04 Saturday Jun 2016
Posted in flash fiction
Tags
fairy tale, fiction, flash fiction, K.M. Ross, Snow White, story
Happy-Ever-Afterwards
The queen sighed at her hands. “Not as milky white yet, still creamy and soft.” She gingerly caressed her body neath thick folds of scarlet brocade. “Alas, no longer girlish, but there’s more for my husband to embrace.” Continue reading
29 Friday Apr 2016
Posted in flash fiction
Tags
Old Perfume
My angel wears old shoes with thin laces that she ties loosely and a long skirt patched with multi-coloured fabric, rich in cotton. She has long curly hair and a hidden face. Draped in scarves and long sleeves, she is unashamedly and proudly gypsy as songs linger around her like old perfume.
Sitting at the edge of the bed, she watched me play games of reality and dreams. Like a game of chess, I dabbled in visions of black and white messages and spoke to the ghosts that still longed to be heard.
I decided she was real and watched her fasten her shoes, all the while fading in and out of life. I waved at her and as she waved back, she swore to me this was not my last day.
Jade Kennedy is a writer of poetry, prose, flash fiction and a collector of borrowed expressions. Her latest collection of poetry and flash fiction Alchemy is available from Amazon & Kobo etc. Her poetry has been included in various zines and she is now looking to find more homes for her flash fiction and prose. She writes a blog – ‘Borrowed Expressions’ at www.jadekennedywriter.blogspot.co.uk.
27 Wednesday Apr 2016
Posted in flash fiction
The Green Lady
Spring had come to the forest, placing its gentle, loving hand over branch, bough and leaf, a touch so stirring that it could wake any living thing from even the deepest of winter slumbers.
As the wood burst into life, guided and encouraged by the strengthening sun, the Green Lady also opened her eyes, eyes that captured the essence of the season. The bright green of new shoots. The bold yellow of daffodils. The soft pink and purple of sweet violets. Those spring eyes were to be found on a face of silver birch-bark, framed by a living mass of evergreen ivy tresses.
The year gained momentum and during the early days of spring she spent her time singing soft songs to the trees and forest flowers. But it wasn’t until summer dawned, when the air grew warmer and the days lengthened, that the Green Lady took to wandering the Wildwood.
She was in search of her other half; the vibrant, verdant being who had loved her since the beginning of time. They had parted company at the end of autumn, for they had responsibilities beyond themselves and each other to attend to before winter arrived in the wood. And though the winter was spent alone, it was filled with dreams and memories of an eons worth of summer’s love to keep the frozen breath of the dark months at bay.
With the sun shining brightly overhead and patches of clear blue sky to be glimpsed between the branches above, it was time for the Green Lady to leave her solitary abode and venture further into the forest. It was time to find her Green Man.
For many days she walked the secret paths of the Wildwood. She made her way beneath oak and ash boughs, beech and wych elm. She danced around willow trees and skipped over woodland streams. And everywhere she went she carried a song on her lips and a tune in her heart, her voice always accompanied by the sounds of the woodland, be it the whistling of the wind, the chatter of birds or the rustling of leaves.
It was whilst she was drinking fresh water from a spring which cascaded over an ancient rock face that she heard a familiar song on the air. She followed where it led, answering the distant verses with her own.
Day turned into night, and beneath a starry sky the song continued on through to the dawn. At first light, she was walking the hidden pathways of the forest, the sound of his voice the only directions she needed.
The morning waxed and waned and the song got louder. Midday came and went, and the afternoon grew older. With every step she took, the forest seemed more and more alive, and full of music and wonder. And still the song got louder.
He was so close now that the Green Lady could feel his presence all around her. Parting the leaves and branches of a low-growing tree on the edge of a clearing, she glimpsed the cracked and creviced bark-skin that she knew so well. And those eyes! Eyes the colour of honey and tree sap and the dark gold of ripened acorns.
She stepped through the foliage and entered the clearing, their songs joining into one. In the centre of the glade, in the light of the sun, their hands entwined. No words were needed. The song was enough. After all, the summer was their season.
Sammi Cox lives in the UK and spends her time writing and making things. She can be found scribbling short stories and poetry, often inspired by mythology and folklore, at: https://sammiscribbles.wordpress.com/
11 Monday Apr 2016
Posted in flash fiction
Tags
Old Norse
She taught me languages by calling into the air in German, Swedish, Norwegian, rolling her northern dialect off her tongue effortlessly. She told me once that her eyes were from her Viking heritage, a lush green with hints of copper and silver, rimmed with a band of rich hazel. I believed every word.
