CW: Suicidal ideation and (unsuccessful) suicide attempt, mental illness, gore. The noonwraith floated next to her grandmother’s coffin. Her white dress swayed in the absent wind, the blood from her scythe dripped onto the black earth. Maria could not see her face, for it was covered by blinding sunlight. A sickening heat came across her body, rising from her chest to her head. The strength left her limbs. White flashes dotted her sight. She could no longer see the casket, the noonwraith, the mourners surrounding her. She awoke not long later, slumped against the walls of the wooden church. Heatstroke, her father said. It had been a hot spring afternoon, and the sun beating down on the funeral guests caused Maria to pass out. Her grandmother’s death was also a reason, he insisted. Maria was not stupid. At the wake, she heard the whispers from her family’s neighbors and the rumors that swirled around the village when she refused to leave her house for months. Mad and cursed was what they called her, and she believed them. # “Marysia, you do not need to get married,” said her mother over a small dinner of potato pierogi. That did not comfort her. The thought of a man touching her during her wedding night made her feel an unease that she could not explain to anyone. Tap. “The Dudeks down the road have a cousin who went to America,” said her father. “Where did he go, kochanie?” Tap. “Chicago,” said her mother. “He took a ship from Hamburg. But he found a job within a week. Why, at this rate he will be richer than all of us in Piechoty combined!” Tap. Maria muttered that she would think about it. Chicago, Hamburg, all places she could never hope to see. But perhaps her mother had a point. Their potato stores were dwindling, and her grandmother’s funeral was a large expense even with help from others. Yet, the journey across the sea would cost even more, and she was already ashamed that her parents spent money on her when she did not deserve it. Tap. Her parents heard nothing. Metal screeched as it slid against the walls of the house to the window behind her parents. The hook of a bloody scythe slid across the window frame, hooking it like a grotesque animal claw. # Years before, the entire village had come out to see the building of the new train tracks going north and south. There was no rail station; there was no use putting one in a village such as Piechoty, but Ewa loved to see the trains passing by. “I’m going to be on those one day,” she had said. A train drove by like thunder, the smoke from its stack belching like a dragon’s mouth. It was a hot summer’s day, and the two girls were sitting down in a gold field of rye. Maria wondered where she would even go, the world was so small. “Kraków,” Ewa said with a smile. Her lips were as red as strawberries, and her blue eyes sparkled with dreams Maria could not hope to comprehend. “Or better, Vienna.” All those cities were far, far from Piechoty and Maria. “Good.” Ewa stood up, her dark braid bouncing against her back. “The further, the better. Jan agrees.” The name of Ewa’s betrothed shot a pang through Maria’s heart. # Maria walked along the tracks. The gravel crunched underneath her boots and the hot sun bore onto her back. The ground vibrated. In the distance, a train was coming behind her. “Why are you telling me this?” Ewa’s voice shouted in her ear. Because Ewa was getting married and leaving next week. Because Ewa was the most beautiful person she had seen. Because Maria did not want Ewa to forget about her. “I do not know what you want me to do!” Ewa had stepped backwards onto the tracks, and Maria felt that thunderous rumbling, and she could not scream. The train whistle drowned the silence in her ears, a crunch she never forgot. Red, bones, and brain splattered her dress. She could see the train wheels turn in front of her now. The ground shook, splitting like Hell coming for her and her sins. This was not what she wanted; this was not what she thought would happen. The wind blew quick and hot into her face, and the world gave out from under her. # Maria had not yet died. She lay face-first in the field, her nose tickled by stalks of grain and her fist clenched in black earth. She turned onto her back, and the noonwraith loomed over her, blocking out the midday sun. The blinding light had left her face. Souls could only return from the dead in two ways—on All Souls’ Day or dying a violent death. Noonwraiths had been killed before their wedding days. Ewa smiled at her in relief and reached out her bony hand. Maria did not recognize that touch. Ewa was not the one to push her out of the way. The train had left now, heading to its destination far to the south and where the tracks’ journey continued to lands beyond. # There were many young Polish women at the garment factory. Quite a few of them came from Galicia like her, and almost all of them came to America in the past two years. She was introduced to them when she started, but she kept her head down and voice low. The work was hard, and the pay was low. Besides, she did not have very interesting things to say. The sound of the sewing machines buzzed in her ears as much as the voice of the woman next to her. Maria learned more English listening to Margaret Ryan than in the small language book she read while traveling. “Maria, do you want to go to Schaller’s for something to eat?” said Margaret one Friday. She had taken off her head covering to reveal hair the color of chestnut. Maria could only stammer a small “good” in response. South Side of Chicago burst with life: men returned from the stockyards, children played in the streets, the sound of Polish, Slovak, Lithuanian swelled in the air as much as the ringing of streetcars. Maria stepped out into the cold autumn evening, and a warm breeze touched her cheeks, gentle as a kiss. About the author:
K.B. Diaz (they/she): kb.diaz.writes@gmail.com
