I looked into the fire of my wood oven, the flames encircling a small arm reaching out towards me, as a child screamed. I closed the oven door and walked away. Whatever my feelings were, I could not feel them; I kept them trapped in a mental lockbox and had thrown away the key a long time ago. I sat down at the kitchen table, burying my face in my hands. I was exhausted from the upkeep of the glamour. As I sat at the table, thinking about nothing while staring at the wall, the candy arches of the cottage dissipated, the walls of gingerbread returned to wood, and the house was as it was. As I knew it. My duty was done for the month. For the month. “It is ready,” Its voice said. “You may eat.” I walked over to the oven and opened the door. A seemingly endless expanse of nothing greeted me. The oven seemed to fit anything inside of it. Consuming anything it wanted, and it wanted children, mostly. A rack appeared with a small tin of ashes. “Eat it,” It commanded. I grabbed the tin, held it to my lips, and threw my head back, consuming it one go. At first, I hated what the tins meant. Now, I just hate the taste. “Good, my child,” It cooed. “This will give you the power you need for the coming days.” I wiped the ashes from my lips. In due time, I thought. This is all worth it. I trudged to my bedroom, my whole body feeling like a stone descending to the bottom of a lake. I threw myself upon my bed and slept. I told myself it was the consumption that always made me tired. I knew I was lying. I knew I felt guilty. “Sleep, child,” It said. “Rest well. You have done good. Until the next full moon.” # “Another child enters the wood,” It commanded me. “Two, actually.” I walked over to my window to get a glimpse of the children. I couldn’t see them, but I trusted It. I took a deep breath and conjured the glamor once more. A cottage of candy. At last, I could see the children out of my sugared windows. It was a boy and a girl. The boy was older, holding the girl’s hand as he led her into the clearing. They looked emaciated, their clothes baggy and dirty, and dark rings encircled their eyes. Sticks and leaves jutted out from their matted blonde hair. When they saw my cottage, their beady eyes lit up, and I felt a small ache in my heart before shoving it back into the lockbox. The children collapsed in front of my house, ravenously eating the cake walls that I knew was actually just cedar. I emerged from the house. “Oh, dear, you two look terrible!” The boy stood up. “Apologies, ma’am. We are so hungry that we didn’t realize someone might live here.” The girl also stood up, clinging to her brother’s arm. I forced a chuckle out. “Oh, that’s quite alright. I understand. Why don’t you two come inside? I can make you dinner and give you nice, warm beds.” “Much obliged!” The boy exclaimed. I led the children into the house, their faces lighting up at the tables made from wafers and the stools of lollipops. I led them into their room, a simple room with only two beds of marshmallows and a hard candy sconce for lighting. “It is not much, but do make yourselves comfortable,” I said with a fake smile that came effortlessly. “This is wonderful, ma’am,” the boy replied. “Thank you.” “You’re certainly welcome. Now, there’s a stream not too far from here. Please wash up before dinner.” I turned away. Two children this time. The famine was getting worse. “Fatten them up,” It said. “Not enough meat for me.” # I made them a rabbit-and-leek stew. Each bowl of a sea of yellow cream with potatoes bobbing up and down in them. The boy was eating it as though it were water while his sister slowly ladled spoons of it into her mouth. The boy was not paying attention to me or to his surroundings, utterly engrossed by a warm meal. The girl, however, never broke eye contact with me, her brown eyes piercing me like arrowheads. “Why aren’t we eating the candy?” The boy said with his mouth full of food. “Much tastier.” “It’s not nutritious, dear,” I replied. “Now, what were two children doing alone in the woods?” I always hated asking, but it got the children to trust me. “Our stepmother kicked us out, ma’am,” the boy answered. “There was not enough food.” “Oh, you poor things.” It was false sympathy, of course. Each child had the same story, it seemed, and I was growing numb to it. “Will you kick us out, too?” the girl asked, finally speaking. Her voice was high-pitched yet quiet, like the quiet howl of the wind. “No, dear, there is plenty of food here.” “I wonder what you’ll do when the food runs out.” She turned back down to her stew, and the remainder of dinner was quiet. Afterward, I escorted the children back into their room. I tucked the boy into his blanket of cotton candy, but the girl did not want me anywhere near her, thrashing her arms about if I did. I blew the sconce out and went to bed myself. “Still too thin,” it whispered to me, as I drifted to sleep. “I need more.” I had always been haunted by visions when I slept. The famine in my dreams grew worse with age, and soon, people would begin eating their infants. I was so tormented by these visions that I sought It. It told me that, for a price, It would give me the means to save everyone. It just needed food, and It ate children. I was growing desperate, and I obliged. The dreams went away, but they were replaced by the screams of the oven. Until I made my lockbox. The screams went away, but the famine dreams came back. They no longer scare me, though, and sometimes, I wish the famine would come sooner. # I put the children to work, as I was fattening them