waiting for her there.

“Did you enjoy the party?” Titania said at last.

“Of course!” Caelia exclaimed, a bit too loudly. “It was majestic!”

“Is that so?” Titania said. “You know, I throw one each century or so. This must have been my five or six hundred millionth one, then.”

“You keep them so current. I’m always impressed how you never miss. Why, I’ve never come to your court and thought it looked anything less than perfection!”

“You too, then,” Titania said with a sigh. “I’ve heard of your plan. ‘Just give them happiness.’ There’s a brilliance in its simplicity, I it.”

“Yes,” Caelia said. Then, without knowing why, she said: “I tell people it was my great big idea, but it really just sort of happened so I ran with it.”

“Well, that’s interesting: the truth.”

“I’m sorry,” Caelia said. “I just...I preferred not to deceive you.”

“Because of who I am.”

Caelia paused, then said: “Yes.” She walked in silence for a moment. “Why do you throw the parties? I mean, if you’re so unhappy.”

“Unhappy?” Titania said. She considered it for a moment. “A queen throwing parties is what is done.” Caelia paused for a moment and pondered the words. They continued walking, very close to each other, until they returned to Titania’s realm, which had become a cyclopean mountain range in reds and browns with a blazing white sky. Titania herself had been transformed into a majestic eagle with a woman’s face.

“There,” Titania said. “Show up like this the next time somebody calls on you, and you’ll be a fashion icon. You want that, don’t you?” Sadly, she added: “I hope that gives you real happiness.”

“That is very kind of you,” Caelia said, but did not transform. “I should be getting back to my grove.”

“I’ll invite you to the next party,” Titania said as she started to fly away. “Be well, Caelia.”

“And you.”

After the queen had flown away, Caelia returned to her grove to find a young woman kneeling before a great oak tree. She was dressed in rags and had dirt on her face and hands. Caelia materialized as a kind-faced old woman in a blue dress and long white hair.

“Fairy godmother!” The woman shouted.

Is this what they call me now? It’s almost as bad as a saint.

“Yes, my dear,” Caelia said, trying to sound as god motherly as possible. “I heard your gentle tears and came here as soon as I could.”

“Oh, fairy godmother,” the woman embraced her. “The lord is giving a great ball and--”

“You want a beautiful gown and slippers of gold to attend,” Caelia said, forcing a smile. “You’re in love with him and wish to be his wife.” The woman pulled away from Caelia’s arms, threw herself to the ground, and wept.

“He and I are already married,” she said. “For four years. After I lost another child for him, he beat me, tore my clothes, and made me work in the kitchens. I was a poor orphan before he married me. I have nowhere to go.” With a shaking lip, she added: “He is holding a ball to find another wife.”

“How horrible!”

“No!” The woman put her hands over her ears and turned away. “If he cannot produce an heir, what will happen to his lands?”

Caelia tried to say something to that but could not. The woman turned back to Caelia, pleading: “But, please, let me be happy with my life. I know you can! I love him, and I want to serve him.”

“No!” Caelia grabbed the woman by the shoulders with both hands. “You might be happy, but it's not real. There’s no reason you should--”

“But godmother...” The woman’s tears fell like autumn leaves. “It is what is done.”

“Take this.” Caelia summoned a bag with a new dress, food, and some money. “Take this and run away. Make a new life somewhere else.”

“I can’t do that!” She shouted.

“You can, and you will,” Caelia said. “Go, go now!” The woman let out a gasp, grabbed the bag, and ran into the woods, away from the village.

After she left, Caelia sat on a large rock and cried as well. After she had finished, she threw her head back, studied the stars, and smiled. Caelia was not sure where the woman was headed or what would happen to her, but it had to be better than what waited for her if she returned. But she was to make her own way in the world, whatever that was.

And, so, Caelia sat on a large rock and thought that maybe the ability to choose was the real happiness after all.

The Blue Fairy By Allene Nichols

The Garden Shop by Vonnie Winslow Crist

Katy sang ballads to her children as she watered and groomed their small, green bodies. Her strong hands scooped up Snakeplant. Katy rocked the sansaveria while crooning an alto rendition of Barbra Allen. Singing done, she tucked the plant's roots into a new pot and covered their paleness with soil. Finally, she placed a freshly potted, watered, and fed Snakeplant back on its perch.

"Who's next?" A smile crinkled the grower's eyes as she scanned the rows of potting tables and plant shelves. The filtered light streaming through the greenhouse's glass roof highlighted her skin—skin that glowed ever-so-slightly celery-green. "Katy's asking, who's next?"

Shamrock bent in her caretaker's direction. Its many-leafed faces curved towards Katy. She clapped her hands and clucked at the boldness of her wine-flecked charge. Shamrock has always let me know what it needs, she thought. "So be it, child." Katy tenderly removed the pale hairs and dried wads of spent leaves hanging down the sides of Shamrock's clay container. Though I think sides, she mused, there is really only one side which circles around soil and roots.

Once the dying foliage was cleaned from Shamrock's pot, she gave the plant a drink and meal. Her voice filled the greenhouse with a bittersweet version of Greensleeves. Last verse sung, Katy moved to the next pot.

"You're just fine," she whispered to Aloe. Katy grasped a fleshy blade near the center of one of Aloe's stars between her fingers and stroked the plant from root to blade-tip several times. Aloe shuddered. Then, the plant caressed the grower's fingers with its prickly flesh. "Katy will tend to you on the morrow," she promised the affectionate plant. Humming a heartfelt version of My Love is like a Red, Red Rose, she shuffled on.

Rootlets of Spiderplant's babies snagged her tangled hair as she ed beneath them. Katy tossed her head back. She laughed. "Who is this tugging on Katy's hair?" Spiderplant's pot was well above her head, so Katy pulled a stepladder from under a nearby planting bench. She unfolded the ladder and climbed onto it. Her diminutive height required her to climb to the third step to reach Spiderplant. Once able to do so, she tested the soil in Spiderplant's pot for moisture with her fingertips. "Why Spiderplant and her younguns are needing Katy." She climbed down, retrieved a watering can, ascended the ladder, then dispensed a generous drink to Spiderplant and family. Crash!

"Pain. We are in pain," screamed tiny viridian voices.

Though most people couldn't hear the plants' cries. Katy heard. She turned her head and scanned the vast, vegetation-filled room. Lines marred her brow. Her mouth corners tugged down.

"Who is tresing in my garden?" she shouted. She knew she should have said, greenhouse, but that wasn't the whole truth. Katy's glass-covered garden eventually opened up and merged with the woodlands beyond.

Beside the front door, Katy spotted someone dressed in dark clothing. She set down her watering can. Voices of injured plants ringing in her ears, she strode toward her shop's entrance. Katy was so furious, she didn't realize she'd forgotten to put her sandals back on. So she was barefoot as she bore down on the intruder.

As the greenskeeper neared the location of the assault on her children, she observed the attacker was dressed in a navy sweatsuit and dirty running shoes. Katy shook her head. With no regard for the wounded plant at his feet, the man was fiddling with the shop's cash . "Come on," the man said. "Open, or I'll shoot you open.” But bound by a locking spell, the cash refused to open its drawer.

As the would-be thief pulled a gun from his waist, he finally noticed Katy thundering towards him. "Hold it right there, lady, or I will blow you away," he sneered. He held a semi-automatic in hand.

Katy halted about five yards from the intruder. She looked at Umbrella Plant sprawled, wounded, at the thief's feet. She lifted her gaze. With eyes flashing, she glared at him. Seeing the direction of her first glance, the man shrugged and kicked the schefflera.

