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Issue 3 www.newfairytales.co.uk
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New Fairy TalesNew Fairy TalesNew Fairy TalesNew Fairy Tales
Issue 3
Issue 3 www.newfairytales.co.uk
2
Illustration on front cover
by Lily Mae Martin and on
this page by Mary Harris
Letter from the Editor
Welcome to our summer issue. Here in North
West England it always seems to be raining
whatever the season - hence the umbrella!
What another treat this issue is, the wonderful
thing about editing New Fairy Tales is that every
day I open my inbox and have no idea what I’m
going to find. There are so many good
submissions that we don’t have the room to
feature or that just aren’t right for a particular
issue; I consider myself to be very privileged to
get to read them all and I’d like to thank all of the
writers out there who continue to submit their
eclectic interpretations of what a new fairy tale is.
In this issue you’ll find a mix of the romantic, the
disturbing, the enchanting and the intriguing and
all of the tales have been brilliantly illustrated by
the artists to a very tight deadline.
The wonder of the internet is that a group of
people from across the world can work together to
produce a piece of work like this and it can be
enjoyed by anyone with computer access
anywhere. A massive thank you to all of this
issue’s fantastic contributors, they have all
provided their work for free and we would love it
if you would show your appreciation by making a
donation to our nominated charity, Derian House,
which is a children’s hospice near where I live.
You’ll find the donation link on our website.
I hope you enjoy this issue, online or on a beach,
in the sun, rain or snow - wherever you are.
Claire Massey June 09
Contents Letter from the Editor page 2
List of contributors pages 3 & 4
The tales
Dream Peddlers, by Flavia Cosma page 6
The Mock Mother, by Vanessa Woolf-Hoyle page 8
The Parrot Prince, by Caitlyn Paxson page 10
A Most Ordinary Boy, by Amanda Carr page 12
Yellow John, by Alison J. Littlewood page 14
Wedlocked, by Charlotte DeAth page 18
Creature from the Curiosity Cabinet, by Particle Article page 23
Issue 3 www.newfairytales.co.uk
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The Writers
Flavia Cosma www.flaviacosma.com is an
award winning Romanian born Canadian poet,
author and translator. She has a Masters degree
in Electrical Engineering from the Polytechnic
Institute of Bucharest. She is also an award
winning independent television documentary
producer, director, and writer, and has published
seventeen books of poetry, a novel, a travel
memoir and three books for children. Her poetry
book 47 POEMS (Texas Tech University Press,
1992), won the prestigious ALTA Richard
Wilbur Poetry in Translation Prize. A
collection of her fairy tales has just been
published in Roumania in a bilingual (French-
Romanian) edition. In English these fairy tales
have been edited by Charles Siedlecki.
Vanessa Woolf-Hoyle lives in London and
spends her time exploring the rivers, tunnels and
sewers that run beneath the streets of her
beloved Southwark. She has contributed horror
stories to a number of magazines including One
Eye Grey and Litro. This story was inspired by the
tales told by her own awesome mother.
Caitlyn Paxson is a writer and musician. Her
other work has been published in Shimmer,
Goblin Fruit, and Dante's Heart, and is
forthcoming in Cabinet des Fees. She currently
resides in Ottawa, where she is the artistic
director of a storytelling series at the National
Arts Centre of Canada and is working on her first
novel.
Amanda Carr is a thirty-something mother of
two, wife of one, and writer of many stories.
She has been published in several short story
anthologies, magazines and ezines, and is a
member of a large online writing community.
Currently, she divides her time between family,
writing, and as a creative writing workshop
facilitator. She is one of the founding members
of the Oldham Writing Cafe, based in Greater
Manchester, UK, as well as being a Preferred
Author at Writing.Com.
Alison J. Littlewood has been obsessed with
fairy tales ever since she first began to read. She
lives in a dark, twisted forest in deepest
Wakefield, England, with a white knight, a secret
library and several ancient mirrors that refuse to
be dusted. She writes genre fiction ranging from
fantasy through to horror, but is always trying to
capture the magic at the heart of a good story.
Her work has appeared in Black Static, Aoife's
Kiss, Thou Shalt Not... and Midnight Lullabies,
among others. Visit her at
www.alisonlittlewood.co.uk.
The Illustrators
Irina Borisova graduated form the National
Academy of Arts Sofia, Bulgaria after that she
followed her education with a Master degree in
scenography in Central Saint Martin’s College of
Art and Design. She worked on a number of
theatre design projects including “Cobbo” by
Theatre Alibi, Exeter and “The Psychic Detective”
(and those disappeared) Bench Tours Company.
Her most recent group exhibition participation
was The Arts Show at The Arts Club /London/.
Other works include fashion illustrations and
storyboards. At the moment she is working as a
theatre designer for a children’s play “The BFG”
by Roald Dahl at the Space /London/. Some of
her work can be seen at http://irinab.ultra-book.com/.
Lily Mae Martin is an Australian visual artist
currently based in Berlin, Germany. Born in
Melbourne in 1983 she has spent most of her life
pursuing her passion for the arts; spending her
childhood drawing and writing rather than playing
with other children. Lily Mae's work is
predominantly figurative and she often likes to
explore the division between high and low art,
taking her influences from renaissance painters
through to contemporary graphic artists. She
works mostly in the mediums of oils, ink and
pencil. You can see more of her work at: www.lilymaemartin.com.
Mary Harris graduated from North Wales School
of Art and Design with a BA (Hons) 2:1 in
Illustration for Children’s publishing. She has
entered a variety of competitions for both writing
and illustrating and won the Bronze award for the
Randolph Caldecott Prize (UK) 2008. She has
recently started writing her first YA novel
Overshadowing Darkness and hopes one day to
be a published author and illustrator. For further
examples of her work please visit her website
www.maryjoyharris.co.uk or contact her via
her email createdbythestar@hotmail.co.uk.
Joanna Loring-Fisher graduated from Norwich
School of Art and Design in 2001 with a BA
(Hons) Graphic Design - Illustration. Inspired by
family life, nature and other artists and
illustrators such as Lisbeth Zwerger, Georg
Hallensleben, Sara Fanelli and Marc Boutevant, Jo
has more recently concentrated on illustrating
and writing for children and is currently working
on three of her own stories. After recently moving
from Norfolk to Wiltshire Jo is drawing inspiration
from her beautiful new surroundings and her
work past and current as well as a few musings can be found at joloringfisher.blogspot.com.