up. The boy was loud and energetic, so I knew I wanted to kill him first. The girl was quiet, and I could live with her for a while longer after his death, though not long. I made the boy do less strenuous tasks, ones that were away from me. I made him fetch water or sticks for fire. The girl and I, meanwhile, would tend to my garden. In silence, of course. One day, she asked while picking elderberries, “Where is your family?” “Dead and gone, dear. Dead and gone.” “Oh. I wish my stepmother was dead and gone.” I wagged a boney finger in her face. “You should never wish that upon another person.” We went back to picking berries in silence before the girl said, “Why are you alone?” I shrugged. “I outlived everyone.” The girl, never looking me in the eye, said, “I thought I was gonna die.” I felt a tug at the lockbox. This was why I was doing all of this— so people would not starve anymore. She and her brother needed to die to save everyone. I looked at the girl, with her small, almost black eyes. Her expression was unreadable, and I realized that she had a lockbox, too. *** “The full moon approaches,” It said. “Give me the boy.” I wondered if the boy was fat enough for It; he certainly was not emaciated, and he had gained the normal amount of fat that you would expect a child to. The girl was still bone thin. I wanted to keep her that way. I was not sure why. Perhaps I wanted to prolong the evitable for her. Perhaps I wanted her to work with me more. Perhaps both. I was growing attached. A key was in the lockbox, one I didn’t mean to make. It was sunrise. I woke up the children and helped them get dressed in simple clothes I had sewn for the others before them. I leaned down and grabbed the girl’s shoulders, giving them a small rub. “My dear, why don’t fetch us some berries?” I said in a sweet voice that sickened me. I knew that sweetness would turn bitter soon. “For a pie. Your brother and I will make the dough.” The girl furrowed her brows— she was so intuitive for her age— but said, “Okay.” She grabbed a basket and walked out the back door to the garden. I took the boy’s hand and led him to the kitchen. I opened up the oven and was greeted by the vastness once. A darkness that was both close and far. “I am hungry…” It growled. It sounded less like a person when It was about to eat. “Oh my,” I said with pretend shock. “I haven’t cleaned this in a fortnight. Could you clean it while I fetch the ingredients.” “Sure.” The boy was blissfully ignorant and hopelessly naïve. I was about to take away that innocence and this life. Both were precious, and as annoying as I found the boy, I knew he would never grow as I. His sister would be left without a brother as well, though not for long. He grabbed a brush and ducked into the oven. “I don’t see—” I kicked his back. He let out a scream, as he gripped the top of the stove, his finger turning white. I drove my boot further. I hated it when they struggled. My old bones had to exert themselves, my tendons burning with strain. His back curved under my force, but his pudgy fingers wouldn’t budge. I pulled his arms away. The oven was heating up, a tiny fire growing larger in the void. Then, my vision blurred. I keeled over and grabbed my head, feeling as though it was pulsating under my fingers, my rear hitting the floor. I saw the boy leaning against the oven, his chest rapidly moving while staring at me. I turned my head to see the girl, standing above me with a garden hoe in her hands. “You stupid girl!” I yelled. “I told you to pick berries!” The lockbox’s content poured out, as I screamed and cursed at the little bitch before me. My head throbbed, and with my old age, I struggled to get up without any support. I was at the mercy of a small child with a weapon. “So that’s who you are,” the girl said with tears in her eyes. “I thought you were different.” She raised the hoe above her head. “What are you going to do?” I jeered. “Kill me? Do it, then. You’ll be just like me. A murderer. Is that what you want?” A tear ran down the girl’s cheek, as she put the hoe down. I cackled— louder than I had since time memorial. “You couldn’t handle killing, girl. You couldn’t do what I do. You couldn’t handle It. You’re nothing like me.” The girl took a step toward me and said, “I can handle a little more pain.” She kicked with more force than I could ever expect. I fell into the vastness of the oven, her cold face peering out at from an ever-shrinking box. Then, the flames. The heat came slowly and then all at once. The most excruciating burning. I finally let out a scream, as if screaming would get the fire out of my body. I saw the girl’s piercing eyes staring at me between the flames, and I screamed for her, too. So, she would know she did this. She killed me, and I wanted her to never forget. She closed the oven. Darkness. I knew I had become nothing, and I was going to become ashes in a tin. Perhaps she would eat me and get power from the oven, and the killing and consuming would continue. Perhaps she was stronger and could walk away from the candy house all together, though I knew how delicious the taste of power could be. If she ate me, I would know my death had purpose and that she would become who I was twice more. About the author:
Christina Meeks is a second-year MA graduate student of Anthropology at Northern Arizona University. As a disabled, queer writer, her works often involve horrible people who are horrible outside of their marginal identities. She primarily writes narrative essays and speculative, dark fiction and resides in Flagstaff, AZ.