Her mother was Russian, a willowy woman with smooth pale hands. She spoke with a lisp and absently stroked the side of her face when she was nervous, and had a laugh that sounded like a prayer, hollow and darkly warm. Her father was Swedish. He told me he had been born with brine in his veins, told me stories of ice across vast lakes and the time death missed his hand when he was a foolish light-eyed lad of thirteen. He sailed for a living and his arms were solid and heavy. His hair was cropped short, a dancing play of light between red and wet sand, eyelashes so fair they could be dusted with ice crystals, as if he had walked out of a fairy tale wood and never looked back.
I couldn’t see where she went that day, when we walked along the beach in mid-March. She was throwing Old Norse at the sea and it roared back at her. She listened intently. I laughed. She blushed and said that the waves were asking if I would go looking for her. I felt the words slip from my tongue and lay heavy, unanswered, ‘Why, where are you going?’
If only I had not fallen asleep on the sand. I awoke, my head full of pain and sand crystals on my face. She had gone. Maybe walked out to sea to try and catch a wandering star. She never really belonged to this world, living like a fae with beliefs in magic and things unseen. The last words from this child of other lands were, ‘Would I go looking for her?’
I willed the strength to search. I was trying to find a whisper, a myth. I searched for her footprints but only my own marked this sparse landscape. The beach sighed with me as I listened for the things on the wind that she told me once were there: words and curses, prayers and songs, thrown away as carelessly as they had been created, and that still lived in the layers of the air. I heard a Celtic song sung to a child, an argument between lovers and the heated devotion, all on one gust of wind that blew hair across my eyes.
‘Not just fair, but a beauty. Standing closer than you think. Where the sky and sea meet in a bright light. On a land without sin.’
It was spoken in a rush. I turned, tried to hold onto it, but then it was gone over the grasses, joyous in its escape.
Previously published at Word Bohemia.
Jade Kennedy is a writer of poetry, prose, flash fiction and a collector of borrowed expressions. Her latest collection of poetry and flash fiction ‘Alchemy’ is available from Amazon & Kobo etc. Her poetry has been included in various zines and she is now looking to find more homes for her flash fiction and prose. She writes a blog – ‘Borrowed Expressions’ at www.jadekennedywriter.blogspot.co.uk.
19 Saturday Mar 2016
Posted in flash fiction
Princesses: Where are they now?
(Part nine: The princess and the frog / Tiana)
It is… interesting, being a princess but without the wealth to go with it. If anything, people expect more of you. She still gets a fair amount of gentle mockery from her family about putting on airs. The whites, though, are particularly flummoxed. A poor black girl and an immigrant who outrank Big Daddy socially have taken some getting used to. Tiana throws back her head and laughs at the high society who come to dine at her restaurant, while their knees fight the urge to curtsy and they sit on their hands to quell the urge to wag fingers in her face for being uppity. Naveen is less comfortable with his new status. His kingdom was small and poor enough but he was never anything but royalty there. The first time a stranger in the street called him “boy” Tiana had to drag her fuming husband down an alley and explain what lynchings were.
Business is booming though. The royal connection attracts wealthy customers like a honeypot. There’s even a craze for gumbo and jambalaya, collard greens and catfish, in the grandest mansions of the South. Last week she saw a southern belle with straggly, mousey cornrows. She shakes her head and sighs, but counts the cash.
She asked Naveen if there was a national dish back home he wanted her to learn to make. His eyes bulged and the blood left his face. “Fricassee of frogs legs” he whispered. She retched and heaved.
They never speak, now, of Maldonian cuisine.
Sarah Thomasin is a performance poet living in Sheffield. As well as saying poems out loud at every opportunity, they have had poems published in Now Then magazine, and in two English Pen collections, three Pankhearst Slim Volume anthologies (No Love Lost, Wherever You Roam, and This Body I Live In), The Sheffield Anthology (poems from the city imagined) and Poems For the Queer Revolution. They were also commissioned to create a limerick quiz about gender which appears in Kate Bornstein’s My New Gender Workbook. You can find Sarah online at www.sarahthomasin.com.
12 Saturday Mar 2016
Posted in flash fiction
Tags
flash fiction, gender, Mulan, princesses, reimagining, Sarah Thomasin, series, Sez Thomasin, story, transgender
Princesses: Where are they now?