Issue 3 www.newfairytales.co.uk
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Illustration by Irina Borisova
Important Copyright Notice
Copyright of all the work contained in
this magazine remains with the
individual writers and illustrators. The
magazine is intended for personal and
educational use only. Please respect
copyright; all enquiries about the work
contained in the magazine should be
directed to editor@newfairytales.co.uk
We will pass your enquiry on to the relevant writer or illustrator.
The Writers (cont.)
Charlotte DeAth hides in the heart of Suffolk
countryside learning the lost arts of hedge
mumbling and clod watching. She spends most
of her free time playing with the Clueless
Collective at: www.cluelesscollective.co.uk.
The Illustrators (cont.)
Sam Rees comes from the Malvern Hills but is
currently living in London. He graduated from
Interactive Arts in 2003. He’s a freelance
illustrator and you can see his work online at
www.ycnonline.com/profile/show/58673/s
am_rees. As an artist he also publishes his own
books and products which can be found at
www.samsworld.org.uk.
Sara Nesteruk is a designer based in London.
She works on illustration and moving image
projects for TV and print. You can see more of
her work at www.saranesteruk.co.uk.
Particle Article are sisters Amy Nightingale
and Claire Benson. Together they create
intricate, quirky sculptures of winged creatures
from abandoned and reclaimed materials, both
organic and manmade. Their fragile figurines
often resemble insects, fairies, angels, or hybrids
of these. They have exhibited their work across
the UK. See their website
www.particlearticle.co.uk for more details,
stockists and forthcoming exhibitions.
Issue 3 www.newfairytales.co.uk
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Dream
Peddlers by Flavia Cosma
Once upon a time, in long
lost times, two dream
peddlers got stranded on the
rocky shores of a blue sea.
These two were older people,
a ragged old man, his white
beard and his unkempt locks
tossing in the wind, and an
aged woman, her big eyes
bright and deeply set, so it
seemed that the whole world
had been mirroring itself into
them even since it began.
No one knew where
they’d come from - from
which distant corner of the
world - but it was clear
that they must have
originated in the two most
opposite corners of the
Earth. Because, if the little
old woman came from the
East, then it was absolutely
sure that the old man
came here from the West,
or maybe it was the other
way around, though this
still remains to be
debated…
And as they were
sitting on two big boulders
on the shore, and as local
people, curious about these
two apparitions, had
gathered around to listen,
each of them started
emptying their bags full of
dreams.
But for each dream they
brought forth, the locals had
to put a copper coin in the
man’s hat, which rested on
the sand between the two,
because, as I said
beforehand, these two were
dreams peddlers, and from
the very beginning everyone
agreed to pay in order to
listen to them spinning yarns.
“I,” started the old man,
and as he spoke he became
taller and taller and even
younger, “I, can make any
woman happy.”
“Ah,” sighed all the
women, adorned with head-
kerchiefs and crimpled skirts
in many colours.
“Because I”, continued
the old man, “I understand
everyone’s care in the world,
and know what to promise
each woman, so that they
would instantly feel loved,
respected and happy.”
“I,” said the old woman
in her turn, “I left behind in
the country where I come
from, a vast forest, teeming
with wild stags and playful
does, magnificent lions and
tigers, bears and foxes,
wolves and
rabbits,
badgers,
partridges
and
pheasants,
and even
turtles as
big as a
carriage
wheel. You
may want
to know
that each of these beasts
loves me dearly and can
hardly wait for me to return
home, so they can present
themselves before me and
pay me homage.
“Ah,” sighed the men
too, pumping out their chests
and beginning to dream of
great hunting games, and of
rich prey with silky furs.
“I,” the handsome old
man continued, “I have,
where I come from, a room
equipped with four engines
with which I can thread
dreams. As soon as I sit in
front of one of these devices
and press a magic button,
the machine will start telling
me stories about the
wonderful places where I
have wandered in the past,
about stately castles that I
visited, and about kings and
emperors who bestowed their
friendship upon me, and
invited me as a guest of
Issue 3 www.newfairytales.co.uk
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honor to
their great
festivities.
And just to
convince the
people that he
was telling the
truth, the old
man stooped to
the ground and
gathered from the
shore a fistful of
round stones,
beautifully
chiseled by
the waves. In his
large hands with
their long fingers,
those little stones
changed at once
into minuscule,
multi colored
booklets. The women, seeing
these, rushed up to grab
them, hid them in their
bosoms and took them
hurriedly home.
Then, as soon as night
had fallen and every one was
asleep, each woman would
take her magic booklet from
under her pillow and start
leafing through it in secret.
As they did, a divine music
filled their ears; and as they
closed their eyes, they
instantly changed back into
the joyful and beautiful girls
they had once been long ago.
At this point the old man
appeared before each of
them as if by magic,
transformed into a Prince
Charming, riding one of his
dream spinning engines, and,
taking each of them by the
hand, would walk with her
through a mysterious town,
known only to himself, with
large and imposing silent
houses, with lawns full of
fragrant flowers, with white
marble fountains from where
water was dancing and
singing under the sun’s rays,
and with large parks in which
one thousand stately palm
trees reigned.
“Choose for yourself a
house that you would like to
live in from now on,”
whispered the old wizard,
“and I will give it to you as a
present. Tell me where you’d
like to nestle on hot summer
days; name your favorite
silks, and all these wonders
will be yours.”
It was a beautiful and
touching dream, far from
everyday worries and the
household’s needs, far from
sickness and the tiring work
of daily routine.
The women awoke each
morning enwrapped in an
unknown joyfulness, and the
stars of the previous night
would be mirrored for a while
in their eyes. They were
much more beautiful now.
Even their respective
husbands took notice of this,
and seeing their wives happy
and content, they started
competing with each other to
make their spouses even
happier. Joyfully the women
would start humming the
songs from their youth,
songs that with the passing
of years, they had almost
forgotten. The days went by
easier, and work didn’t seem
so tiring anymore.
But during this time the
old woman was spinning her
flock of dreams too, by the
seashore.
“Tell me,” she would
taunt the fishermen gathered
around her, “wouldn’t you
like your nets to catch shells
containing the most precious
pearls, or some bigger
oyster-gems, or other great
treasures that sank, long
ago, to the bottom of this
sea?”