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Bug is sitting in the middle of the field, weaving dandelions into crowns, when Bee alights on her ear to tell her a story. Bug didn’t hear Bee approaching—of course—but she knows she is there by the tell-tale butterfly kisses against the shell of her ear, the gentle whisper of a sextet of legs curling up the arch to nestle between cartilage and Bug’s untamed tresses. A bird’s nest, her mother had always called her hair when she let it fly wild through the woods, catching twigs in the tangles. But no, it is not a nest for birds—Bee is who finds herself safely tucked away in the curls of Bug’s hair, settling there for a quiescent period or two whenever she needs a rest. In exchange, Bee shares all the secrets of the world with Bug. It’s true that Bee—who is not, in fact, a bee, but a beautiful monarch—can’t speak to Bug with words, but Bug has little interest in hearing anyone’s words at all. Human animals try to speak to Bug all the time, and she hears little and acknowledges less. Oftentimes, she would rather hear nothing at all. Instead, Bee tells Bug whatever she wants to know through insectoid means. Through scent and touch and dance—the latter, funnily enough, more commonly associated with bees—the little butterfly regales Bug with tales of gliding through the wind, of daring escapes from spiders, of which trees are bearing fruit and which are ready to shed their pines. Bug doesn’t know how it is that she understands what Bee tells her, and truthfully she doesn’t care to think about it—she follows adventure on butterfly wings through the woods. Today, Bee nestles into the crook of Bug’s ear, her antennae brushing against her, disguising her orange and black wings as a decorative earpiece. She could sleep soundly there, safe from any predator, and Bug would protect her. Today, her antennae tell a different story: one of her own curiosity, of wanting to know more about Bug and where she comes from. Bug is surprised—and hesitant to share her world with her friend who lives a much more exciting life than she does. “I’m afraid it would be boring for you, Bee. What would a little town have for a beautiful butterfly like you?” Bug feels Bee’s wings flutter, and she detects a wash of warm, living scent that tells her exactly what Bee is hoping to find: home, most of all. And how could Bug ever deny Bee the chance to learn something new about what it means to be home? Bug completes her dandelion crown and rests it in her wild brown curls. One weed-flower dips low to rest against Bug’s ear, and Bee crawls up to rest on that flower, always close by. I’ll be with you, Bug understands Bee to want to tell her. Don’t you worry. # It’s amazing, really, seeing one’s hometown from the multifaceted eyes of a butterfly who had previously been too afraid to leave the woods. For until today, Bug had always followed Bee to her home, through fields, along streams, and into the forest. Now, it’s Bug’s turn to show Bee the world—and what a different world it must seem, to such a tiny, delicate creature. To Bug, the town is small; to Bee, everything is like the giants of old legends. To Bug, the warm smell of fresh bread from the bakery is the comfort of home; to Bee, it is sugar and sweetness previously untold. To Bug, the cobblestone path is old, worn, and familiar; to Bee, it is a road untravelled at the end of which are more mysteries still. As Bug counts each step of each stone, making sure never to step on a single crack or fault, she can tell that Bee is observing everything around them, taking it all in and learning a new world. After a time, she understands that Bee wants to know more. She flits off of the dandelion crown in Bug’s hair and floats daintily by the well, swirling a dance in the air that asks Bug, What’s this? “It’s a well, for water,” Bug tells her. She wonders if a butterfly would understand. “We can’t drink from dewdrops like you can, so we have to get water another way. Sometimes, we make wishes on stones that we toss in.” Do they come true? Bug thought about it for a time. “Sometimes. If you want them to, and you make sure to pick out your pebbles with care.” Satisfied, Bee lands again on the flower crown, tickling Bug’s ear as she does, until the next curiosity. They walk through town like that—or Bug walks, Bee sits on her dandelion crown or on her ear, like a decoration in her hair—and Bug tries to explain anything and everything to Bee. How had she never put words before to why the church bells ring, why flowers are planted so precisely, why grass is cut to an exact length, why houses are always two stories but stores only one? These things had always bothered Bug, but she had nonetheless accepted them as rules despite her chagrin because she was told they must be. So why had she never put words to why it confounded her that money and stores ever existed at all? The latter question comes when Bug goes back to the bakery to buy a sweet loaf to share with Bee. The baker speaks slowly to help Bug follow, though Bug never has the heart to tell him that talking like the words are too big for his mouth makes it harder, if anything, to