"Hey, no big deal. You must have a thousand other plants in this stinking greenhouse. Now, how do I get the money out of here?” He indicated the cash with his gun's barrel. “Listen, lady, I would just as soon shoot you as not. I have killed before, and I will do it again if need be. So give me your cash."

Katy had heard of a number of robberies in the area. Mr. Chin, the kindly old gentleman who owned a tailoring shop down the block had been killed last

month by an unidentified thief. Mr. Chin had been a good friend. He'd also kept a lovely garden with a stone-lined koi pond. As she took another stop closer, the man in the sweatshirt glanced down.

“What's wrong with your feet?” he asked. “They're green.

“So they are,” she answered. “As is fitting for a daughter of the soil.”

Without a doubt, Katy knew the man before her was Mr. Chin's murderer. Without a doubt, she also knew justice in this town took years, if it was given at all. But Katy was not from this town. In fact, Katy was not human. She was a Greenfingers. And Greenfingers, like all Faerie folk, rendered swift justice.

She pointed towards the thief and commanded, "Ivies! Pothos!"

Leafy tendrils shot from dozens of plants. Like emerald packaging string, they twined around the man's arms, legs, and torso. An extra thick vine looped around the thief's neck. His eyes bulged as the neck vine tightened.

"Help me..." Mr. Chin's murderer managed to choke out.

Katy caressed the heart-shaped leaves of Philodendron as she watched the man thrash about. The vine had heeded her cry and coiled around the thief-murderer's wrist like a forest bracelet.

Her face remained expressionless as the man's fat tongue protruded from bluing lips and his struggling diminished. "Don't cry to me for help,” the greenskeeper snapped. “Faerie Folk care for growing things, not for men of violence."

The creases between Katy's eyebrows deepened. She continued to study Mr. Chin's murderer. When the man's breathing halted and his body hung limp, she nodded.

"Leave him." She pursed her lips. From beneath half-lowered eyelids, observed the body crumple to the floor. Katy rescued Umbrella Plant. Making bird sounds, she bedded its broken body in a new pot. She praised and tended the ivies, pothos, and other vines which had assisted in eliminating the intruder. After crooning a soulful version of Sweet is the Budding Spring of Love, she whispered, “And eternal frost is your future, fool,” over the prone form of the thief-murderer.

Katy smiled. Mr. Chin and the others, both plant and human, who'd been wronged by this man had been avenged. She tilted her head. Eyes showing no remorse, she watched the rapid decomposition of the human body at her feet. It had taken a little magic to speed the process along, but her plant shop was due to open in a few minutes, and she did not want a corpse to upset her regular customers.

She bent over, picked up the running shoes and sweatsuit. With a sigh, she tossed them into a refuse bin. She rubbed her hands together, flung her celery-colored fingers open, and muttered a glamour spell. The shoes and sweatsuit now looked like plant refuse.

Satisfied that all was back to normal, Katy kissed Geranium. She grabbed a

broom and promised the throng of listening plants, "Dust to dust, children. Today, you'll have have fresh bone-meal, fresh blood-meal. Yes, my sweet babies, today you'll feast."

The Faerie Shelter By Ivor Steven

Beyond the hands of time

In a garden of parsley, sage, and thyme

Live faeries of magic and rhyme

Dancing in the midnight faerie pantomime

Under the moonlit sky they frolic and roam

Among reeds of the field-mouse’s hidden home

Where the wise owl broods atop his mushroom

And dragonflies hover above mystical gnomes

Here guardian sprites defend the crimson forest

That stoically shelter Saraswati the Hindu goddess

As she dutifully protects the faeries secret hamlets

From horrid humans and their gargantuan spirits

The Banshee By Patricia Harris

Finding Faerie by Vonnie Winslow Crist

Leave all iron, red thread, bells, and four-leafed clovers at home. Cross the yard and unlock the gate in the out-of-the-way corner of the fence. Walk between its posts, tug though the brambles, stroll past gnarled vines, step beyond abandoned apple trees, and enter the forest.

It will be greener there, smell of wild flowers and mushrooms. From the corner of your eye, you'll think you spy acorn sprites. Tilt your head, and you'll imagine you hear the voices of dryads.

Lift your hand and brush at the spiderweb touch of something finer than an eyelash against your cheek—but do not tarry.

Instead, follow the butterfly-filled path that winds to the banks of a stream rich with trout and sprites. But tread carefully— stray-sods, bogles, and goblins skulk nearby waiting for the careless, giants sleep below the moss, and kelpies paddle just below the water's silvery sheen. Kneel down, but don't wade in.

Scoop a handful of cool liquid, take a sip, close your eyes, and proclaim your belief in Faerie. Then, should a feather drift down or a most colorful leaf scamper by

or should you spot an unusual pebble— grab it, hold it tightly, and count yourself lucky. For They have heard you, and send bright blessings.

Ocean Lure by Vonnie Winslow Crist

Strolling on an empty beach, I saw a mermaid reclining on a jetty.

Swathed in moonlace, she combed the flossy strands that swirled around her like kelp.

Foam caught on sequined thighs as she flicked her tail and sang a ballad about ships and sailors and forever.

When the shoreward wind rattled a trash can she turned aqua eyes to study me.

My throat constricted.

The gulls mimicked her laughter as she slipped beneath gyrating water.

Chilled, I hurried back to the hotel to check on my sons.

The Land of Play By Kathleen Murphy

My mother tucked me in and sang to me, “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” and “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” After finishing the songs, she stood up and bent down to kiss my cheek, “Sleep well, my angel.” I mumbled something, already falling asleep. I heard the door close, but my mind was drifting, thinking of the magic that might take one over the rainbow, like Dorothy to a different land.

In my dream, I was walking through our house. I opened the back door, stepped outside, and stood there transfixed. Our backyard had transformed into a dense forest with small pools of water bathed in a dusky light. The forest hummed with sound. Enormous ants were marching by. Huge bees and flies and ladybugs flew through the air. A rabbit the size of a donkey hopped by, and on its back in a kind of saddle was a little man with wings on his back. It had to be a fairy, but before I could call out, they were gone. A Starling flew low to the ground and on its back was a little woman. I waved, and she seemed to see me. The Starling flew back and landed by the open door. The little woman dismounted and walked to me. She was the most incredible creature I had ever seen. She wore green—that was iridescent like a butterfly’s wing. Her hair was raven black, and her skin tawny. She was breath-takingly beautiful.

“Have you come to play?” she asked me a voice that sounded like bells. “What is your name, child?”

“I am Becca,” I answered. “What do you play?”

“Just fairy games—races and dancing and playing music, mostly. Would you like to come? We are just getting started. You can come with me, Becca. Swift Starling won’t mind,” and she gestured toward the great bird looking at us curiously.

“What is your name?” I asked hesitantly. It didn’t seem right somehow. Wasn’t I supposed to be sleeping?

“I am Merielle, and it is okay. You are sleeping—you’ve just found a way to cross into the Land of Play.”

“The Land of Play?” I asked.

“It is our land, the land of the fairies, the land of magic,” she answered and stretch out her hand toward mine. “Your mother will wake you in the morning, and you probably won’t a thing. But you’re here now. Aren’t you curious?”

I was curious. It seemed completely fantastic, but I took her hand and let her take me over to Swift Starling. Impossibly, I was about her size. I looked back, and the doorway loomed behind me like a vast, rectangular mine shaft or something. There was a harness of sorts across the bird’s chest and back. Merielle showed me how to loop the cords around my legs so that I was secure. She did the same and then told the bird to fly, and we were off. Swift Starling flew low, but as we flew higher than the trees, I realized they weren’t trees at all, but the grasses and clover and small plants of the backyard. I was a teeny tiny person. It wasn’t that the plants and animals and insects had become enormous, it was that I had become a Lilliputian.