“Of course we would,”
the men answered, and
closing their eyes let
themselves be guided by the
old woman. But, wonder of
wonders! The old woman,
walking hand in hand with
these young men, became
herself again suave and
young, swaying like a green
reed in the breeze. In her
palms she gathered round
pebbles from the shore, and
laughing, she threw them far
off onto the scintillating
surface of the sea. Then the
fishermen would rush to
collect the stones in their
nets and taking them home,
they would watch them now
and then in secret at night in
the candles’ light, and
miracle! The stones would
transform themselves into
precious gems and the men
would fall asleep dreaming of
being rich, donning expensive
mantles, being surrounded by
countless servants and
pampered by dancers with
Issue 3 www.newfairytales.co.uk
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Illustration by Irina Borisova
undulating bodies and
sparkling eyes.
So day by day, as soon
as they finished their
assigned tasks, the women,
the men and even the
children of that region,
crowded around the two old
wizards at the sea-shore,
avidly listening for hours on
end to those countless
dream-tales.
“And please don’t forget,
my dear friends,” the old
wise-man advised them from
time to time, “that the only
condition for your dreams to
become reality, is that you
have to truly believe in
them.”
But as they appeared on
their shores - one fine day -
the old man and the old
woman disappeared without
a trace. Some say that one
night, during a terrible storm,
a giant wave came upon
them and taking them away,
drowned them. Others were
of the opinion that the
wizards left on their own, one
after another, taken by some
giant birds with large steel
wings and ember eyes; yet
other locals say that in fact
the wizards never really
existed, except in the
imagination of the local
people, bored stiff by their
uneventful lives - although
most of them like to think
that the two wizards had
found in their bags a dream
that would fit them both, and
regaining finally their other
half, so long searched for,
held hands and wandered
together to a fairy tale
country, where they still live
happily to this day, and
where they whisper to each
other those fantastic dreams,
each one more fanciful than
the other.
The people of that region
continued to dream and be
happy and content with their
lot in life, even after the old
wizards had disappeared,
because now they were able
to build their own dreams
and thus smooth their
foreheads so burdened by
life’s cares. During full moon
nights, the girls would braid
fancy wreaths from lilies of
the valley, to adorn
themselves the same way the
old she-wizard did; and the
boys started building rapid
engines, with which they
started cruising the roads of
the island at high speed,
imitating the old dream
peddler, who, riding on his
miraculous engine, had
already entered the realm of
legend.
But, it happened that
one time, a morose king took
the helm of that country, a
king who was never satisfied
with anyone or anything, and
who couldn’t understand why
his subjects were so happy.
Extremely curious, he gave
an order to his servants to
enquire through the crowds
about this matter and to
come with an answer right
away.
The servants brought
back news that, in the region,
there were some enchanted
stones that made people
dream the most beautiful
dreams and allowed them to
be full of good will and joyful
always.
The king, who had
never, ever dreamt one
single time in his entire life,
and didn’t have a clue about
happiness, ordered that all
these stone be gathered and
be thrown back into the sea.
Afraid of the king’s
wrath, many obeyed and
gave up their stones, or
threw them themselves into
the water. But many more
didn’t listen to the royal
command and carefully hid
the magic stones, which,
truth told, weren’t different in
any way, shape or form from
the ordinary pebbles of the
shore. They bestowed the
stones as a precious
inheritance to their children –
for the joy and happiness of
their descendants - together
with the fantastic tale of the
two dream peddlers. This tale
would be passed on from
father to son and be told at
length by grandmothers to
their grandkids, during the
long winter nights when they
sat by the fireplace and spun
their flocks of dreams, until
the little children, tired by the
day’s fun and games, fell
asleep with smiles on their
faces.
Issue 3 www.newfairytales.co.uk
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The
Mock
Mother A Cautionary Tale
by Vanessa Woolf-Hoyle
Stella and Harry were twins,
and their flat was so small
that their Mummy had to
sleep on a sofa bed in the
living room. However the
great thing was that it was
very high up, and out of their
window they could see the
London Eye, far away, slowly
turning. When they looked
directly down, the people
walking along their street
seemed to be as small as
your thumbnail.
Stella was a gorgeous little
girl with brown eyes like
chocolate buttons. Harry had
green eyes and he liked
fighting. Their Daddy was the
richest, bravest, most
exciting, most handsome
man in the whole of England,
but they didn’t know where
he lived and they never saw
him.
Mummy wore a long blue
skirt right down to the floor,
and her long brown hair hung
loose over her back, except
when she was working at
Asda, which was most days.
She was as skinny and floppy
as an old stick of celery, a
coincidence, because celery
was her favourite food. Every
evening, she would pick the
twins from After School Club,
kiss them, take them home
and cook their dinner. Then
she would clean and tidy.
Every evening, Stella
and Harry would ask her for
chips, and she would say no.
They would ask for Alien
Battle Guns and Princess
Lipstick and new shoes with
toys in the soles and a trip to
Thorpe Park, and she would
say no. Then Harry would
smack her as hard as he
could and Stella would
scream until her eyes went
pink. But Mummy never got
angry. She just wrung her
pale hands and said, “Oh my
dears, my dears! Please don’t
be naughty or I shall have to
go away and the Mock
Mother will come!”
The children didn’t listen.
They just thought Mummy
was stupid because she kept
her books in the bathroom,
ate vegetables and never
ever got in touch with Daddy.
One day Harry was
feeling so angry, he dropped
her favourite book down the
toilet. When Mummy saw it,
all covered in wee, she didn’t
get angry, no. She just
wrung her hands and said,
“Oh my dear, my dear,
please don’t be naughty, or I
shall have to go away and
the Mock Mother will come!”
Harry stuck his tongue
out.
One night, Stella was
sick of coleslaw. She threw it
on the sofa, splat! As the
sofa was also Mummy’s bed,
you might have thought
Mummy would lose her
temper this time, but she
didn’t. She just wrung her
hands and said, “Oh my dear,
my dear, please don’t be
naughty, or I shall have to go
away, and the Mock Mother
will come!”
The twins had their
eighth birthday at Surrey
Quays bowling. They had
pizza to eat, and all their
friends from school came.
Mummy had made them a
cake shaped like a heart, and
they both had piles of
presents. Only one thing was
missing. There was no
Daddy.
Stella and Harry were
outraged. They glared. They
sulked. They stamped. They
didn’t say ‘thank you’ one
single time.
On the bus home, Stella
gave Mummy such a kick that
she got a bruise as big as a
potato under her blue skirt.
When they arrived at the
bottom of their flats, she
said, “I hate you Mummy!”
“So do I!” Harry yelled.
Mummy didn’t reply. She
just carried the bags upstairs,
let the children inside and
then she turned around and
went straight back out of the
door.