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A daughter was born one day to the King of a prosperous kingdom. She was christened Malade. She was a very even-tempered and pleasant girl, and a joy for her father to behold, until one day she was afflicted with a tremor about her features. A severe juddering affected her hands and face and was found by all to be quite disquieting. In fact, she could not hold a teacup without quivering so badly that the contents were spilled. The Princess was the only child of the King and Queen. Malade, of course, had a plethora of tutors and so did not have to be around others her own age; that would have caused the King severe embarrassment, as well as being humiliating for the young girl herself. One must keep up appearances, as the King well knew. When she was six years old, Malade was given lessons in the equestrian disciplines. A young groom, older than Malade by about one year, was there, and the two young people struck up a cordial though not close relationship. This youth was called Judicieux, and he was very good at his job, and soon he was tasked with servicing all the horses that the damsel used. Judicieux was sensitive to the plight of Malade, as he was himself lame. Though she was starved for attention from children, they both recognized their proper places. Years passed. As Malade grew into young adulthood, she was beset by the responsibilities of her position: functions of ceremony at her father's table and in the King's stead. But her malady never lessened; the juddering continued. "Oh, judicieux," she said one day in the stables, preparing to mount her steed. "What shall I do?" I am to meet the prince from the northern kingdom. His father and the King desire that the prince and I wed and effect the joining together of our kingdoms. "What if the prince hates me?" "He can't help but love you, Milady," said the groom with feeling. "But my quivering," she said sorrowfully. "With all the beautiful women in our two kingdoms, why would he give me even a second glance?" "If he has but eyes to see, Milady," he said from his heart. He then limped back into the stable. Malade thought of Judicieux, "or a cripple, he has many beneficent qualities. He shall make some peasant girl a fine mate. And she thought nothing more of Judicieux or her dilemma, for she was astride a horse. "Milady," said Inepta, watching as her mistress struggled with her palsied hands, "perhaps if you concentrate, if you tell yourself to be calm, you will not judder, and things will be alright." "Thank you, Inepta," said Malade, "but in seventeen years that strategy has been to no avail. "Yes, Milady," murmured Inepta, looking sadly at the princess. That night, the kingdom was astir. The king would formally announce the engagement of Malade to the prince of the neighboring kingdom, Prince Stephen, who was rich, handsome, powerful, and heir to his kingdom. Much was made of the festivities. It was wintertime as well, and Christmas was likewise celebrated. This was everyone's favorite time of year. Sumptuous comestibles proliferated, and sparkling wine flowed like rivers. Everyone partook heartily of the rich food and libations, and at the summit of the evening, attention was focused on the prince and princess. "Daughter," intoned the King robustly, "you have before you a prince worthy of your honor." She looked shyly into the eyes of Prince Stephen. He returned her gaze, but his face fell. "Great King," said he, "I cannot marry the Princess Malade." "But," the King objected."It is all arranged." "That may be, but I have our mutual kingdoms to consider." What will become of us if I marry the Princess and our children are born who are as deranged as she is? How would our realms function? How would our diplomats sort it out if it were thought that the royal family was addle-minded? We would surely become a laughing stock throughout the continent." The prince's words pierced like a dagger the heart of the princess. The king took a great breath and released it wearily. He knew what the prince said was conventional wisdom. He released the prince from his betrothal. So the Princess returned to her solitary existence, seeing no one other than her lady in waiting, Inepta, and her groom, the lowly Judicieux. She continued to relish her time spent among her magnificent stable of horses. Starved for companionship, Princess Malade began conversing ever more intimately with Judicieux on any number of subjects; to her great surprise, she found that he was informed, intelligent, and wise far beyond his station in life. He rivaled the courtiers, in fact, in his canniness. She began to harbor an idea. Despite the fact that Judiceux was neither rich nor handsome, nor the heir to a great throne, she was completely smitten with him. One day Malade approached the King and inquired, "Father, shall I never marry?" The King, surprised that the Princess would want to marry after the debacle with Prince Steven, responded to his daughter. "Why, Malade, you will never be wed to a sovereign, as you have seen, but you may of course marry—if only for companionship. And I suppose that if you have a male child, he will inherit the throne, whether he is a juddering idiot or not." "I have chosen my husband," she announced excitedly. The king, with little enthusiasm, asked who it would be. "I shall wed the most intelligent, thoughtful, and wisest man in all the kingdom," she told him. "Have you only just met him?" he inquired. "I have known him half my life," she replied. "And the King, seeing as Mlalade was very old now—almost twenty—knew this to be a long time indeed." "If you have made your decision, word shall go out, and a wedding will be arranged," he said, but still with scant enthusiasm. "Er... who have you chosen?" he asked. "Judicieux, chief groom of the stables," she told him. The King swallowed any remarks he might have had. And so a wedding was held. All the dignitaries attended, including Prince Stephen, who had since married and was beset by a harpy of a wife. He was barely able to draw a breath, but she would criticize him for it. But she had a fertile womb, and all of her children were likewise disposed to be curmudgeons. Stephen's kingdom was almost constantly at war due to his poor diplomatic skills. The prince looked upon Malade now with admiration, for certainly she was the most beautiful bride ever to grace this or any other castle. He had simply never noticed before. After the wedding, Judicieux, as the king's only daughter's husband, sparked an interest in the king. Like his daughter, he was pleasantly surprised by the native intelligence, thoughtfulness, and wisdom of his son-in-law. And as a part of the royal family, the former groom was drawn into the diplomatic corps and soon became the outstanding minister in his Majesty's service. And as his abilities became well known, so too did Malade's grace, manners, and loving instinct. They had many children, but one of them--like the princess and later the queen--had tremors, but the child was treated with patience, understanding, and compassion. After a long reign by her parents, that child, christened Empathique, served as the greatest sovereign that the kingdom ever saw. About the author:
Bill Tope is a retired Public Assistance caseworker who lives in Illinois (almost in the very shadow of the majestic Gateway Arch) with his mean little cat Baby. He has been a construction worker, a cook, a nude model, you name it.