We left my small yard and flew to the little park by our house. Swift Starling headed to a small stand of real trees, Cherry Blossoms just in bloom. Rabbits and turtles ringed the trees in which were perked a variety of birds. Inside the ring was a gathering of fairies. Fireflies flitted through the air. I could hear the most incredible music. Swift Starling landed on the ground and Merielle helped me dismount, and then the bird flew off and settled in one of the trees. Other fairies were arriving, some on birds, and some on other small mammals like rabbits and squirrels, and a few on turtles. The animals seemed to be enchanted by the lovely music. All sorts of fairies had instruments and were playing them. Some of the instruments were like our own except smaller, tiny violins and flutes and bells, but others were fashioned out of acorns, flowers, rocks, and twigs. One impish fellow seemed to be playing a small stream at the edge of circle of trees.

“Becca, Becca? Can you hear me?” Merielle was talking to me, but I had been too distracted by the sights in front of me to notice.

“Yes, sorry, Merielle, I …” I began.

She laughed in that beguiling voice, “I imagine it is a lot the first time. Come, you should meet the Titania.”

“The Titania?” I asked.

“The current queen of the fairies,” she answered.

“Current?”

“The title rotates. Andromeda is the current Titania,” Merielle explained.

“But why not just call her the queen?”

“It’s a nod to Billy Shakespeare. A Midsummer Night’s Dream is a favorite— that and The Tempest—as you might imagine,” she answered.

I thought about this for a moment. “No Oberon?” I asked.

“No king of the fairies. Only the Titania’s consort. Her partner, whether male or female,” she added, and she led me through the crowd. Beautiful fairies looked at me with curiosity and nodded to Merielle.

On a mushroom cap, sat a dazzling fairy dressed in iridescent blue. A crown of tiny flowers adorned her head. She smiled as we approached, and I nearly lost my footing. Merielle reached out and caught my arm.

“Careful, Becca,” she said softly.

“Who’s is this, Merielle?” the Titania asked looking away from me to my companion.

“This is Becca, Andromeda. She found her way to us.”

“How wonderful,” the Titania exclaimed, clapping her delicate hands. “Do sit near me and tell me all out your human life, Becca,” she said in a most alluring voice.

Instantly, I sat and started telling her about my room and my parents and my daily routine.

“Careful, Andromeda,” Merielle said softly. “ the power we have over them,” and she bowed and walked away.

“Of course, of course,” Andromeda nodded to herself. “Becca, tell me what you would like to tell me about yourself,” she amended.

I felt somehow released by the new request. I was still sitting, but I considered what I wanted to share and started telling her about my friends and my school life. She laughed and had all sorts of questions about school—the subjects taught, the reasons why, the routines of the day, the teachers, the students, and my friends.

She had fairies come and braid my hair. They adorned it with small white flowers, some of which were in Andromeda’s crown. “For protection,” she whispered. There were contests, music and dancing, then some races and more dancing. After I had told her all about school and my friends, she asked me if I had questions.

“Why are there only queens or Titanias?” I asked.

“Females are more comionate, less hot-headed. They make better rulers. It is the conclusion that all of the Fae Folk have come up with,” she answered.

“There are more than fairies?” I blurted out.

“Of course,” she replied. “Elves, goblins, dwarves, ogres, gnomes.”

“And they all have queens?”

“Usually,” she answered.

“Merielle said that the Titania title changes. Why?”

“We are a community of equals, Becca. ing the title around keeps us so. We like a simple life of gathering the little we need to eat, taking care of the creatures around us, and enjoying each other’s company through games, music, and dancing.”

“How often?”

“It is the last event of every fairy revel,” she answered. “A new name is drawn, and that fairy will be the Titania for the following revel. She’ll pick the spot, and we will gather around her.”

“And what does the Titania do?”

“Fortunately, it has been a long time since a Titania has had to do more than judgements on disputes and make arrangements for the next revel. So currently her duties include picking the next revel spot and deciding the theme of the revel. The theme suggests different games and different music. Some themes are seasonal but others honor the different types of fairies.”

“Different types of fairies?”

“Oh yes, flower fairies, woodland fairies, water fairies, mountain fairies,” she answered waving her hand absently in a sweeping motion.

I thought about this a moment, and then ed something else Merielle had said. “Merielle said that I found my way here. How did I do that? Do others come here?”

“There is a certain way of seeing, sort of slant ways—between day and night— between waking and sleeping. Certain humans have an aptitude for crossing over, like you did tonight.”

“Will I cross over again?” I asked.

“It is unclear. Some children cross over with some frequency for a while.”

“Only children?”

“Shakespeare crossed. He misrepresents the Fae Folk in his plays, but then he is human and male. Fairies don’t steal human children. What on earth would we do with them? Your crossing has transformed you to our size, so that you can explore our land. To you, I am sure that creatures around this enchanted ring looked like giant version of themselves.” I nodded. “A human baby wouldn’t transform. The child has to be able to see between the worlds—that slant way. Human babies can’t do that. Only an older child like you or a very gifted artists can,” she answered.

“Anyone else?”

“Johnny Tolkien did too. Again his renderings of the Fae Folk in Lord of the Rings are also full of his own limited notions of power and females. It’s a shame really. Hopefully, in time, humans will realize what great leaders females make. Your world needs more women in power, more women artists and writers, more female imagination.”

I nodded again, struggling to imagine nations and corporations headed by women. Then I realized something else she had said, “You said children cross over for while. Why only a while?”

“They stop believing in magic,” Andromeda answered sadly.

“Well, I won’t,” I said earnestly.

“We shall see, Becca.”

Merielle approached us, followed by a troop of musicians. They proceeded to play, each in turn and then all together. I found the music enthralling and exquisite in a way I found difficult to explain. It had a haunting quality. I became very sleepy after a while and curled up on the soft grass.

The next thing I knew, I was in my bed in my room. I could hear my mother calling me.

“Becca, are you up yet? You need to leave for school in 45 minutes.”

The sun was streaming through the window. I was struggling to something or someone from my dream. There were fairies. In the dream, there were fairies and music and dancing. I looked in the mirror and stared at my hair. How did it end up in braids? I couldn’t have done that. I just didn’t know how to French braid.

My mother poked her head in my room. “Becca, let’s go. Get dressed. You need some breakfast before you go.” She paused and looked at me. “Did you do that? I didn’t know you could do that. It looks very pretty,” she said smiling at me, and then she left.

I stared in the mirror again. A phrase popped into my head, “the Land of Play.” That was impossible, I thought, shaking my head. But then a small white flower fell onto the dresser. “For protection,” I thought instantly. I shook my head

again. I didn’t have time to figure it out. I had to get dressed and go to school. Dreams were just dreams, right? But then I ed the words from the song my mother had sung, “the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true.” Not the Land of Oz but the Land of Play. What would I dream tonight? Could I fall asleep seeing in that slant way? I hoped I could.

Common Ancestors By Buffy Aakaash

These forests This mountain These trees So many trees So many lives Lifetimes ago So many deaths As many rebirths Why this unavoidable end This incontrovertible sorrow This leaf in the wind Without seed or roots? Around this tree We embrace all trees All disembodied leaves These flying crawling creatures We embrace ourselves

Ourselves so many trees So many roots Finding home in the soil Wisdom in the sun New life in our branches All our relations swirling forever – A primordial soup A sylvan broth Of forest phantoms And felicitous nymphs Neverending. Evermore.