Stella and Harry looked
at each other. Together, they
ran to the window and gazed
down. Fairly soon they saw
the tiny figure of Mummy,
with her long hippie hair and
her floor-length skirt, walking
quickly out of the flats and
away down the streets.
“Yay!” Stella shouted.
“Good riddance” Harry
cheered.
Luckily for them they
weren’t hungry that night.
They stayed up late. They
didn’t have a bath. They
didn’t even bother with
pajamas.
The next morning
Mummy was still gone. Stella
and Harry turned on
CBeebies and lay around,
feeling rather sick.
Issue 3 www.newfairytales.co.uk
9
Illustration by Lily Mae Martin
“I wonder when
Mummy’s coming back?”
Harry said. “I think I need
some of that pink medicine.”
“I’ll have a look” Stella
went to peer out of the
window, but the street below
was empty.
“I’ve got a bellyache!”
Harry moaned. “And I want
some clean clothes.”
Stella and Harry tried to
work the washing machine,
and they looked for the
medicine, but they had no
luck with either. All they did
was turn their flat into a
greater and greater mess. By
the afternoon, they were
both sitting with their noses
pressed to the window,
looking at the street below.
“I’m going to make
Mummy a card.” Stella said
suddenly. “I’ll say ‘welcome
home’. When she comes.”
Harry agreed. So they
found some pens and paper
and made the most elaborate
cards. But Mummy didn’t
come back.
It was starting to get
dark before they saw a figure
coming up the road towards
the flats.
“Look Harry!” Stella
called. “Look- I think it’s
Mummy! She’s coming back!”
Harry went to fetch the
card he’d made, and Stella
started jumping up and down
happily.
Meanwhile, far below, a
figure walked up the street
towards them. A figure with
long brown hair, and a floor
length blue skirt. A long tail
stuck out from under the
skirt, dragging along the
floor. The figure clacked its
big wooden teeth as it went
into the block of flats and
began to climb the stairs…
Issue 3 www.newfairytales.co.uk
10
The
Parrot
Prince by Caitlyn Paxson
Once upon a time, in a land
where the trees grew tall and
housed all manner of strange
creatures, there lived a girl.
She had no father and no
mother, but lived with an old
witch woman, deep in the
forest. The witch woman had
found her in the hollow of a
tree when she was no more
than a baby, and was kind to
her. She taught her how to
make oils that would cure
burns, and how to charm fat
green snakes down from the
trees and twine them about
her arms.
Behind her hut, the witch
woman kept a cage which
was woven out of vines and
branches. Every so often, she
would take the girl out into
the thick forest, and tell her
to sing. When the girl sang,
rainbow feathered birds of
green and blue and yellow
flew down from the tree tops
and settled on her shoulders.
They kept the birds in the
cage until the bone men
came to take them away. The
bone men frightened the girl
with their spears, and they
often wore bright feathers,
which made her think that
they must kill the birds. This
made her sad, and she often
watched the birds at their
play, and wondered what it
would be like to fly. But she
ate the wild pig meat which
the men brought, and
continued to lure birds with
her song.
The witch woman herself
never went into the cage.
She was afraid that the birds
would curse her, and steal
away her powers. She always
sent the girl to take food to
the birds, and sing to them
so that they would not
scream through the night.
One day, when the air
was heavy and green, the girl
went out into the forest to
dig for roots. Without
thinking, she hummed to
herself as she ground at the
dirt with a stick. The sound of
wings fluttering made her
look up, and there before her
was a man. He was young
and strong, and at first she
was afraid that he was one of
the bone men. But the bone
men all had hair of the
darkest black, and this man’s
hair was bright red like jungle
flowers. She offered him her
hand, and they passed the
day together in the forest.
He told her that he had
travelled from far away in the
forest, where he lived up in
the tree-tops with his people.
Once when he was small, he
went up to look out over the
canopy, and he saw forest
that stretched out to the ends
of the earth in either
direction. One day he decided
to try to find the place where
the forest ended, and he had
been travelling ever since.
The girl told him that she
would be afraid to climb so
high, for fear that she would
jump and try to fly away.
Then she laughed, and so did
he, and she saw that the
inside of his mouth was as
black as the earth under
rotting logs.
When the forest grew
dark, and the night creatures
began to come out, the man
said that he must go, but
that he would remain nearby
and see her again the next
day. The girl ran home, and
the witch woman scolded her
for staying out so late. She
warned her that if she stayed
out in the forest at night, the
Jungle Man would catch her
and take her away to be his
bride. But the girl only
smiled.
She met the red-haired
man as often as she could,
and she grew to love him. He
had a way of clacking his
tongue when she made him
laugh, and he could crack
kenari nuts open with his
teeth. He told her stories of
the sky, and described the
clouds he had seen from the
tree-tops.
Once day, when the wild
pig meat was almost gone,
the witch woman told the girl
that it was time to sing-in the
birds. The girl had hoped to
see the red-haired man that
day, but she could not
disobey the witch woman,
and so they went off into the
forest together.
The girl opened her
mouth to sing, and she could
not help but think of the red-
haired man, and the thought
of him filled her song with
Issue 3 www.newfairytales.co.uk
11
Illustration by Mary Harris
joy. Even the witch woman
found herself drawn to the
girl, and remembered a time
long ago when one of the
bone men brought her a
necklace, which he said was
carved from the bone of a
fish that was as long as the
trees were tall.
From high up, a single
bird began to make its way
down towards the girl. She
gasped as she saw it flying
towards her, for it was unlike
the the birds she usually
caught. The rainbow birds of
the jungle were yellow, and
green and blue, but this bird
was a brilliant red, that
caught the light so that it
shone like flame. He landed
on the girl’s shoulder, and
nestled close to her neck.
She reached up her fingers to
stroke his feathers, and he
hung down into the crook of
her arm, tangling in her long
hair.
The witch woman was
pleased. The bone men would
give them many pigs for a
red bird. This made the girl
sad, for from the moment
she had seen the bird, she
had wanted to give it to the
red-haired man. The witch
saw her expression, and tried
to take the bird away from
the girl, and carry it on her
own shoulder, but the bird
snapped at her, and she let it
be, for fear of its magic.