understand what he is trying to tell her. Bug immediately feels tired watching his mouth to try to make sure it matches what words she is sure she is hearing, too much energy immediately expended on just trying to understand how much she owes him for the loaf of bread and a pastry. There is a stirring against Bug’s ear. A rustling of butterfly wings. Once, twice, three times-- The baker’s eyes drift to the movement in Bug’s hair, surely landing on butterfly wings counting out an amount, but Bug flaps her hands to attract his gaze again and holds up her fingers to confirm the amount and the baker, dumbfounded, matches the number of fingers. It seems butterflies might not understand money, but they do understand numbers. Bug hands the baker the coins and turns to leave, but the baker makes a gesture that is quite familiar: Wait. He does not try to make her hear the word at the same time. Bug is very good at doing what she is told—she wasn’t always, but she has learned it’s what people want her to do—so she waits patiently, or patiently enough, for the baker to return. When he does, he holds a teaspoon measure of water, but there is a slight sheen to it, glazed with sweetness. The baker points with his free hand to the measure, then to Bee, he says something and makes a vague motion with his hand that he seems to want to indicate closeness. Bug isn’t quite sure what he is saying, but Bee lifts from her ear and dances through the air. A treat, she seems to tell Bug through her gesture, a language signed not with gesture but with her butterfly wings, for you friend. Bee lands on the teaspoon, proboscis flitting out to taste the sugar water. That’s me. Bug takes the teaspoon gingerly, balancing it as carefully as possible so that neither Bee nor her treat are disturbed. “I’ll bring it back,” she swears as an oath to the baker. “When she’s done with it.” The baker nods solemnly, accepting Bug’s truth. Outside the bakery, Bug walks only as far as she needs to in order to find a bench to perch on, holding the teaspoon for Bee to drink from to her heart’s content and with her sweet loaf cradled in her lap, using her free hand to pick away pieces to eat. “I never thought you could help me talk to people,” Bug muses out loud. Bee momentarily lifts off the spoon, fluttering in a dazzling circle around Bug’s head. She asks with her dance and with the sweet smells she emits, Do you want me to? Bug thinks about it for a moment, Bee floating patiently before her as she tries to decide. “I don’t know,” she admits. “Maybe sometimes, when I’m feeling ready to or like it will help me.” She breaks off a piece of sweet loaf and places it on a slat of the bench. “Trade?” Gently, Bee lands on the sweet bread to taste it, and Bug delicately dips the nail of her pinky finger into the teaspoon of sugar water. She tastes the light sweetness on her tongue and wonders why she had never thought before that something so simple could be so wonderful. # By the time the sun is nearly set, Bug is exhausted. It takes a lot of energy, she decides, to see the world in a way she hasn’t before. She wonders if Bee feels that way every time she maps for Bug the intricate patterns of a leaf’s vein, shows her which hollows of which trees house which animals, or how ponds can hide whole other worlds if you just look beyond the surface. She hopes it is worth it—for while it is tiring to see the world in a new light, it is also thrilling. And since Bee always shows Bug what magic lies among the trees, Bug hopes that now Bee can see magic in the brickwork of Bug’s not-so-little town. It has certainly helped Bug see more of that magic—for is it not magic, that the baker knew that Bee was special, knew just what to feed her? Is it not magic that well-wishes, when the stones Bug throws in are just the right shape and size, sometimes really do come true? At the edge of town, where the cobblestone gives way to tall grass and dirt paths cutting through the field, Bug holds out her hand and Bee crawls off her ear and flies to land on her fingers just-so. They stay together like that as the sun sets, before Bee is ready to go home and Bug is, too. They don’t need to exchange a word—not through voice or through butterfly dances—to express their gratitude for one another, the tired comfort they hold in their bones. They both will sleep deeply through the night. Bee flits up off Bug’s fingertips and grazes her nose with butterfly kisses to say goodbye before she flies off to the woods, to wherever butterflies might roost, and Bug embraces living in true silence and comfortable solitude once more. She knows Bee will find her way back when they are both ready to face the world together again. About the author:
Tyler Battaglia is a queer and disabled author of horror, dark fantasy, and other speculative fiction, who is especially interested in subjects that interrogate the connections between faith, monsters, love, queerness, and disability. You can find Tyler on social media at @whosthistyler and online at https://www.tylerbattaglia.com, where you can also find a full list of publications to date. |
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