Paradise By Buffy Aakaash

I

We could all get naked and run barefoot among trees screaming joy and exuberance, rejoicing in what we behold and what beholds us as if both were one and the same. We could carry on until the Old Man screams at us to put on clothes or he’ll freeze our asses, having his way with cold, that man! And until we find comfort in the bundle of burgeoning layers nestled in the heart spaces of his icy palace we’ll be lost in hell for eternity.

II

We could bathe in the luxurious salty elixir of the cerulean blue and peer upon its living bottom teeming with creatures who colorfully pleasing entice us to ride this wave toward the shore of tomorrow forever joyously lost at sea with this glorious day. We could carry on until the Old Man waves his hands, ordering us to move along, ticking away the end of pleasures when we run aground on rocky new beginnings in a concrete wilderness of boutiques and pink hotels.

III

We could leave it all behind, consume ourselves in unlimited energy, manufacturing inspiration to boldly walk a new and decadent world unlinked to the Old Man’s trappings, the formidable door to our hearts so easily opened in ecstasy. We could carry on until the architect of the dream falters, heaving us into a nightmare of sleepless dreamless worlds beyond reach of familiarity. And until we obey our heart’s command to heal this poor sick man, we’ll find ourselves mysteriously again before the doors to oblivion.

Pruning the Orchard By Buffy Aakaash

A pregnant pause From the stories born of dying bloom every awkward moment wilted and decomposed, the obstinate armor of hearts cracked, petals discarded, filaments busted, pistils dismantled, and each of these spirited away in floods of tears. Here lie they now in fields of budding dreams

wondering what further amputations might be necessary.

Silence Multiple, he said.

Walk in the Canyon By Buffy Aakaash

Between split rocks: This deep fertile place Where water has come Thousands of years I see differently

Staying within, I try and walk the whole way To see where it all began But the trail is long. The sun begins to fall.

Alone I would be safe, For in darkness a hand Would hold my hand And cleave my heart And show us on our way.

So, today I climb out of this canyon To the path that brings me home Up from the old watercourse To coast down streams of understanding On the way to the Great Ocean.

The Goat Boutique By Buffy Aakaash

If you go in you might come out. You might come out looking better than before you went in. Maybe tussled with musty rose lips A dusting of glitter Or the visage of a horned god within you revealed behind vertical pupils. You may find a little something there you’ve never seen anywhere else. Mystified you wonder if humans are not the only visitors there. If some other might come home with you wanted or otherwise.

If you go in you will be changed either within or without or in your entire being. Perhaps what you come out wearing deserves to be torn in careful rips, your naked self unveiled, receptive, inquisitive. These chance ribbons wrapped with rotational intentions around a protuberant maypole. Maybe next year you will show restraint at the door and then — go in anyway. Much like any goat might do.

The Fabulous, Interconnected Living Root Bridges of the Fairies by Katherine Quevedo

I’ve heard tell of a secret grove— a treasure trove of aerial roots of many trees coned like dripping candle wax, like netting, like funnel cake, stacks upon stacks of inosculations guided by the ministrations of tiny hands over years, the pleached roots coaxed and braided into tiers of pathways,

platforms, terraces, branching double-decker bridges spanning the forest floor, a complex of interconnected meetings of distinct organisms reaching out and growing together, tension thickening the roots where they anchor into the ground, the bridges sound and true and well networked, guided into most pleasant twisty walkways and uneven surfaces and stable structures over generations, the patterns as wild and unhurried

as the slow path of sap, these living linkages a wondrous sight, small and spreading, where fairies alight and wander, where they go to rest their wings, to forego their constant easy way out, to ground themselves.

I’ve heard tell.

The Harbor Master

By Andrew McDowell

I shouted, “Look! Look! There’s one!”

Everybody on the boat looked to where I pointed. Indeed, beneath the shallow waters, we could see a shark swimming placidly. Though I was almost fifteen, I felt my heart flutter as if I were eight years old again.

“That’s a lemon shark,” the captain explained. “They come here to the mangrove swamps of Bimini to give birth to their young, who live here until they’re older.” I couldn’t take my eyes off of the shark. There was a certain lemony shade about her. I presumed the shark was female only because of what the captain had just said. This sightseeing trip was a new highlight of our vacation, because I’d seen a shark in the wild and not in an aquarium.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Lifting my camera, I took several pictures of the lemon shark. Then I cried, “The shark’s coming closer!”

Slowly, the shark came swimming in a curved pattern towards the boat. I almost wanted to reach out and touch her, but I didn’t. The captain said, “The lemon shark is a deadly predator. They don’t seek out humans to eat, but it isn’t wise to provoke them. A former mate of mine lost his left arm to a lemon shark.”

“They’re able to see colors, and unlike most sharks, they actually have an eyelid,” I then said aloud.

The captain looked at me. “Oh, we have a shark expert, do we?”

I felt almost embarrassed. I said, “Well—I like learning about sharks.”

It’s true. Ever since I was little, I’ve been fascinated with sharks. I’d read several books about them and watched documentaries. However, I hadn’t been to an aquarium for years. So this was an exciting experience for me. I’ll never forget the scary faces of the aquarium’s sand tigers: their beady eyes, and those rows of jagged teeth that were always open. One would think they should’ve been the star of a shark movie as opposed to the great white or even the deadly bull shark. I was thankful to have never seen either of those, and I was glad to be seeing wild sharks from a boat rather than at the beach.

Eventually the sightseeing boat trip came to an end. Back on the dock, I looked out into the turquoise water, thinking once again of different shark species and what others might be out there that I hadn’t seen.

Later that evening, we went out to dinner. The bright lights of town obscured whatever stars were in the sky. We came to a sports bar and grille by the sea called The Harbor Master. I wondered what harbor master it was named after. Was there a famous harbor master in the town’s history? However, there was an image of a great hammerhead shark on the sign, which only added to the mystery for me. Now there was a shark I’d been fascinated with since childhood, because of its unique head. Again, I’d seen sand tigers at the aquarium, and the sawfish, but never hammerheads. I’d really wanted to see a great hammerhead when I was little.

We sat in the outdoor dining area overlooking the ocean, ordered our dinner, and got our drinks first. While I was enjoying a coke, Mom and Dad were trying rum punch for the first time. They made faces after their first sip of the drink, scrunching their eyes and tightening their lips. Both of them said “Whoa,” in succession after swallowing.

“Can I try it?” I asked.

“You’re turning 15, not 21,” Mom said.

“In 6 years, sure,” Dad said. Mom gave him a sarcastic look.

Smiling, I looked out to the sea. By now, the waters had gone completely black like the sky, apart from the glow of the moon reflecting on them. There was no sign of any sea life, though. Now was definitely not a time to go swimming, with the sharks out and about.

I excused myself to go to the restroom. Walking to and from it, random facts about sharks popped into my mind, such as the oceanic whitetip’s keen sense of smell, how no one was certain how fast the shortfin mako—the shark of Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea—could swim, and, of course, that hammerheads were so maneuverable they could turn on a dime. On the way back to our table, I suddenly bumped into an old man. He was holding a rum punch himself. He didn’t drop it, but some of it spilled on the floor.

The old man was certainly a seafarer by his looks. He wore a dark blue coat and

peaked cap. His whiskers were ghostly white, and his severely wrinkled face and hands had dark spots on them, like my Grandpa had—a result from years of exposure to the sun and elements.

“Oh, sorry, sir,” I replied.

“Think nothin’ of it, laddie,” he replied. “At least ye didn’t cross paths with that dreaded Harbor Master.”

“What Harbor Master?” I asked. For a moment I wondered if he was referring to the restaurant’s namesake, and if it had something to do with hammerhead sharks. I thought he was perhaps referring to an actual person. However, the old sailor frowned at me. I got the feeling he didn’t really want to speak to me, that he regretted his words.