Honie carefully stepped over the searing, burning brimstones, which sent up an acrid, sulphurous effluvium that irritated her nose and throat. It was the same thing every day. Peering into the meadow next door, she was relieved and surprised to find neatly manicured lawns and murmuring brooks and idyllic pastures. She was still more startled and pleased to observe myriad creatures who had the run of the green space. Honie had never ventured this farm from home till now, having been told that the nether realm was benighted and dirty and harsh. And dangerous. Peeping into the fields, Honie spied pixies, clearly identifiable by their small, butterfly-like wings, their bright green apparel, and their pointy ears. Honie waved a hand at the little creatures but they paid her no mind. Arrayed amongst the many pixies were fewer, but still a significant number, of fairies, who resembled nothing so much as lovely, diminutive females, with long, slender fingers and tapering limbs, but without wings. instead, they whooshed along on the backs of large, obliging birds. The fairies were clad in dreamy, diaphanous gowns and brandished tiny silver wands with which to conjure their magic. They were stunningly beautiful, thought Honie. Finally she saw the tall, fleshy, hirsute ogres, practically walking on their knuckles; they seemed so stupid, she thought with a laugh. How could she join the other creatures? she wondered. They all seemed so joyous, so content, living together in apparent harmony. She, on the other hand, endured a hard scrabble existence without enough food or fresh water and, more urgently, no companionship. In her own land she had not a friend. She bit her lower lip, thinking, then Honie looked down at herself, was unhappy with what she found. She was a boring normal size, not a perfectly formed miniature like the fairies or the pixies; not huge and strong like the ogres; not an adept huntress like the daughters of Artemis. She grasped one of her brown tresses, examined it critically: boring! Everything was just so darn average, she thought miserably. Why couldn't she have what they all had? she wondered enviously. But Honie had always been admonished by the authorities of her own domain, to keep to her own kind. Combining different kinds of creatures, she had been told endlessly, was not only impractical, it was evil. But no one had told her that recently. She was for the first time tempted to join this weird, marvelous menagerie, and was wondering how to go about it when a faun, with its brown, furry legs and sharp little horns, took notice of Honie. It neared the spot where she stood and put its cloven hoof over an imaginary line of demarcation between the two kingdoms. Upon which the creature disintegrated and scattered into a billion atoms. Honie froze, horrified. That was what she had been warned about, she supposed. Before Honie could even think, another creature, an old troll, approached the line as the faun had. Honie wanted to warn the creature away--for every life form had a right to live, she believed--but before she could act, the troll touched the line with its large square foot and a loud crackling noise shocked them both. The troll quickly withdrew his foot and shuffled awkwardly away into dense undergrowth. It wasn't so bad that time, thought Honie. Perhaps, over time, it would be easier for "others" to cross over to each side. This experience taught her something: the first time is always the hardest, but with increased contact and familiarity, obstacles could be overcome. Making up her mind, Honie defiantly stomped her foot down on the line and waited expectantly. There was a light humming beneath her foot--but that was all. Stepping over the line and into the forbidden realm, Honie took herself to where there was food and water and, most importantly, the precious friendship of the other creatures. About the author:
Bill Tope is a retired Public Assistance caseworker who lives in Illinois (almost in the very shadow of the majestic Gateway Arch) with his mean little cat Baby. He has been a construction worker, a cook, a nude model, you name it.