The girl did not want to
put the bird into the cage,
but the witch woman
threatened to put a spell on
her, and make her turn into
another red bird, and sell her
to the bone men, too. The
girl was afraid of the witch
woman’s powers, so she put
the bird into the cage. It
fought to stay on her,
climbing from shoulder to
shoulder, and then tried to fly
away. She hummed to it, and
it finally settled onto a
branch. When the girl left the
cage, the bird flew to the
door, and hung there, staring
at her. She went away to do
her chores, and when she
returned, the bird still hung
from the door.
Days passed, and the
red-haired man did not meet
the girl in the forest. She
decided that he had grown
weary of her, and had once
again set off to find the
forest’s end. She sat in the
cage, holding the red bird in
her arms, wishing that the
man had asked her to go with
him to find the end of the
forest. The red bird cackled
and muttered, as if it wished
to speak to her, and she sang
songs to calm it.
On the day the bone
men came, the air was wet
and heavy. The bone men
looked at the red bird, and
drew back in fear. They told
the witch that they would not
take the red bird into the
forest with them, for it
carried powerful magic, and
would turn against them.
The witch woman flew
into a fury, and told them
that they would take the bird
with them, and that they
would give her many pigs for
it, even if she had to kill it
herself. The bone men
agreed, and the witch woman
went into her hut and fetched
her magic stick, with which
she could kill the bird without
fearing its powers. The girl
began to cry, and begged the
witch woman to let her keep
the bird. The witch woman
told her that unless she
wanted to starve and die out
in the forest, she would hold
the bird still.
The witch woman swung
the stick to hit the bird, but
just before she struck, the
girl turned with a cry,
shielding the bird with her
body. The witch woman’s
stick hit the girl across the
head.
A blossom of red began
to form on the girl’s head,
and as the blood ran down
her hair, it changed color,
turning her hair from black to
the bright red of jungle
flowers. The witch woman
and the bone men watched
as the girl began to change.
She grew smaller, and her
arms spread wide as the
blood ran down them and
fanned out, red across her
skin. Then she was gone, and
in her place was a red bird.
The two birds took to
their wings, and flew off into
the forest, far away from the
bone men and the witch.
They flew together in search
of the forest’s end, and
perhaps they are flying yet.
Issue 3 www.newfairytales.co.uk
12
A Most
Ordinary
Boy by Amanda Carr
Hesmoth, the baby dragon,
dreamed of being human. He
asked his mother to tell him
his favourite fairy tale again.
She smiled, the grey scales
around her eye creasing at
the corners. "Okay, little
one, but you must drink your
lava and eat your coal first.
Then, come and snuggle up
to me in the nest and I'll tell
you all about The Boy Who
Wrote."
He dutifully gobbled up
his coal and settled down to
wait for sleep in the crook of
his mother's paws.
"Once upon a time there
was a little boy --"
"Smaller than me?"
"Much smaller than you.
He was no higher than your
flanks. This little boy was
very special; there was
nothing magical about him,
whatsoever."
"Couldn't he even
breathe flames?"
"Nope. And he couldn't
even fly. He was the most
ordinary boy in every way,
except... he could work
words on any subject."
"Anything?"
"Anything! If he found a
pebble, he would scribe on
walls about where it came
from, how big it was and
what minerals it was made
up of. He would use coal and
soot to write on hides at the
tannery about how many
heifers were led to market,
and how many cows. If he
found a stick he would write
in the sand about silica, rock-
pools, flotsam, and jetsam.
Do you know what else he
wrote?"
"I know! I know! Well, I
know what he didn't write --
he didn't write spells!"
"You're a clever boy,
Hesmoth. That's right. He
wrote such wonderfully
ordinary things: things about
the weather, about what
seasonal vegetables were
ripe, what the hunters were
catching, who was marrying
who, who was the most
important person in the
village and how many sheep
he had."
"And what time the tide
came in and went back out
again -- don't forget that
one."
"I won't -- and what time
the tide came in and when it
went back out again." She
patted Hesmoth's tail with
her own to quell his
excitement before continuing,
"Now, one day a fairy
princess from a far off land
came sailing over the sea to
pick a husband. The boy was
now a young man, but no
one thought that he would
present himself to her court
as he was not in the slightest
Issue 3 www.newfairytales.co.uk
13
Illustration by Joanna Loring-Fisher
bit magical. But when the
day came for the handsomest
bachelors to attend the
princess's ball, he arrived in
stately fashion and joined the
suitors' table."
"Could he dance?"
"Atrociously. He stood
all over the princess's dew-
drop slippers and smashed
them to pieces."
"Could he sing?"
"Like a crow. All the
ladies fainted."
"Could he recite poems?"
"With no passion and
much stumbling. The fairy
king had to leave with a
headache.
"But when it came to the
close of the evening and the
entourage made its way
down to the boats in the
harbour, he ran in front of
the party and begged them
to wait for one more hour.
The guards made ready to
dispatch him, but the
princess was curious, 'Why
should we wait, boy? The
moon is fat, and the waters
calm.'
"'Aye,' he replied, 'they
look calm now, but in a short
while they will split with the
tide; the great whirlpool will
wake and smash your ship
with more ease than I did
your dew-drop slippers. Wait
only an hour and you will be
safely home.'
"The princess looked to
her father, her father looked
to the wizards, and they
looked to the townsfolk.
Eventually, the town's chief
nodded to the princess. 'If
anyone would know the turn
and twirl of wave and tide
then it is this most ordinary
boy. He has not one ounce
of magic in him, but he
watches, notes, and records
the workings of the world
around him.'
"Upon this confirmation
the princess took the boy's
hand and declared him a
fitting husband, much to the
chagrin of the other suitors
who had danced so lightly,
sung so beautifully, and
recited so diligently. 'Why
him?' they cried. And the
princess answered, 'He has
saved my life, and so it is his
to keep. A day will come
when my feet ache from
dancing, my voice creaks
with age, and the words of
poems leave my memory,
but at least I will have a
husband who watches, notes,
and records the working of
things.'
"And they lived happily
ever after."
"Can you tell it to me
again?"
"Tomorrow night, little
one. Now is time for sleeping
and dreaming."
"I hope I have the most
ordinary dreams in all the
world!"
Issue 3 www.newfairytales.co.uk
14
Yellow
John by Alison J. Littlewood
The valley folk knew
something was wrong,
although they did not speak
of it: not in words. They
spoke about it in the look
that passed between them as
they drank a new child's
health. Green eyes, the look
said. Yellow hair. Traits that
ran in the valley. Something
to do with old blood and
fields and rivers and trees
and the mines, where some
delved for blue john, a stone
that looked black as pitch in
the dark.