“New ‘round here, are ye?” he asked. “Well then, let me tell ye, mind your own business and just stay out o’ the water.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Never ye mind, boy,” he huffed, slightly turning his shoulder as if he wanted to leave.

“Come on, what’re you saying?” Nothing was going to dissuade me.

He snarled and glared at me. “All right, laddie. People all ‘round this island know the Harbor Master. But he ain’t an ordinary fish. He’s a big, bad hammerhead far larger than any other you’ll see in this world. Ordinary great hammerheads can get big, 11 feet or so, but the Harbor Master’s over 24 feet. He’s been a terror to us fishermen for generations. We all fear an encounter the moment we leave port. He’s more dangerous than the great white will ever be.”

A lump formed in my throat. Though the old man’s story had captured my interest, I was equally ready now to return to my table. I could feel my knees shaking. Yet I wondered, was it possible there really was a hammerhead that large, greater than the great white? I mean, there were some claims that the ancient Megalodon might still be around like other “living fossils,” feasting on whales just as the great white feeds on seals and sea lions. However, this tale seemed just as fanciful. I looked away.

“I see ye don’t believe me,” he replied. “Well, let me tell ye, I’ve seen the Harbor Master myself. ‘Twas an excellent day, where I’d just caught the biggest marlin ever, when the Harbor Master knocked me boat over and took my entire catch. So I know what I’m talkin’ about. That monster could cleave a man in half with a single bite. Snap!”

He made a motion with his hands, startling me, before he continued. “The giant hammerhead Old Hitler has terrorized the Florida coasts since World War II. My old shipmate McCabe saw him when he was watching for Nazi U-boats off his home shore. It’s a miracle he wasn’t harmed. But he wouldn’t venture out there alone anymore, not with giant hunters like them in the waters. The Harbor Master will never—NEVER—let himself be caught by the likes of us men. Every shark fears the Harbor Master; he controls all others in the area. They shrink away in fear of him. A master’s a master; he lays down the law. Mark my words, me boy.”

I stood there for a moment. It felt like an eternity now. My throat was drier than

sand, and my mouth was open. But then the words gushed out of me. “Yes, well, thanks for telling me the story sir, but I’ve gotta get going.”

As I walked away, I heard him say, “If ye know what’s best for ye, laddie, don’t venture too far out to sea!” Finally, I returned to Mom and Dad. Our food was on the table. I sat down eagerly to eat, grabbing my fork and knife at once. Mom, and Dad, looked at me. She asked, “Where’ve you been?” I told them of my run-in with that old seafaring man, and what he told me about the Harbor Master. Dad replied afterward, “That would explain the restaurant’s name, but believe me, old sailors tell many tall tales.”

“So you don’t believe there are monster sharks out there?” I asked.

“Son, I’m sure someone would’ve found a dead one by now, like they did with the giant squid. But they haven’t; they haven’t even found Nessie or Bigfoot. They’re just tall tales.”

“I agree,” said Mom. “Eat your dinner and enjoy yourself.”

I nodded and started eating. Still, the old man’s story had sunk its teeth deep into me and wouldn’t let go. That night, I kept dreaming about hammerheads and wondering: could the Harbor Master and Old Hitler be real? Could they be one and the same? If they’ve been seen back for decades, was it possible there was more than one that shared the same moniker? I will it, I’ve never known how old sharks get.

I wondered how big the Harbor Master might really be. I’d rather see the gentle giant that was my favorite: the whale shark. That’s a shark I would love to swim alongside—the largest fish alive. Now I was having second thoughts about meeting hammerheads, as cool as they looked with their heads. I dreaded thinking of sharks bigger than the whale shark (within the length of 40 feet), worse still, sharks that were not at all gentle giants.

The following day was my fifteenth birthday. We weren’t here in Bimini for that reason; it just happened to coincide. We spent the morning sightseeing, but after lunch, I decided I wanted to spend time down at the beach. But as we went there, I imagined the old sailor screaming at me to turn back, scolding me for my foolishness.

For a while I swam, keeping close to shore. Part of me was afraid of the possibility of sharks, not merely the Harbor Master. Even when I was a child, I stayed close, but it was the fear of swimming out too far and drowning that controlled me then. Nevertheless, I was still determined to have fun. It was my birthday after all. Then eventually I decided my fingers had pruned far too much and I made my way back to shore.

I walked out, feeling the warmth of the sun on my body. I felt tingly due to the water dripping down my swimsuit and body. The hair on my legs was completely drenched, hanging like a second layer of skin. My bangs, I had already rubbed backward before I left the water. The heat was most evident in the sand as I walked back to our spot on the beach.

“How’re you doing, son?” asked Mom.

“Good,” I said, plopping myself down.

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Dad.

“Yeah,” I said feebly, lying down.

“Son,” said Dad, “you’re not still worried about what that old fisherman said to you last night, are you?”

“Why would I be?”

“You were tossing and turning about more than usual last night,” Mom said. “The night before, you’d slept soundly.”

Dad added, “You really shouldn’t dwell on it, son. , it’s highly unlikely that you’ll be attacked by any wild shark, no matter what the news might make you think. You’re far more likely to be hit by a car. Not that you will, mind you, but sharks aren’t bloodthirsty monsters, no matter what their size. Leave them alone, and they’ll leave you alone.” “Well, there’s a comforting thought. Thanks, Dad.”

“You’re welcome,” he said.

More than ever, I began to feel that the old sailor had been exaggerating. I lay

back and relaxed, drying off. I was really glad to be here.

Sometime later, I felt like going back in the water. Just as I was preparing to get up, something caught the corner of my eye: a kayak rental.

“Hey, Mom, Dad, can I go kayaking, please?” I said, pointing to the rental place.

“All right, come on,” said Dad after a moment. We got up and walked over to the rental place. The smiling young woman in a bikini asked how she could help us. She was attractive, yes, but I was able to ask her to rent a kayak for one hour. Dad paid the fee, and I was given a kayak and oar.

“Thanks, Dad,” I said as I carried them to the water’s edge.

“Happy Birthday, son,” he replied. “You know you’ve got an hour, right?”

“Yep! I’ve got it!”

With that, Dad walked back, and I prepared to head out. I said to the lady, “Thank you.”

“Have a great time!” she said, smiling.

I paddled out into the water. I had gone out kayaking before on my own at the bay near home, so it wasn’t difficult. At least it’s not a surfboard, I thought, so no shark will mistake me for a sea lion or seal. At first, I went around in swirls, but there were many swimmers around. I almost hit one with my oar. I hadn’t seen him, until, that is, the guy’s head rose up and he said, “Watch where you’re putting that thing!”

“Sorry!” I called. With that, I decided to go out farther, away from the swimmers. Now that I was in a kayak, I didn’t have as much fear about going farther away from shore. I kept on paddling, enjoying myself fully. The Harbor Master seemed increasingly to me nothing more than a legend, a sailor’s tall tale. I was thinking more about the salt air, the sound of the water as the oar’s ends dipped into it, and the sun’s warmth bathing over me.

Then, I looked down. I realized the water beneath me was several meters deep, and that I was hundreds of yards away from shore; not sure how far exactly. More importantly, though, for a moment I thought I saw something below me. I stopped moving the oar and blinked. I thought my eyes were playing a trick on me. But I looked closer, leaning down for a closer look into the blue water. It was crystal clear, clearer than any beach I’d ever been to. There was something down there! Oh my god, it was a shark. I knew it!