Rumors said Renata was a werewolf. The villagers preferred it than what her family could come up with, which was nothing. What caused the sudden convulsions? When asked, she could barely say, “I don’t know,” as her shoulders jerked and her eyes rolled around and around like the wheels on a wagon. It made Renata dizzy and the people in her village whisper to one another in confusion, judgment, and fear. It was enough to launch her mother into tears over the loss of her future and her father at a loss for what to do with his dowry. He gave up on a legacy through sons long ago, but this was another slight by a higher power that hated him. Of course it began the day before a full moon. Even if it wasn’t timed exactly right according to legend, it was just convenient enough for the villagers to joke about melting their fine silver into bullets as she walked. Each time their eyes watched Renata twist and turn they would throw bullet-like stares straight at her head. She did not see them all, but Renata saw one little boy point his toy pistol her way. “Bang, bang, Werewolf Lady!” he cried. Renata’s body jerked in multiple places with no warning, sparking a catastrophic symphony of twitches that tumbled out one after another. The boy dropped his toy gun and ran away, calling out for his mother in a panic. Passerbys gave her disgusted glances as she unraveled in the streets. By the time she got home, the only thing that stopped it was her sheer exhaustion. When she went to bed that night, she overheard her parents discussing what could be made of her future. Their verdict? Ruined. Girls were already damaged goods as far as children were concerned, but this was another level of damage in their eyes. What difference did it make? Perhaps a puppet daughter would have made a better match; they would have the tools to fix her the way they dreamed. They always made Renata’s future about their wants, but if she no longer had one, she had no obligation to obey. Her body would never obey her command, so she would follow its wildness into the woods. If she was damned by her community, then she would enjoy the privileges of being a beast of society: solitude. Renata’s form had no rules, no restrictions. She was wired to spark without caution in spite of the bodies she was supposed to mimic around her. In the woods, she could be unapologetically feral. It wasn’t without pains and aches from her unpredictable choreography, but wasn’t there always a deal that had to be made, even without the presence of gods or devils? That is the one rule Renata figured could not be broken, even in favor of disorder. A legend came about shortly thereafter, but there was no origin story. No divine intervention. No stories about the full moon being an exclusive night for her prowling. She was more terrifying than that: Renata simply was. About the author:
A content writer by day and the executive editor of Quail Bell Magazine at night, Gretchen is obsessed with words. Her work has appeared in Next Avenue, The Mighty, Blanket Sea, Rooted in Rights, and others. See more of Gretchen's work at www.writinggales.com.
Look it, have you ever woken, in the dead of night? It’s so dark, that for a second, just a split second, you think you’ve died. And you’re so scared. And you lie there and you feel so horrible, and so…alone, and all that crap you know? Yeah, well, with every step I took, it felt like I was walking to the place where all those horrible feelings were born. Its funny isn’t it, the way the human mind works? Memories, they're just faded shadows is all just faded shadows, that we dwell in every so often. I mean, it was just a corridor, just a walk down a corridor, and yet it’s that that sticks out. I remember the rest, obviously, of course I remember. But it’s all a blur, you know? I almost…trained myself, I suppose, not to think about it…everything. And I don’t, you know, I get on with my life, but it’s walking down that Godforsaken Corridor, it sneaks up on me. And it’s so clear. Every step I took echoed and I can still hear it echoing in my mind. Who the hell am I to complain, there’s so many others going through so much worse than me. Look, I don’t want to talk about it ok, or, or need to. I don’t want to waste another day. I don’t want a hug. I don’t want a tissue. I don’t want to rent your shoulder to cry on. I just, I just… I just thought I’d tell you about the corridor, cause’ I think, it’s a bit mad, that that’s the one thing that sticks out. Yeah, I freaked out ok? You don’t get it. It was so messed up down there. It was like a forgotten place. It’s stupid, but it felt like I couldn’t smile down there, because no one ever did or something. And with every step I took, I felt like, once I got to the end, I couldn’t go back. I’d be stuck there. Which is stupid, cause’ all I ever had to do was ask the nurse and make some bullshit small talk with her, while she took forever to type out that code, and let me out. But sometimes, I’d think, if she can’t get out, then neither can I. Who decided she should stay and I should go. Stupid, so stupid, I know, she’s in the best place…or so I’ve been told. But she can’t decide when to go, you know? And even if she could, she’s locked in her own mind, and I swear, if I knew how to make her better… but I didn’t. I don’t know. And I’d give anything to make her better. And maybe if she got better, she wouldn’t look so sad anymore. You know we were chatting once, she was in there a couple of months at this point and we were just chatting, and she said “you look wrecked, are you sleeping?” so I told her, cause’ she asked, I told her about waking in the dead of night, and it being so dark and thinking I’ve died for a split second and being so scared…and she told me, she said to me, that when she get’s that feeling, when she wakes, and it’s so dark that she thinks she’s died…she’s relieved. Look, I wasn’t the first, and I certainly won’t be the last, but when you see someone walking down that corridor…and I saw this one girl. And she was so small. And so young. And I would bet a diamond to a dollar, that she didn’t know she was crying when she walked down that same corridor. And I wonder now, looking back, did I? Sitting on the bus this all spilled through my mind. I don’t who I’m speaking to when this inner monologue clatters through my brain, I always like to imagine someone, or something, is listening and gartering what I’m thinking and what I’m not saying to keep safe for when I brave enough to examine it all. It’s funny. So I thanked the bus driver I slipped of the bus and ran into his arms as they swept around, a magic clock to block out all thoughts in my mind. I smiled at him. He smiled back. He brushed my hair out of my face as a smile meant for someone played across his mouth. “How was visiting your ma?” A question that could be spoken in monotone, for it had been asked so many times and knew the answer before I even attempted to speak it. “Ok” I whispered back. So I snatched up my bag pack and my denial, I smiled a smile, and breathed a breath, I thought a thought, I walked away hand in hand with him. I offered a wish for mam to be aware of the love I held for her, as I say I like to think someone is listening, or something. About the author:
Martina Teeny Collender is a Queer, Disabled, Award Winning, Published, Playwright, Poet and Writer living and working in Waterford City and County with her beloved Ellie. She's been commissioned to write plays for Loose Screw Theatre Company, Red Kettle Theatre Company, RigOut Productions, Trinity Players, Comeragh Wilds Festival, Imagine Arts Festival, The Drama Circle, Brothers Of Charity, Rehab Care, Waterford Youth Arts and Garter Lane Arts Centre. She's been published in The Waxed Lemon, The Munster Express, The Lonely Voice run by the Irish Writer's Centre, Pride Of The Deise Supplement, ChewBoy Productions: Chewin The Fat Issue 3, Shallot Journal of Mental Health, Art and Literature and The News and Star. She's been awarded Best New Play three times by Liam Murphy at The Munster Express and was shortlisted for Best Play at the Billy Roche International Play Competition for her play Visiting The Grave. She's been funded by Waterford City and County Council, Artlinks, Ted and Mary O'Regan Bursary, Creative Ireland and the Arts Council Of Ireland. Two of her plays Crotty The Highway Man and Pettiecoat Loose have been published by Suirdzign. Her play Still, We Sing has been published by Beir Bua Press.