The children with green
eyes and yellow hair ran with
the others in the schoolyard,
laughing and playing. Anyone
watching might have thought
that a good many were
related. But no one spoke
about that.
Kathleen already knew Gill's
intentions. It was in the way
he glanced at her at church,
a will-I won't-I look, like
drizzle that can't quite decide
to rain.
Gill had been in her class
in school. She always noticed
his broad hands. His father,
Don Mayhew who owned the
river farm, had hands like
spades. But Gill's were
sensitive too, the bones finely
turned like stairway spindles.
When they left the church
and the women gossiped
about how the cheese was
coming, the quality of the
corn, and the fineness of the
summer, Kathleen said she
was going for a walk.
"Don't go far," her
mother said. "Not in your
best."
Kathleen strode up the
rise to the woods, without
looking back, her heart
thudding.
The woods were sweet.
Bluebells had finished
flowering but here and there
Kathleen caught their scent,
like the ghosts of flowers.
Beech trees rose like grey
pillars, solid and yet graceful.
If they had spirits, they
would be maidens, she
thought. Strong ones, with
bows in their hands.
She heard the distant
cries of sheep, the trill of the
river pouring over the crags
at Sour Milk Fosse, and the
sweet sound of birdsong.
When the birds stopped
singing she knew he was
standing behind her.
"Gill?" She whispered,
and her arms prickled. Boots
rustled through the grass.
Hands reached around and
covered her eyes.
"Gill?"
No reply. Above, the
single, sweet note of a
blackbird.
Kathleen felt his touch,
listened for his breath. His
hands were clumsy. He had
bumped her nose when he
reached for her.
"Not Gill," she said,
shaking him off. She whirled
and saw the son of Smithson,
the tanner. Her mouth fell
open.
He held something out.
It shone in the sun, dangling
on a silver chain. "It's from
Gill," he said.
She held out her hand,
palm flat, as though feeding
apples to the horse. He
dropped the chain into it and
walked away.
It was blue john, the
stone that was found here
and nowhere else. Some said
it was put here a gift,
although they never said
from whom. Sometimes it
was blue, sometimes purple,
and sometimes slate grey.
Sometimes it was yellow, and
sometimes all the colours at
once.
"They should call it
purple john," children would
say. "Or stripy john. Or
yellow john."
"Stop it," Kathleen always
said. "That's not its name."
Yellow john. Where had she
heard that before? She didn't
like it.
This stone had delicate
threads of grey and yellow,
like sunshine peeking
through storm clouds. She
closed her hand over it, the
rough edges scraping her
palm. She didn't care. It was
hers, and soon she would be
his.
Later he came knocking,
to speak to her father.
Kathleen skipped to the door
wearing the necklace.
"It's all right, Dad," she
said. "We're going for a
walk." She slipped her hand
into Gill's arm.
"You don't mind, then?"
he asked.
"You're foolish, Gill
Mayhew," she said. "But
nothing I can't put right."
"Is that a yes?"
"It may be, when I'm
asked. And when you've
explained your silliness.
Shyness, was it?"
"I just wanted to be sure
you knew it was me."
"Who else would it be?"
she exclaimed. "What do you
think I am?"
He swallowed. "There's a
legend," he said. "Yellow
John. He's supposed to come
out of the forest at
Midsummer Eve, only he
doesn't look like himself. He
takes the shape of someone
from the village, someone
who's about to wed. And he
goes to the lady, and - well,
they don't know, do they.
They can't tell the difference.
So-" his voice tailed away.
Issue 3 www.newfairytales.co.uk
15
Kathleen shook her hand
free. "What are you trying to
say?"
"It's not that I doubt
you. It's just - how many
bairns do you see with green
eyes and yellow hair? They
say it's the valley, it's what
we're like. But do you think
that's true?"
She snorted. "Lots of
people look that way. And
they have children, and so
their children look like that. I
never took you for fanciful."
"So why is it always the
first?"
"What?"
"Always the first child.
Never the second or the
third. And it doesn't matter
what the parents look like.
It's as though..."
She raised her hand to
slap him, then the anger
faded. "That's ridiculous," she
said.
"But it's true, I think. He
comes out of the woods. And
it's nearly Midsummer. I just
wanted to be sure you'd
know the difference."
She tutted, put her hand
on his arm, and pulled him
back towards the house.
"Are you angry?"
"No. I'm going to tell my
father I'm getting married.
Then I'll start knocking some
sense into you.”
It wasn't like Kathleen to
worry, but worry she did.
What worried her was the
shape of Gill Mayhew's
hands. It was the only thing
that betrayed his friend to
her. And if the man of the
woods could look like anyone,
how would she know? Hands
could be copied.
Of course, if he came to
her before the allotted time,
she should refuse. But it
troubled her all the same. If
the creature could mimic
anyone, what other powers
might it have? What if she
could not bring herself to
turn him away?
And so, on the day
before Midsummer Eve, she
packed a dress, a comb, and
a towel. She put them in a
backpack and set out.
The woods were fresh
and green, and leaves
danced in the breeze. But
Kathleen did not pause until
she reached the Peak, where
Sour Milk Fosse thundered
over the crag. She set down
her pack, feeling the cool
spray wet her face. Then she
strode into the water.
It was as though she had
been struck deaf. She could
no longer hear the cries of
sheep from the valley, or the
lowing of cattle. Everything
was drowned out by the roar
of the water.
Kathleen edged closer to
the waterfall, braced herself,
and put her head under.
Soon she was shivering from
head to foot. She made
herself stay a while, though,
thinking of Gill, and her
wedding, and the shape of
his hands.
On Midsummer Eve Kathleen
could not sleep. She waited
by her window while the
moon rose high. The
farmyard was lit in silver, the
stars were clear, and the
man in the moon wore a look
of mischief.
She glanced towards the
woods and saw that someone
was looking at her.
His blue eyes sparkled in the
moonlight. In a moment he
stood beneath Kathleen's
window, and he called to her
in a honeyed voice. It was
deeper, richer than she
remembered, and made her
shiver. Such a voice. Who'd
have thought Gill would have
such a voice? He didn't sound
like that when he sang in
church.
He beckoned.
Kathleen slipped out of
her room, down the stairs,
and out of the door. She put
out a hand and Gill wrapped
his own around it. His hands
were broad but sensitive, and
Kathleen wondered what it
would be like to feel them
upon her body, touching her
secret places. She walked
with him towards the forest.
It was cool under the trees.