It was barely visible, and my initial surprise quickly disintegrated because I ed something I’d read about once: countershading. Thanks to the dark top, for a minute I still had trouble figuring out what was below. I wondered if it might actually be a great white shark, and I could feel my heart beating faster. But I had to maintain control. I told myself: leave the shark alone, and it won’t bother me. I couldn’t panic. Then I’d seem to be a fish in distress, and that would definitely bring the shark in. Every nerve and fiber in my body was telling me to row fast and get the heck out of there, but I knew in my mind I couldn’t do that. Instead, I remained completely still, turning only very slowly to watch this fish. My stomach churned.

I looked down and saw the shark turn slowly. Observing carefully, I realized this wasn’t a great white. It was a hammerhead. It was a real hammerhead! Not only that, I realized that this hammerhead was enormous, and it suddenly occurred to me. Oh my God, could this be the fabled Harbor Master? No way. I didn’t believe it, not when the hammerhead just swam on like I wasn’t even there.

Nevertheless, I decided I’d had enough. It was time to go back to shore. Of course I should’ve looked at my watch, but I didn’t even want to see it. I was certain I’d been out there too long. I just wanted to get away. My oar had just come up, with both ends in the air, when I heard something break the surface. I looked back, and saw a large fin. I skipped a breath. I was being chased. Oh no! The old man’s words echoed in my mind.

He’s a big, bad hammerhead, far larger than any other of his kind. He’s been a terror to us fishermen for generations. We all fear an encounter the moment we leave port. That monster could cleave a man in half with a single bite.

More than ever, I wanted to keep rowing and get out of there. My heart was pounding faster and faster. But I knew it was no use. The shark was undoubtedly a better swimmer than I was a rower, and certainly faster. So I stopped moving and turned around. I wasn’t going to let the Harbor Master sneak up on me from behind. Or, more honestly, I couldn’t.

I waited, every breath more and more rasped, but the hammerhead slowed down. He came closer, and I felt the adrenaline pumping harder within me. Then, just as he neared me, he turned to my left. He swam right by the kayak. I could see his hammer-shaped head; it was rectangular, just like the great hammerhead. He was definitely larger than 20 feet, quite possibly 24. Peering into the water, I couldn’t take my eyes off him as he circled me with incredible ease and flexibility. I thought perhaps he was trying to figure out what I was.

The next thing I knew, the kayak was turning—without me steering it. The shark had actually bumped it. As it turned, I realized I was so close I could’ve touched him. I held the oar tight to my legs with my mouth wide open and dry. Once the boat had settled, he swam along in alternating curves, ignoring me. His dorsal fin, which was tall and straight, broke the restless surface before going under. He actually turned on his side as he swam away. The last thing I saw was his giant tail. He was gone, but I had no doubt that I had just seen the Harbor Master. I could feel my stomach fluttering.

Slowly, I went on. I wasn’t taking any chances. The shore was getting larger, as were the people staying close to it. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, that is, until many of them onshore pointed to and swimmers moved away from a certain area some distance away from me. What was going on? Did they see the Harbor Master too? Wait, was the shark behind me? Did he suddenly get hungry? I slowly moved forward, still afraid something might happen, and I looked in the direction they pointed. Clearly, in the sun, I saw another fin. Except this fin seemed a bit smaller and slightly more curved, or so I thought from where I was. When I came closer, not too close, though, I saw the shark turn on his side and I saw the rectangular head, a slightly smaller version of the Harbor Master’s. This shark wasn’t the Harbor Master, but it was definitely a great hammerhead.

Many people made their way back to shore, several of them, not surprisingly, running once their feet touched solid ground. I didn’t want to get swamped, so I tried to keep my distance until the water had gotten extremely shallow. I stepped out of the kayak and dragged it out of the water until it was under my arm and the oar in my other hand. I heard my parents shouting my name. They came running toward me, splashing the water. Dad grabbed the kayak and helped me pull it out of the water, whereas Mom put her arm around me, leading me. As she hugged me, Dad asked, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“There’s a hammerhead in the water,” Mom said, putting her hand on my face. “Did you see it? We were scared to death for you!”

“Is that what that was?” I asked.

Dad nodded. “They think the hammerhead might be around ten feet long; a big boy!”

You think that shark’s big? I thought.

Mom threw her arms around me again. “I’m just glad you’re safe.”

“I’m sorry I took so long out there,” I said.

“What do you mean?” Dad asked. “You weren’t gone for more than half an hour.” I said, “Really? Wow.”

“Well, I guess you finally got to see a hammerhead,” Dad remarked.

I nodded, almost laughing. “Yes, I did. I’m just glad no one got hurt, especially the hammerhead.”

“Never mind that!” said Mom. “Let’s just go!”

It was true, what Dad had said, even if I was thinking of a different hammerhead. Or maybe I was talking about the other one. I honestly don’t know. I did go kayaking again shortly thereafter, and I made sure to keep an eye on my watch. Afterwards, I sat on the sand and looked out at the horizon. The Harbor Master was indeed real as the old man had said. I had been scared, but I survived. I had kept my cool. I did what all the experts said. The Harbor Master didn’t attack me. Only then did I ask myself, should I tell someone, my parents, anyone, that I’d seen the Harbor Master?

No, I decided. I’d seen him, and that was enough for me. It wasn’t that I suspected no one would believe me. No, I didn’t need any publicity, and neither did the shark. What I saw was real. The terror I felt was real, and so was the shock. This had been a real creature, and beautiful. No one would be able to tell me different. I don’t think I could’ve had as memorable and wonderful an experience had I been swimming alongside a whale shark as I’d just had with the Harbor Master. Besides, perhaps some things are best kept as legends. I never saw the old sailor again. But if I had, I would have told him the Harbor Master was no monster. No shark is. I would keep learning about them. Maybe I’d never see the Harbor Master again, but that was fine with me. I reckoned I’d see other hammerheads someday, but I would observe them, and tell people good things—about what astonishing creatures they are.

On the Edge

By Vonnie Winslow Crist

On the fringes of the islands where generations of coral have surrendered their lives to land, drowned sailors in seabird guise scull the gales and lament the approach of another storm.

On the selvages of the swamps where freshwater mingles with brine and ebb tides scour the roots of sawgrass and mangroves, manatee paddle dreaming of their siren days.

On the outskirts of a trailer park where wet laundry and sun-bleached flags

slap the air, descendants of dragons slither through their diminished empire.

On the boundary between boardwalk and froth where miniature crabs, scoot sideways and high-step their way over cigarette butts, there's no more pirate’s booty to be discovered beneath the beach blankets.

On the borders between extinct and never-was, a sprite, translucent as moonstone, glides between water lilies and duckweed collecting bubbles from the rounded lips of minnows and polliwogs.

Tonight, beneath the Singing Frog Moon and a neon sign that promises vacant rooms,

she’ll rise from her murky canal beside a lonesome stretch of two-lane highway cradling a basket of bubbles and feed magic to wind.

Skinny-Dipping By Vonnie Winslow Crist

Stroll through the too green glades of June to the forest core. There, moss-velvet smothers downed trees, weeping ferns canopy the path.

As the leafy tunnel widens, witness sunlight illuminating a hemlock-stained stream where filigree-winged witch doctors drink ambrosia from waterlily cups and frogs turn gold-flecked orbs to gape at your approach.

Behold your wavering reflection in the still water

and wonder at your cotton dress melted to moiré, your anxiety-etched face smoothed to frail loveliness.

But notice the metallic bubbles fracturing the mirror’s surface, and before venturing in: this pool hides a secret.

Instead of skinny-dipping, retrace your steps. When you reach the clearing’s edge, glance back— you’ll see a mournful kelpie imploring you with haunted eyes to molt superstition, and go for a swim.