(Part eight: Mulan)
The soldier known round here as Fa Mulan came home five years ago. The marriage hoped for and dreamed of by old Fa Zhou, allying their family with the prestigious Lis never came to pass, but the old man can’t complain. His child has covered them in glory enough with twelve years of daring military victories. Li Shang, on the other hand, was never much of a soldier, and although they say Mulan saved his skin a dozen times, eventually his reckless ways were bound to catch up with him. Mulan, or Ping – that’s still the name the soldiers use – was grieved when Shang was reported dead, but there was relief too. Shang wanted marriage, wanted a dutiful wife with grace and decorum. Shang did not want Ping.
Although the villagers at home still use the name Mulan – more out of deference to the old man than anything. They’re used to the retired soldier’s masculine attire and manner. And though some whisper, dishonouring a war hero is not to be thought of. The face Fa Ping sees reflected in the pond: weathered, scarred and manly, does not look like a stranger anymore.
He smiles.
Sarah Thomasin is a performance poet living in Sheffield. As well as saying poems out loud at every opportunity, they have had poems published in Now Then magazine, and in two English Pen collections, three Pankhearst Slim Volume anthologies (No Love Lost, Wherever You Roam, and This Body I Live In), The Sheffield Anthology (poems from the city imagined) and Poems For the Queer Revolution. They were also commissioned to create a limerick quiz about gender which appears in Kate Bornstein’s My New Gender Workbook. You can find Sarah online at www.sarahthomasin.com.
23 Saturday Jan 2016
Posted in flash fiction
Tags
age, fairy tales, feminism, flash fiction, princesses, prose, reimagined, Sarah Thomasin, series, Snow White, speculative, story, women
Princesses: Where are they now?
(Part One: Snow White)
People often mistake her name for a reference to her hair, these days. When she tells them no, that was the name she was born with, and strokes her tanned, wrinkled, liver spotted cheek, murmuring “white as snow” the nurses smile fondly at each other. Her lips are still bright red though, the lipstick applied with a shaky hand. They call her obstinate. The prince – the king – died years ago. He was a few years older when they married, but that sort of thing didn’t raise eyebrows, in those days. Still, she’d have liked to stay with the dwarves. The closest to parents that she ever knew, truth be told. Although she never really let them nurture her – she never really knew how. Letting yourself be loved wasn’t a skill she’d needed. They would have loved her like a daughter though, if she’d let them, and that meant a lot. Sometimes she catches herself in the mirror (an old heirloom): gaunt face, dark ringed eyes, a slash of crimson, and starts, seeing her stepmother again. She wonders, vaguely, if life is really fair to widowed queens.
Sarah Thomasin is a performance poet living in Sheffield. As well as saying poems out loud at every opportunity, they have had poems published in Now Then magazine, and in two English Pen collections, three Pankhearst Slim Volume anthologies (No Love Lost, Wherever You Roam, and This Body I Live In), The Sheffield Anthology (poems from the city imagined) and Poems For the Queer Revolution. They were also commissioned to create a limerick quiz about gender which appears in Kate Bornstein’s My New Gender Workbook. You can find Sarah online at www.sarahthomasin.com.
15 Sunday Nov 2015
Posted in poetry
Tags
baker's dozen, Chris Jones, fable, folklore, legend, poem, poetry, sayings, story
Baker’s Dozen
They met and they married by sunset in May
In time for the Harvest, the barley to lay
And during that summer they kissed in the corn
And she knew to them both that a son would be born
They gathered the grain as his seed in her bloomed
Grinding the flour as bleak winter loomed
Kneading the dough for life giving bread
Founding the village, so everyone said
The first son was born full of rage, spite and wrath
Hating the baker, his wife and their path
He turned on his father who drove him away
Poisoned by hatred from that bitter day
A year passed; a second son graced their fair house
Gentle and kind, as quiet as a mouse
He loved every creature and anything grown
So settled to farming and made it his own
In the wife’s fertile womb, sons three and four grew
A solid build each from their father they drew
Both took up chisels and shaped stone and wood
Tirelessly working till city walls stood
Within a few weeks the fifth son could talk
An expert on money before he could walk
He opened a bank near the centre of town
Found a rich widow and soon settled down
Their next son set sail trading exquisite things
An eloquent seventh would mingle with Kings
The eight was a blacksmith a master of steel
The ninth a physician so eager to heal
As a new century dawned, their family grew
A long and pained labour increased it by two