The cicadas sizzled in the summer afternoon, spiraling in an erratic murmuration through the yard, and Fen dropped her sidewalk chalk to cover her ears. Her father, working on changing the oil in his pickup, called to her. “Fen, what’s wrong?” “They’re so loud,” Fen said, still holding her ears. “What is?” “The bugs. They’re so loud.” Her father laughed and rolled back under the pickup. And the years passed, and Fen learned not to bring up the volume on the TV, or the music at concerts when her friends shouted and jumped up and down. People didn’t understand that it hurt, that it made her want to curl up and just stop for a while. She learned to hate her ears, and how she couldn’t decrease the sound rolling into her head like a relentless tide, crashing and tumbling her thoughts into surf. She bought sound canceling headphones with the money from her first job and online, she found playlists of quiet things, like the moon creeping across the sky, or a spider spinning his web, or someone doing ASMR on how to cook an omelet. She worked as a janitor on night shift at an art exhibit, avoiding people, avoiding raised voices and the blaring sounds packaged with the sun. But the spiders encouraged her to talk to the visitors. They motioned at her from the corners, for out of all the creeping things spiders know the most about loneliness, and one time they insisted with such emphatic gestures of their legs that she sighed and slid off her headphones. The building would close in the next few minutes anyway. She gripped her pushbroom in readiness. “This painting,” the exhibit’s recorded voice explained to a small boy and his parents, “displays a bouquet of tiger lilies. In the background, a spray of purple-gray lavender sets off the brightness of the orange lilies. The painter named it ‘The Importance of Gray, and—” The voice, recorded at what everyone else termed a normal volume, did not set off Fen’s alarm as she’d expected. The story immersed her, settling into her far corners, saturating her lungs so she could not breathe. It overwhelmed in a new way, a happy way, and she held her hand over her heart. “What’s happening?” she asked the spiders in the barest of whispers. The pushbroom clattered to the ground. She’d dropped it. “Are you alright?” The mother asked. So loud. So loud. But not as loud as she’d expected. She hadn’t spoken to humans in years. Maybe . . . “Your ears have matured,” the spiders said. “They are a strength, not a curse.” “Let’s go,” the father said, shepherding his son and wife away down the hall. Fen bit her lip and turned back to the display of lilies and lavender. The recording had started over. “In the background, a spray of purple-grey lavender . . .” And the wave rolled through Fen once more, and she caught the hue of orange in it, of a sunlit place where sound didn’t hurt her, but lifted her instead, buoyed her higher than any other of her favorite moments; higher than eating mousse chocolate cake or falling asleep in a memory foam bed. The sound affected her with such strength that she cried for the next fifteen minutes, until closing time, and the little boy and his parents left. She waved, and kept her headphones off, to test her new ears. “Bye!” the little boy said. And the volume still clanged in her ears, but not as bad. Not when she imagined his words as a tiger lily, bright and happy and center stage, while she provided the importance of gray. “Have a good night,” Fen said in her small voice. The doors closed and she asked the spiders, “What is this? What is happening?” They wove their webs in concentric circles, and the sound of their spinning reverberated in her ears. “Isn’t it wonderful?” they said. “The beauty of sound? Not many humans can hear it, you know!” The clock ticked on the wall, the air conditioner hummed downstairs, and the boy’s words echoed in the air— “Bye!” and it all created a symphony. Something had unlocked inside Fen. Her ears had developed to handle the beauty behind noise; instead of roaring, it resonated, instead of clamoring, it sang. Stories told out loud sang the sweetest. She couldn’t wait to listen to the people the next day, all talking and telling stories in the art exhibit. About the author:
Emmie Christie’s work includes practical subjects, like feminism and mental health, and speculative subjects, like unicorns and affordable healthcare. She has been published in various short story markets including Ghost Orchid Press, Infinite Worlds Magazine, and Flash Fiction Online. She graduated from the Odyssey Writing Workshop in 2013. You can find her at www.emmiechristie.com or on Twitter @EmmieChristie33.