Sergio Palumbo

Sergio is an Italian public servant who graduated from Law School working in the public real estate branch. He has published a Fantasy RolePlaying illustrated Manual, WarBlades, of more than 700 pages. Some of his works and shortstories have been published on American Aphelion Webzine, WeirdYear, Quantum Muse, Antipodean SF, Schlock!Webzine,SQ Mag, etc.,and in print inside 70 American Horror/Sci-fi/Fantasy/Steampunk Anthologies, 50 British Horror/Sci-Fi Anthologies, 2 Canadian Urban Fantasy/Horror Anthology and 4 Australian Sci-Fi Anthology by various publishers, and 30 more to follow in 2021/2022.

He is also a co-Editor, together with Mrs. Michele DUTCHER, of the Steampunk Anthology “Steam-powered Dream Engines”, published in march 2018 by Rogue Planet Press, an Imprint of of British Horrified Press, other than of the Fantasy/Sci-Fi Anthology “Fantastical Savannahs and Jungles”, published in march 2019 by the same Publisher, and of the Sci-Fi/Horror/Fantasy Anthology “Xenobiology – Stranger Creatures” published in 2020 in Great Britain.

He is also a scale modeler who likes mostly Science Fiction and Real Space models, some of his little Dioramas have been shown also on some Italian (scale model) magazines like Soldatini, Model Time, TuttoSoldatini and online on American site StarShipModeler, MechaModelComp, on British SFM: UK site and Italian SMF. Some Sci-Fi/fantasy/Horror short- stories by him in Italian have been published on Alpha Aleph, Alpha Aleph Extra, Algenib, Oltre il Futuro, Nugae 2.0, SogniHorror, La Zona Morta, edizioni Lo Scudo, Antologia Robot ITA 0.1, Antologia Il Segreto dell'Universo, Antologia E-Heroes, etc.’

The internet site of his Model Club “La Centuria” www.lacenturia.it

Kate Meyer

Kate Meyer-Currey was born in 1969 and moved to Devon in 1973. A varied career in front-line settings has fueled her interest in gritty urbanism, contrasted with a rural upbringing. Her ADHD also instills a sense of ‘other’ in her life and writing. She currently has over sixty poems in print and e journals including Family Landscape: Colchester 1957 (Not Very Quiet, 2020), Fear the reaper, (Red Wolf Journal, 2021) and Chopped egg and onion (Stick Figure, 2021). Gloves recently made top 100 in the UK’s ‘PoetryforGood’ competition for healthcare workers.

Her first chapbook ‘County Lines’ (Dancing Girl Press) comes out later this year.

Vonnie Winslow Crist

Vonnie Winslow Crist, SFWA, HWA, is author of Beneath Raven's Wing, The Enchanted Dagger, Owl Light, The Greener Forest, and other books. Her writing has been published in Amazing Stories, Cast of Wonders, Faerie Magazine, Mythica, Weird Sisters, Merrow, Fae Wings and Hidden Things, Insignia 2020: Best Asian Speculative Fiction, Best Indie Speculative Fiction: 2018, and elsewhere. Believing the world is still filled with mystery, magic, and miracles, Vonnie strives to celebrate the power of myth in her writing. For more information: http://www.vonniewinslowcrist.com/

Mark Jabaut

Mark Jabaut is a playwright, author and photographer who lives in Webster NY with his wife Nancy. Mark’s play IN THE TERRITORIES, originally developed via Geva Theatre’s Regional Writers Workshop and Festival of New Theatre, premiered in May 2014 at The Sea Change Theatre in Beverly, MA. His 2015 Rochester Key Bank Fringe Festival entry, THE BRIDGE CLUB OF DEATH, went on to be featured at an End-of-Life Symposium at SUNY Broome County and is listed with the National Issues Forum for those who wish to host similar events. Mark also had entries in subsequent Fringe Festivals, THE HATCHET MAN, DAMAGED BEASTS and COLMA! Mark has authored several short plays performed by The Geriactors, a local troupe of elderly performers. Mark’s fiction has been published in a local Rochester magazine, POST, as well as Otherwise Engaged Literature and Arts Journal, The Ozone Park Journal, SmokeLong Quarterly, Spank the Carp, Uproar, The Corvus Review, Arzono Publishing’s 2021 Annual anthology, and Defenestration. His photos have appeared in several publications as well. Visit www.markjabaut.com.

Patricia Harris

Patricia Harris is a dreamer, crafter, gamer and digital artist who loves creativity in life. A half mad poet, her writing is found all over social media and various other websites. She is a devoted mom who can be found doing a variety of art when she isn’t penning poetry and writing words. She is half of the indie publishing company Fae Corps publishing. Her collection of writings include a memoir, children's books, and poetry. For more from Patricia, check out www.Facebook.com/mouseypoet or pattimouse.wordpress.com Her books are all listed on www.books2read.com/rl/PatriciaHarris

Jericho Hockett

Jericho Hockett's roots are in the farm in Kansas, and she blooms in Topeka with Eddy and Evelynn. She is a poet, social psychologist, teacher, forever student, and dreamer, most whole in the green. Some of her poems appear in Snakeroot: A Midwest Resistance ‘Zine, Pussy Magic Heals, and South Broadway Ghost Society. More works are always brewing.

Serena Mossgraves

Serena Mossgraves is a twisted faery with the urge to scare the unwitting reader. Her dark tales of nightmares excite the unwary. She has been seen prowling around looking for new tales to twist and share. She is an avid reader who has always enjoyed the more gothic settings. If you are not afraid to seek her out she is on Facebook at www.facebook.com/serenitysfall and will gladly visit with you there.

Justine Johnston Hemmestad

Justine Johnston Hemmestad has a published novella and novel, is part of in sixteen anthologies including Chicken for the Soul: Recovering from Traumatic Brain Injuries, Death by Chocolate, and A Room is Locked, and has a number of short stories, poems, and essays published in various magazines including The Nonbinary Review and Kaleidoscope. She also holds a Master's Degree in English Literature from Northern Arizona University. Her Author's page is at www.tinyurl.com/25bxcftn

and she's on facebook at https://www.facebook.com/JustineJohnstonHemmestadauthor

Raz T. Slasher

Raz T. Slasher is an indie horror actor/filmmaker/writer from Dayton, OH. He was introduced to a world of love and horror by his mother Patricia from a young age and has never looked back. When he isn't killing people, he enjoys spending time with his family and friends, worshiping The Great Cthulhu, hanging out with his cats Crowley and Poe, reading, gaming, talking to himself loudly in public, and writing bios in third person; proving you can't spell crazy without R-A-Z…

His works include: The Mime (novel) Campyre Tales: Voices From the dark (story collection) Horror for The Holidays 2 (anthology) Horror for Hire (Anthology) Face Your Fears (Anthology) Nightmare Whispers Volumes 1 & 3 (anthology) Scary Snippets: Campfire edition (anthology) More Lore Volume 2 (anthology)

Into the Glen 1 & 2 (Anthology)

Kristin Roahrig

Kristin Roahrig's short stories and poetry have appeared in various publications. She is also the author of several plays and lives in Indiana.

B.F. Vega

Beulah Vega is a horror writer, political poet, and (overworked) theatrical artist living and working in California’s Bay Area. She is an member of the Horror Writers Association and her stories have appeared in Nightmare Whispers, Dark Celebration, Infection, The Legends of Night, Extreme Drabbles of Dread, Haunts & Hellions, and Good Southern Witches. Her poetry has been published in Fae Dreams, The Literary Nest, The Cauldron Anthology, Sage Cigarettes, Resist! With Every Inch and Breath, The Tuna Fish Journal, Hallowzine, Walled Women Voices against Violence, and Blood & Bourbon among others.