It made Kathleen more
conscious of the way their
hands entwined, warm and
snug like mice in a burrow.
"You will soon be mine,"
he said.
She knew that it was
true. "Add you'll be bine,"
she said.
He started at that but
put out a hand anyway,
taking her chin and raising
her lips towards his. Kathleen
shivered, not knowing if it
was anticipation, or nerves,
or the cool of the night.
Really, Midsummer Eve or
no, there was bitterness in
the air.
"Achoo!" she cried,
showering Gill with spittle.
"Oh," she said. "I'be zorry."
He grimaced.
"'S just a liddle cowd."
Gill backed away. For a
moment, Kathleen could have
sworn that his eyes weren't
blue at all: they were a deep,
vivid green.
"Look," said Gill. "It's a
bad idea. We should wait for
the wedding night, an' all
that." And with three bounds
he vanished into the trees.
Everything around Kathleen
grew still. Only the leaves
over her head seemed to
move in the breeze and
whisper, "Fool...fool...fool."
Then she realised something
strange. When Gill had made
his apologies, he hadn't
sounded like Gill any more, at
all.
Issue 3 www.newfairytales.co.uk
16
Kathleen lifted the bundle to
her face and stroked the
babe's cheek. He's solid, she
thought. He'll be helping Gill
on the farm before we know
it.
She smiled up at Gill.
The child's nose was a little
like his, a little like hers. He
had Gill's eyes, though, and
his lips. She felt the child's
hands. Broad for a bairn's,
but fine and sensitive. She
smiled at Gill. It seemed they
could never stop smiling.
That night, while
Kathleen dozed, she thought
she heard a sound, floating in
through the window. It was
silvery and soft, and sent a
shiver down her back. No,
not a shiver, she thought. A
chill. That's what it was. A
chill.
"My name is Yellow
John," it said. "And I'm
coming for your son."
She sat upright, every
nerve fixed on the sound.
She fancied she heard the
sighing of trees. And then
there was only the steady
breathing of her child. It
calmed her. She rubbed her
eyes. She was tired, that was
all.
After a while she lay
down, buried her way into
the bedclothes and closed her
eyes.
Gill Junior grew ever more
like his father. His cheeks
were ruddy and his brown
hair shone in the sunlight.
But every year, on his
birthday, Kathleen woke in
the night to hear someone
singing.
"My name is Yellow
John," it said. "And I'm
coming for your son."
"But when?" she
thought. "And how will I stop
you?"
While Little Gill slept, she
worried. While he played, she
worried. When his sister
came along, her clear blue
eyes so like her brother's,
she worried. Worry put white
darts in Kathleen's hair and
lined her forehead. She did
not care, as long as he left
her son alone.
Then one day Kathleen
went to call on her mother
with the new child in her
arms, and bade Little Gill
come with her.
"I won't," he said, and
ran into the yard, snagging
his trousers on the gate.
"Gill Mayhew, come here
this minute," she said. In a
second her husband was at
her side: but Little Gill was
running around, chasing the
dog's tail.
"Oh, leave him be," said
Gill Senior. "I'll watch him.
Only don't be long: I need to
mend the gate in five acre
field."
Kathleen nodded. It was
almost Midsummer, and soon
the farm would keep him too
busy for such things.
She set out. It was a
beautiful day, the sun riding
high. Her mother's garden
was full of murmuring bees
and bright, cheerful flowers.
The baby reached for them,
laughing. There was little
wonder that they tarried. At
last the sky faded, and
Kathleen realised she should
have been home long ago.
The house was still when
Kathleen returned, her face
red with exertion.
"Gill?" she called. "Gill!"
There was nothing. She
glanced into the kitchen, and
it was empty. She looked into
the yard and saw a shape
sobbing on the ground.
She rushed outside. It
was a little boy with brown
hair, but it was wet and
plastered to his head. He
heaved with sobs and his
whole body shook. Kathleen
pulled him into her arms.
"What is it, Little Gill?" She
said, but he did not answer.
He felt heavy, and drenched
through, and cold.
She was drying the boy,
turning his skin red with
rubbing, when her husband
came in.
"Where were you?" she
cried. "Why did you leave
him?"
"What do you mean?"
Kathleen's cheeks flamed.
"Why couldn't you wait?
He's your son. Why did you
leave him all alone?"
Gill frowned. "But I
didn't," he said. "You came
for him. You said you'd left
the baby with your mother.
You said you were taking him
for a walk."
Then Little Gill tried to
talk through chattering teeth.
"W-w-went in the waterfall,"
he said. "Went in the w-
waterfall with Mummy."
Kathleen pulled the veil down
over her eyes. It was
Midsummer Eve, and her son
was dead. His chill had
turned to fever, and finally
stilled his breath.
She crept downstairs and
out of the door. The night
was fine and clear. It was
Midsummer Eve, and
somewhere, Yellow John was
walking. Kathleen felt in her
pocket, fingering the blade
she had hidden. She would
find him and she would have
his heart.
She slipped under the
canopy of the woods and
found herself in darkness.
Not knowing where she went,
she began to walk.
Trees rustled. There
came the small death squeal
of some creature, taken by
an owl. And somewhere,
before she realised it,
someone had begun to sing.
"My name is John Yellow
And no matter where you go
Issue 3 www.newfairytales.co.uk
17
Illustration by Sam Rees
You'll never catch me, no,
ho-ho."
The sound led her
onward, although it made
Kathleen feel drowsy and
strange. It was as though the
stars had come down and
were swimming inside her
head, making everything
tingle. Still she walked, until
she came to the waterfall
where she had once bathed.
She blinked, and a man was
standing before her. He wore
the colour of leaves, his hair
was yellow, and his eyes
were green as emeralds. He
held out his hand.
Kathleen, as though in a
dream, went into his arms.
"You cheated me once,"
he said, and his voice
was like coming home.
"Not again," she
whispered. "Never
again."
He stroked the
grey in her hair and it
was gone. He touched
his lips to her
forehead and it was
clear and unlined.
Then he bent to taste
her lips. She felt his
hands in hers, the
bony hardness of
them, as though he
had twigs beneath the
skin instead of bones.
And then Kathleen
remembered and reached for
her pocket.
She took the knife and
pushed it deep into his side.
It crackled as though passing
through autumn leaves.
There was no blood. His
side was open and there were
layers inside like loam and
clay, something that gleamed
grey and purple and yellow.
He began to sing.
"I am John i' the woods
And John i' the fields
I am John i' the earth
beneath your feet
You cannot kill me."