I. Intro (A Lay of the Land This story explores aspects of untreated mental illness. Mentions of self-harm, disordered eating, agoraphobia, psychosis, depression, abuse, etc If you’ve read the caveat above, welcome. My name is ever-changing. But today, I’ll introduce myself as the Girl King, only because I grow tired of beasts calling me Princess. I am a girl king, first of my lineage, and I am in pain. I have swam the seas of madness; my legs grow tired, but my tongue works just fine. Fine enough for me to tell you this story. Now, don’t be fooled. This isn’t a psychology lesson. I’m writing this as a cautionary tale. I’m writing this from outside my prison. Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way… Hello once again, dear reader. Let me spin you a yarn. II. Solitude This is where it starts. Every morning, I watched the sunrise through a dirty, moss-covered window. And every night, I watched it set through even dirtier, moss-covered eyes. Throughout the day, beasts would lope around the cobble, their shadows stretched tall under the beating sun. Eventually, I realized that they were just people, and not all people are beasts. The difference between the people below and me, the Girl King, is they don’t sequester themselves to a tower. They don’t hide from the sun. They don’t devour a single grain of rice a day and call it a feast. They don’t study the ghosts in the mirror. They don’t fear dragons. Or maybe they do. Maybe they get up in the morning and choose to walk away from phantoms. Maybe they’re brave. Braver than me. They face the world beyond, so they must be. They shield their eyes from the sun, and they see dragons for what they are: Arcane but nothing to fret over. I don’t talk to these people. These everyday folks. Not because I think I’m better than everyday folk, but because I don’t talk to strangers. I don’t talk to anyone. My mouth has been stitched for millennia. More often than not, the only person I talk to is myself. Or, rather, my own ghost. She’s not much company, by the way. All she does is stare and cry and tremble. This isn’t to say I am or was completely alone. It only feels that way at times. Beyond the tower, I have many faithful subjects. They contact me via pigeon carrier. They say things like, “Whilst we love thou, thou art an idiot. Come down from thy tower, Girl King.” Of course, they said it with some semblance of grace. Unlike myself, who replied, “Take your pigeons and kindly piss off.” Not a very nice nor kingly thing to say, I know. These types of sicknesses (depression, psychosis, and the like) as you will learn—or maybe you already know too well—can make the nicest kings seem cruel. Therein, lies my next point. III. Melancholy I see the world in black and white, but I am not color blind. What am I? Depressed, as it turns out. Do you like small talk, dear reader? I mostly loathe it. Life is too short for filler words, which is ironic considering I’m spouting this stream. There’s a method to my madness. Bear with me. Melancholy and solitude go together like peanut butter and jelly. A delicacy where I’m from. Except the bread and the peanut butter were too heavy, making my legs akin to an elephant’s. Don’t get me started on the jelly, dear reader. The seeds inside look like tiny pins that’d hook into my guts, and the sugar would no doubt rot my fangs. Needless to say, I went long swaths without sandwiches. Poor Girl King. Can’t eat a bite. How sad, right? In the vein of sadness, and in the vein of veins-- Should I not go there? Should I spare you the stories of gore? You must know what I’m referring to, yes? Maybe you’ve witnessed the kind of sadness that steals your breath and the rosiness from your cheeks. The kind that robs your mobility and your personality at large? Maybe you’ve felt the anguish that draws blood, causing the flesh to grow back thick, shiny, and white. I think you get the picture. I’ve painted the monochromatic subject quite colorfully. Let’s not linger. Curses bloom that way. IV. Disorder In the Court Moving on. I will keep this section brief. For there is only so much you can say about matters of self-image and sundry violence. In the incredibly rare event that I came down from my tower (perhaps once every full moon), one of two things put me back in my place: I. A poor, random beastie passing by who’d no knowledge of how badly they’d startled me. II. My own reflection glaring back at me. My witch-like appearance was a point of contention between me, myself, and I. And with the majority of the court banished by my hand, I had no one to tell me otherwise. Plot twist: I did. I just couldn’t hear the voices of angels—angels I once thought were common beasts—over the sound of hatred. All I had left were a hall of mirrors I avoided to keep my ghost at bay, the occasional hallucinated critter (please, refer to Part VII), and my own body. Of which was not my temple and only existed to be abused by myself and others. Where do we learn such violence? Or, better yet: Why do we pick up where the abusers left off?