One taught the city to read and to write
The other took vows and brought them all light
The twelfth son felt no draw to any vocation
Aimless and lost, plagued by frustration
Everyone tried, but he’d listen to none
Till the wife took to task her last wayward son
You’ll tend to us all, she forcefully said
You’ll be there to dig our graves when we’re dead
Under the grass, topped off by a stone
You’ll see us all pass, then you’ll be alone
A spade in his hand he paced plots for them all
Laid flowers and statues within a tall wall
Lifted the turf and carved out the soil
Pits for their rest, at the end of their toil
The birth of their thirteenth proved too much that day
From bleeding and fever the wife passed away
In the midst of the grief came a glorious surprise
For a girl had been born of her mother’s demise
They mourned for a year, then the first son returned
To the door of his father by whom he’d felt spurned
With sword bearing warriors, a hundred or more
For whilst he’d been gone, the first had learnt war
“I am Death come amongst you”, the vengeful son said
“Your City will burn and your streets fill with dead”
But the moment the son unsheathed his great blade
The daughter strode forth; resolute, unafraid
For the thirteenth child’s tongue would be legend indeed
Though only a babe her words made men bleed
She drew forth his guilt at the death of their mother
His space at her deathbed unfilled by another
The savage words struck him, he lowered his arm
And his anger all spent he could no longer harm
Then they welcomed him home with tears of elation
For them he’d now war and forge a new nation
The Baker’s wife’s dozen founded their state
The daughter knew twelve sons would too be her fate
To nurture a Dynasty destined for power
All sculpted by Baker’s hands, crafted from flour
Chris Jones is an accidental poet, obsessed with story and rhyme. He has always written, but has only recently wandered into the wrong types of pubs where he has started to hang around with the right type of poets. He lives in Sheffield.
07 Saturday Nov 2015
Tags
faeries, fairies, fairy, feminism, folklore, Kate Holly-Clark, poem, poetry, story, Tinkerbell, women
The Other Fey Folk
So.
Mab and Titania have come back
again
sweeping their long robes
and long hair
regally through the halls
of imagination—
And Oberon and Nuada
battle through the dreaming nation
Nimue dances again by
the shore,
and Bluebell and Tansy
gossip once more,
dreaming lazily through the summer’s
sunny afternoons
and the little folk are
collecting milk and hiding
car keys as well
and have completely eclipsed
poor Tinkerbelle.
Her hair and her skirts
too short and too cute
her story too kind
for the goth-dreaming youth
her socks are not stripy,
she carries a wand
and somehow when Mab
blew back into town
she convinced folks
they were beyond
the simple story, the empty shell
made of Barrie’s Tinkerbelle.
The Lady of the Lake
now ventures up upon the land
and dances with the dryads
to the latest hip fey-folk
band and over in the corner
unasked, undancing, ignored for
her bright and childlike cheer
left without so much
as a randy satyr’s wink…
poor Tink.
The naiads are weaving lilies
into each other’s hair,
giggling over sailors and pretending
Tinkerbelle
isn’t even there.
The twelve year old sister
stuck at the prom—
her hair is too short
and her dress isn’t long
and embroidered
with the latest in Celtic-Brown
design
Unfashionable and childish and left
once more behind.
The willow-girl is whispering and
casting sideways glances
and the music grows more wild
and dark in the dancing
dell.
Poor Tinkerbelle.
Her wand grows dim, her light
grows faint. Her every move
a pain and trial.
Tinkerbelle. Out of style.
Except for those of us who can
be six again,
and love her for her bravery
and her cheer,
and her little singing voice, and her
curls in a short cap—
for her unfashionable dress
and her wand, so cliche—
I won’t ask that you believe
in fairies.
Just Tinkerbelle.
And clap.
Just for today.
Kate Holly-Clark is a professional storyteller, artist, and poet living in NH.
11 Wednesday Feb 2015
Posted in poetry
Lens on the Landscape
there was a time
when a camera
set upon a tripod
was sufficient to attract a small crowd
the men from the television
and the pretty girl who took notes
stared at the sky
like astronomers
then had a smoke
when the sun came out
the lens moved slowly
across the mountains and lake
then they packed up
disappeared over Pen y Garn
taking the weather with them
that night
we were there on the television
in black and white
a voice
telling us all there was to know about sheep
we took this as Gospel
relished the day that the stars had come to our village
thereafter
and by the grace of God
the grass was a remarkable shade of green
Gareth Writer-Davies was shortlisted for the Bridport Prize and the Erbacce Prize in 2014, Highly Commended, Geoff Stevens Memorial Prize in 2012 and 2013. He is having his pamphlet “Bodies” published by Indigo Dreams in 2015.