"You took my son,"
Kathleen said. "And I shall kill
you."
Her hand sank deep into
his body as though into wet,
cold earth, and took root
there. She tried to pull away
but she could not: and so she
pushed it deeper still, feeling
coldness seep up her arm
and into her flesh.
Slowness crept up from
the earth. It was dark and old
as time. She felt the way the
earth turned, causing one
season to pass into the next,
and the steady, ancient
growth. Her body fell still,
growing stiff and ungainly,
until an age passed, and
finally, she fell asleep.
Gill and his daughter left the
church. She was tall and
shapely, her cheeks blushed
like ripe apples. The sun
shone, and Gill noticed a
young man watching her.
He smiled.
The village children ran
past him, squealing. Their
hair was black, or brown, or
tawny. There had not been a
yellow headed child with
green eyes for many a year,
though no one spoke of it.
Gill's daughter pulled
away. "I'm going for a walk,"
she said, and slipped her
hand into the young man's
arm.
Gill knew where they
were going. He wondered if
the lad would give her a gift.
Blue john, maybe, streaked
with grey or purple: but
never yellow. They only
found the stone in dark
colours, now.
They headed for the
woods. After a while they
would reach a waterfall,
where two trees grew, each
entwined with the other. Gill
knew the place as Sour Milk
Fosse, but it was called
something different now.
Lover's Fall, they called it,
the young folk. Where two
willows grew together, where
no tree had grown before:
weeping willows, trailing their
leaves in the water,
as though reaching
after something they
both had lost.
It was a place
only visited by the
young, now. The old
felt different when
they passed by.
Something cold, like a
shiver. And they only
glanced at it, a
passing glance that
said everything they
needed to say, and
nothing more.
Issue 3 www.newfairytales.co.uk
18
Wedlocked by Charlotte DeAth
canto 1
the midnight circus had come and gone
like midnight
but without the chimes
all the village had been there their wide eyes caught in the glances
of silver glints of flashes and of shiny things the quickness of the hand
the gestures to deceive
they gasped they squealed they applauded they roared
in all the right places
the circus then left disappeared in the mist
no one now remembers the occasion
or the flying girls
as far as the village was concerned it had all never existed
just a moment in time spun into candyfloss dreams when in their beds
a sleepy blur sleeping
a dream of mystery making
then day broke and the residents awoke in sadness some even climbed
down
from their beds crying no one was ever happy again
Issue 3 www.newfairytales.co.uk
19
canto 2
except
john and mary stoves were not bewitched by the call of the circus
they didn’t care to be entertained or astounded their empty hearts
couldn’t bare it
it was the sadness of everyday things
a tea cup with a broken handle leaking hot water bottle
the barrenness of a never used room collecting the dust of dried tears
year after futile year
that morning as those around them stabbed at their grey porridge
with dull spoons dressed themselves in gloom fearing a smile
because of the pain it brought
john and mary were the happiest couple alive
a child
a baby to be precise left on their doorstep wrapped in a gypsy cloth
with a note attached to mary and john
please look after the boy
love him as your own
john and mary called him jack and jack became their son
canto 3
there was nothing but the ordinary about jack as the child grew to a boy
and the boy grew to a man
or at least so it would seem
from an early age jack had understood the lost hour as if
it was his nature to understand
part of his very being
or even his heritage
at first jack would use the lost hour for amusement or mischief
putting things in the wrong places helping himself to cakes and sweets
then came the lure of shiny things
Issue 3 www.newfairytales.co.uk
20
canto 4
jack became the key collector
in the dead of night
in the dead of quiet
down the dark lanes and in the woods jack would find dropped and forgotten
keys he would creep through the cottages and search in the back of drawers
climb into attics and crawl under stairs
heeding the cry of a lonesome key
like a wolf
howl howl howling
canto 5
in his room he would listen to the stories the keys would tell
of what they unlocked and what secrets were there
and how they miss the locks that they were made for
and so jack taught himself about locks their loyalties and reassuring
presence but most of all he learnt of the intimacy they shared with keys
and how the two relied on each other
no one knew of jack’s collection he kept it under
lock and key under
his bed
Issue 3 www.newfairytales.co.uk
21
canto 6
mostly the keys were from where he had expected the trinket boxes
or old cupboards the door from a garden shed but one key
one key felt heavy in his hand and when he held it his heart ached
and became grey and he would echo
and echo
and echo
and ech o
from the inside out
for this key jack made many locks they all worked click click lock
click click unlock but the key remained burdened and weighted
and lay in his hand with an ethereal glow
a sense of expectation
canto 7
it was little lizzie sitting by the village pond one overcast spring morning
that click click unlocked something deep inside his being
she was watching her reflection ripple
and ripple
despondent
her lover had gone to sea and with tears in her eyes she sang of a time
when he would return to marry me
jack slowly became aware that that strange key warmed in his pocket
he watched her
he watched
as her graceful movements charmed the space around her
he watched her golden hair the colour of the key and by chance
a stray glance her eyes locked onto his
that night during the lost hour he climbed into her room
and watched her sleeping and he stole some softness from her hair
to keep inside his silver locket
Issue 3 www.newfairytales.co.uk
22
Illustration by Sara Nesteruk
canto 8
to lonely lizzie one day jack explained that he knew the mystery
of happiness he told of his special friends who share many secrets
and all kinds of private things
he invited her to come and meet them
as lizzie entered the room all the keys started singing strange arias of ghostly
eerie sounds spacious otherworldly and slowly
hypnotically
lizzie was lulled into a trance
drifting somewhere else
drifting into his smile into the light in his eyes as the keys sang her songs
with chains and the locks that he had made click click locked
by that odd little key that felt warm and content
lizzie was enslaved until the lost hour when they set off
to join
the midnight circus
in the shadows jack unfastened lizzie and told her
click click locked
I have the key to your heart so you are mine
and we shall live well on stolen happiness but I must have a son
to whom the lost hour
will belong
tonight you are my bride I have unlocked your heart and let myself inside
and I shall instruct you in the arts of
a cut purse a thief an enchantress a seducer a not to be believed
beautiful encounter
for tomorrow you will become the hostess
of lost loves
at the midnight circus
Issue 3 www.newfairytales.co.uk
23
Creatures from Creatures from Creatures from Creatures from
the Curiosity Cabinetthe Curiosity Cabinetthe Curiosity Cabinetthe Curiosity Cabinet
by Particle Article
No.3No.3No.3No.3
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