Cherish yourself, little finite being. You are the only you to exist in this space and time. V. Slumber (or Lack Thereof) Do you hunger for something? Out of all the hungers (for thirst, for feast, for love or lust, for power, et cetera and suchlike), which do you think is the worst? Dear reader, I can tell you my answer, plain as day and dark as night, without a moment of hesitation. The worst hunger of all is sleep. There’s a reason insomnia is popular amongst torturers. It scrapes away one’s humanity fleck by fleck. You enter a place not of this world. It’s dark, and vast, and warbled. A state of never-ending confusion where you ask yourself, “Am I asleep? Am I dead?” You obsess over sleep, but at the same time (in my case, anyways) you fear what lies beyond the waking world. It’s a paradox with one cure. Sleep. The thing I feared but also craved. The bottle helped on occasion, but not enough to satisfy my hunger for slumber, so I gave up on that in short order. I know. How dare a girl king get drunk? Listen to this. It gets worse. I also sit with my legs open. Egads! VI. Disorder In the Court, Part Deux: Paranoia Edition On those days where I caught nary a wink, seeds of doubt suckled in my swollen head. Sometimes I would lie awake at night (might I redirect you to Part V?) and gawk out my mossy window. I’d tremble at the thought of demons, wolves, and other unmentionable beasts outside my tower. The worst unmentionable of all—though, it can’t be unmentionable now because I am, in fact, mentioning it—is an unwanted suitor. One who’d scale my dark fortress, burst in, and profess not their love, but their lust. If I resist? Well, off with my head. Many jilted suitors have declared me to die by their sword or their fists for daring to refuse them. One would think I’d be accustomed to such treatment, but nay. Except for now, where I am writing this outside my prison, do I implore them to try. My sword is bigger, methinks. Some have said I should be so lucky to have a suitor. For I am as tall as my tower, and some days I appear grotesque like an ogre, and more to the point, I speak like a man. I don’t tread softly. Apparently, that is frowned upon. Suitors aside, there were other times when the creeping crud of paranoia struck me. Often I skipped meals, thinking a member of the court had poisoned me. I floated around my sleeping quarters listening for vile whispers and death plots. Sometimes I remained inside my body amidst my eavesdropping. Other times, I fled my flesh like a phantom. It’s a special and, in my personal opinion, very undesirable talent called dissociation. Maybe you’ve heard of such things. Was there ever disorder in the court? Yes, there were many liars. I myself have lied. I’ve lied to myself about the state of my head, and I’ve lied to members of my court thusly. Life is too short for lying, even if it’s as simple of a lie as, “I’m fine.” Life is too short for lying. Belay that shit forthwith. VII. Mirages and Monsters In times of little light, where the only eyes I saw were my own—and they were bloody, and black, and ready to drop from my skull—I conjured creatures from thin air. Pacing, bent shadows stealing glances; tiny mice with curious eyes who looked at me not like a mad girl king but a fellow beating heart; crows who nary cawed but were an omen of what was to come if I didn’t awaken. I should’ve listened to the crows. Instead, I danced with shadows for so long that I became one. I found myself caught between the real and unreal, the tangible and intangible. I wasn’t real. I wasn’t tangible. There was no reflection in the mirror. No breath in my lungs. And every soul I met, flew through me, looked through me. I was dead already, existing in a purgatory I’d created for myself with the help of the beasts of old. I had to make myself real again. I had to say, “Enough.” VIII. I Escaped Thy Prison & All I Got Was This T-Shirt …and so I did. I said, “Enough. Fin. Fare-thee-well.” One day, for reasons unknown to myself even now, I sent my carrier pigeons en masse, enlisting help in the battle against shadows, against demons, against beasts, against…me. Against me fueling those shadows, those demons, those beasts. Fueling them because I didn’t know any other way. I didn’t know how to be anything less than nothing. I did it. I conquered. I cleaned the moss from my eyes (not from my window, though; it’s there to remind me of what not to do). When I journeyed outside, beyond my dreaded tower, I found… Here there be dragons. About the author:
J. Moniz suffers from various chronic illnesses, both physical and mental. When she isn’t writing, you can find her haunting your local antique shop or sunbathing in the forest.
"Cookies," the old woman hissed, standing over the churning cauldron. With steam rising to swathe her face, she continued in that same plaintive monotone, "Cookies. Cookies, cookies." Her voice was dry, sibilant as a snake. She stirred the great iron pot with a large wooden paddle, sometimes splashing the mixture over the rim of the cauldron, where it landed upon the oaken floor with a loud hiss and a little dissipation of steam. She ceased stirring and turned to a little room off the kitchen, where her "assistants" lay on the floor, chained to posts with collars about their necks. There were dogs and cats and red and gray squirrels and raccoons and other creatures, seven in all. Because seven was a Lucky Number! "Here, try a little of this," she murmured, approaching an orange cat with a filled spoon of the concoction. The cat sniffed the brew, then lifted a paw to bat at the spoon, spilling its contents. "Bad cat!" snarled the old woman, bopping the cat sharply on the nose with the wooden spoon. The cat hissed at her and made to scratch the old woman but the chain round the cat's neck impeded her. This set off a woofing and barking and snarling and hissing among the other captives, so the woman soon quitted the room. Some time later, after the cauldron had boiled for hours, the old woman reemerged at its side and, taking up a pair of ancient steel tongs, extracted the fruits of her labor: a large, plate-sized, perfectly browned chocolate chip cookie. "Cookies," she drooled yet again. "An' there's more where that come from!" The old woman wielded the tongs again and again and eventually turned up a large platter of Magic Chocolate Chip Cookies. But her night's work had just begun. Entering the little room containing the pets and forest creatures once more, she began breaking off pieces of cookie and placing them before the