Her poems have also been performed as part of the Bay Area WTF festival in “Heroines, Harpies, and Harlots: A Woman Speaks” and the Cloverdale Performing Arts “Dead Poet Society, Players in a Pandemic”. She specializes in work that gives voice to those traditionally marginalized in literary and performing arts. And occasionally she writes a book of love poems. She is still amazed when people refer to her as a writer, every time.

To follow her lunacy (artistic and otherwise) find her on Facebook @BFVegaauthor, Instagram/Twitter @Byronwhoknew, and online at https://shuffle.do/@BFVega

Fred Gerhard

Fred Gerhard’s poetry has been published in The Wild Musette Journal, The Heavy Feather Review, Black Moon Magazine, Pif Magazine, Entropy Magazine, and other magazines and anthologies. He writes from the fernfeathered forest paths around a small town in rural New England, where he resides with his spouse and son in a fantastical fairly fairy house. When not writing he can be found dancing the sun up with his morris-dance friends.

Micheal Gillen

Michael Gillen is a new writer. He is a graduate of Vassar College with a degree in English and a minor in Japanese. He lives in New York City with his husband Josh. You can learn more about him at www.michaelgillen.info

Allene Nichols

Allene Nichols is a ionate teacher, writer, backpacker and photographer. She is fascinated by all things magical, mystical, and supernatural. She particularly enjoys hiking in Scotland, where it seems like there must be a magical creature behind every hill. She likes to photograph nature and is particularly drawn to mushrooms and other fungus because of their other worldly beauty. She often writes about how witches in television shows and movies reflect attitudes toward women in general. Her creative writing is often personal and focuses on social and environmental justice. She is currently an Assistant Professor of EnglishTeacher’s Education at Mississippi University for Women. Her blog is at https://allenen.wordpress.com/author/allenen/.

List of recent and publications

Photographs

Four photos in Aurora Journal. 2021, https://aurorajournal.org/issue-2/. Four photos in Analogies and Allegories Literary Magazine, Issue 3, Jan, 2021. https://www.analogiesandallegories.com/issues/issue-3-dreams. Seven photos in Unearthed, December, 2019, https://unearthedesf.com/allenenichols/ Two haigas in Lifting the Sky: Southwestern Haiku and Haiga, edited by Scott Wiggerman and Constance Campbell, Dos Gatos Press, 2013.

Poems “Little Girl,” Pure Slush, Lifespan Series: Growing Up, accepted for publication in 2021.

“After Writer’s Block,” Cardigan Press, accepted for publication in 2021. “Losing Home,” Atelier of Healing, accepted for publication in 2021 “I Am Moses,” Literary North, Constellation: Seed, April, 2021. https://literarynorth.org/i-am-moses-nichols “Jasmine,” “Witch,” “You are my Stigmata,” The Literary Cauldron, April, 2021. https://literarycauldron.com/written-word-poetry. “After the Election,” IMPACT: Personal Portraits of Activism, MuseWrite Press, Fall 2020. “Last Night in Venice,” New Verse News, November 15, 2019, https://newversenews.blogspot.com/2019/11/evening-in-venice.html. “Vanishing Point,” Nightingale and Sparrow, October 31, 2019, http://nightingaleandsparrow.com/vanishing-point/. “Meditations on Menopause,” Gyroscope Review, Fall 2019. “Dorothy to Auntie Em.” Impossible Archetype, Issue 5, Spring 2019. “Shall I Compare Thee?” Briar’s Lit, Volume 1, March, 2018. “Odessa, Texas” and “Cougar.” Weaving the Terrain: 100-Word Southwestern Poems, Dos Gatos Press, 2017. “Queer Salt,” Stirring, Volume 19, Edition 3, 2017. https://www.stirringlit.com/193/2017-outspoken-winners. “Lady Macbeth Speaks.” Impossible Archetype, edited by Mark Ward, Issue 2, 2017, https://impossiblearchetype.files.wordpress.com/2017/08/impossiblearchetype-issue-2.pdf.

Ivor Steven

Ivor is a former Industrial Chemist who, at 30 years old, became a plumber until his recent retirement. In September 2000 he suffered a stroke and started writing poetry as part of his rehabilitation process. He has had numerous poems published in on-line magazines such as: Vita Brevis, SpillWords, Drabble, Wolff Poetry Journal, Festival of Poetry, Slasher Monster Magazine, Fae Corps Publishing, Free Verse Revolution, and Red Wolf Journal. He is an active member of the Geelong Writers Inc. and many of his poems are published in their Anthologies. In August 2019 he was appointed as a team member/barista with the ‘Go Dog Go Café’ on-line blog/magazine group.

Between the years 1983 and 2012 Ivor was also the primary carer for his wife, who suffered from the severe MS illness, and his devotion to her is evident throughout the poems in his book. His book Tullawalla was published in March of 2021 with Fae Corps Publishing.

Kathleen Murphey

Kathleen Murphey is an associate professor of English at Community College of Philadelphia. Her work has been published through Writing in a Woman’s Voice, The Voices Project, and the Pennsylvania Literary Journal, among other platforms. She has a collection of retold fairy tales available through Online Book sellers, Other Tales, and the LGBTQ+ retellings have been published by JMS Books as Rainbow Tales. More about her work can be found at her website, www.kathleenmurphey.com.

Buffy Aakaash

Buffy Aakaash grew up around hills and lakes in New Jersey west of New York City. He has lived as a queer man in Radical Faerie sanctuaries, big cities and small remote towns throughout the US since then. His work has been published in The Poet Magazine, Iris Literary Journal, Dissonance Magazine, Planisphere Q, The Write Launch, Main Street Rag, Avocet, Georgetown Review, Oberon, Tributaries, and others. Currently, he lives with his dog, Bodhi, at 7300 feet near the Zuni Mountains of New Mexico, where he works locally doing food distribution, and managing media for healers and writers.

Katherine Quevedo

Katherine Quevedo was born and raised just outside of Portland, Oregon, where she works as an analyst and lives with her husband and two sons. Her poetry received an honorable mention in the 2020 Helen Schaible International Sonnet Contest and has appeared or is forthcoming in Pastel Pastoral, NonBinary Review, Songs of Eretz, Coffin Bell, Sidequest, and elsewhere. Find her at www.katherinequevedo.com.

Andrew McDowell

Andrew McDowell has been writing since he was a kid. He is the author of the novel Mystical Greenwood, which was a finalist in the 2019 American Fiction Awards for Fantasy: Epic/High Fantasy. He has also written and published poetry, short stories, and creative nonfiction. He won second place in the creative nonfiction category of a literary contest hosted by the Maryland Writers' Association, of which he is a member, in 2015 for his essay on his experiences with having Asperger syndrome. Visit andrewmcdowellauthor.com to learn more about him and his writing.

About the Publisher

A relatively new Indie Publisher, Fae Corps is all about helping the Indie Author find the magic in their art. Fae Corps is Cyndi Pilcher and Patricia Harris. We are the authors and the small storytellers. We are all about helping the new and struggling authors to be seen.

Anthologies by Fae Corps

Under the Mists

Faery Footprints

Through the Sunshine

Fae Dreams

Nightmare Whispers: The Darkness Within

Nightmare Whispers: Madness Echoes

Nightmare Whispers: What Remains

Faery Playgrounds

Into the Glen: Into the Light

Into the Glen: Under the shade

Section 1 Section 2 The Fae Places Section 4 Section 5 Section 6 Section 7 Section 8 Section 9 Section 10 Section 11 Section 12 Section 13 Section 14 Section 15 Section 16 The Harbor Master On the Edge Skinny-DippingBy Vonnie Winslow Crist Section 20

Section 21 Section 22 Section 23 Section 24 Section 25 Section 26 Section 27 Section 28 Section 29