little animals. The dogs and raccoon and squirrel ate immediately and voraciously, but the cat sniffed suspiciously, remembering the bop on the nose; but soon even she was placidly consuming the confection. Moving furtively, the crone unlocked and removed the collars from round the creatures' necks. Consumed with eating the cookie fragments, they paid her no mind. At length, the old woman grunted. "Huh," she said. "I s'pose you'd better have some more." And she continued feeding the seven inmates till all the cookies--the whole big platter full--were gone. She turned away, muttering gravely, when suddenly there was a loud Pop! like the sound of an emerging Champagne cork. The old lady swivelled her head at once, just in time to observe the gray squirrel change into a little boy of about 5. Another Pop! and the orange cat changed into a little girl. And so it went, with each furry little creature magically transforming into a young child. They wore no clothes, of course, but seemed upset by their nakedness not at all. They sat in a little semicircle facing the old woman, waiting expectantly. "Okay, Beryl," she addressed the former cat, "What is there to steal at the Dickens's place?" Beryl began speaking rapidly in a little girl voice, while the old woman tried to write down what she said. And so it went with the other children, who retailed what they knew of private treasures in the vale and how best to purloin them. "Now, I'll get the older children to actually clean the town out," she muttered to no one in particular. The children still stared up at her from their seats on the wooden floor. "But for you kids, I've got a new assignment: find out what there is to take in Shelbyville; it's only a half mile away." The seven little faces bobbled up and down in agreement. "Now," she said seriously, "as for your disguise." So she fed them chicken wings and beer and switched on a football game, turning them all into animals again. About the author:
Bill Tope is a retired Public Assistance caseworker who lives in Illinois (almost in the very shadow of the majestic Gateway Arch) with his mean little cat Baby. He has been a construction worker, a cook, a nude model, you name it.
Once upon a time there was a girl, she had a chronic illness that made her have balance problems and dizzy spells. It was very dangerous for her to just walk around like a normal person. She was a constant fall-risk. So one day, she met the sweet little prince who would be the one to save her. She ordered him online and he was sent out to her by airplane. She went to the airport and picked up her little prince. He was a cute fluffy ball of fuzz hiding in the back of the small crate he was in. She reached in and called him by name, for she had already named her little prince. His name was Amos. He inched towards her as she put her hand into the crate to try to get him to come out from his hiding place. The little prince crawled towards her and climbed gratefully into her lap. She gave him some water and a little food to comfort him after his long cross-country trip. She put a collar and a leash on him and took him for a short walk to stretch his furry legs. Then they climbed into the car together where the little prince met the girl’s husband who was just as happy to see the little prince. The girl’s husband drove them home while the little prince sat in the girl’s lap the whole way home. She held him tightly and scratched him behind the ears and spoke to him softly the whole drive to his new forever home. The man and the girl took the little prince to their humble home where prince Amos was allowed to sleep on the soft and warm bed with his two new friends. They slept together as a pack, which was something the young prince was familiar with doing, having recently left his litter himself. The little prince was so smart that within two weeks, he had already figured out what his job was supposed to be, and he taught himself how to alert the girl when she was having balance problems, and he would walk beside her and take her hand in his mouth and pull her to the ground gently, so she could avoid falling down. Amos then went to service dog school with the girl to learn how to do his job better. Amos was always at the top of his class. He learned very fast and outshone all the other dogs in his classes. He got to the point where could alert his girl with 100% accuracy. A feat unseen before by his trainers. Amos got so good that when his girl had to start using a walker to be able to walk, that Amos could use his front feet to kick the girl’s feet gently as she walked to keep her gait proper as she used her new walking aid. All of these things were instinctual for the little prince. And he consistently helped her with her ailments. Then a day came where the little prince sniffed his girl and he smelled something different. He alerted her and she checked where he was sniffing. She called her doctor and told her doctor that her precious boy had found a lump. Her doctor said to always trust the dog, especially Amos because he was so in tune with the girl. And Amos was right. The lump got checked and the girl was diagnosed with cancer for the second time. This time the cancer had metastasized, and had spread throughout her body. Amos was on constant alert for new symptoms and ways to care for his girl. The cancer had entered the girl’s brain and paralyzed half of her body. So Amos kicked up his skills on his own and started alerting her to various side-effects and issues. He continued to help her to walk as much as he could and he started helping her to move her wheelchair. One arm was weaker than the other, so Amos took on the job of trying to pull the chair straight. He continued to help her in every way he could with alerting her to impending seizures. And helping her on her left side whenever her muscles failed her. This is not a story about how a damsel in distress needs a man to save her. In this girl’s case, she needed a service dog, and Amos the little prince came to her rescue. He was the love of her life, and he rescued her every single day for as long as they knew one another. And they lived happily ever after as they cared for one another constantly. About the author:
Judy lives in Arizona with her husband and her Giant Schnoodle Amos. She is a former library clerk. She struggles with a chronic illness and stage 4 cancer. Judy writes mostly fantasy, but occasionally delves into other genres. She writes books and short stories for all ages. Visit her website at JudyLunsford.com.a |
