All Astra wanted was to go to the ball. But it was another thing her stepmother said she couldn’t do.

Perhaps her sight was failing. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t dance. Sometimes, when sweeping dust she couldn’t see, she would spin and swirl, the broom her partner. Sometimes, when cooking, she would sing songs, tap feet, move to a melody more felt than seen. Sometimes, when her stepmother and stepsisters went to balls, she dreamed of joining them, in some lavish dress, dancing into the dawn.

But Astra would bump into people. Astra would walk into things. Astra would trip, or fall, and embarrass their family name.

She scrubbed floors again, angry. It wasn’t fair. She didn’t have to dance. She could just sit and listen to the music. That would be more than enough. She loved music, and played her clarinet when she had a chance, when no one else was around, when her stepsisters couldn’t criticise her every note. For music was one thing that she didn’t need sight to see, for it was made of sound and feeling more than anything. But her stepmother would even let her listen. Tears spilled onto the floor and she scrubbed harder than ever. As she cried, there was a sound, a series of arpeggios that echoed as someone embraced her.

“You’re right. It’s not fair,” a man said, voice as soft and mellow as a bassoon. He was sitting beside her, a sapphire suit glimmering. He smelt of the sea, and seemed kind. A prince, or a sorcerer, or perhaps both. It was hard to tell.

“I just want to go to the ball”, she sobbed, frustrated.

“And you shall. All you need, is a little magic.” He said, beaming. He spoke a spell, consonants crooning, and produced a long white staff, with a ball at one end. The staff was adorned with runes, clearly magical.

“This can help you navigate any space, especially ballrooms.” He explained kindly, demonstrating how it worked. “Hold it like this.” He said, fingers brushing hers as he showed her how, as gentle as a flute. There was a spark across her skin as they touched, electric and alive.

She followed his guidance, gripping the staff softly, one finger outstretched against its rubber handle that was as tender as any lover’s touch. “Now sweep it across in front of you, not too wide, and walk in step, like this.” He took the staff, demonstrating, the ball at the end rolling over the floor with a song of its own. He gave it back to her, and she practiced a few times, sweeping from side to side like her broom did on the hallway floor, its symphony singing as the ball rolled from left to right, in time to the tempo of her feet. The runes glittered in iridescent colours, lighting up the space, and tingling when he came too close, or when obstacles appeared in her path. It was wonderful.

“Now, about a dress, and some shoes, of course.” He continued. His hands waved as his voice rose and fell, oozing like a bass clarinet as crooked consonants flowed. Her dress shimmered, turning to an emerald gown speckled with stars, and jade slippers adorned her feet, soft and comfortable, perfect for dancing.

Outside, the carriage waited, an amethyst globe of sheer glass. Astra’s new staff guided her up the steps, and she took her seat. She wasn’t surprised to find her clarinet on a cushioned seat across from her. He sat next to her, closing the carriage door, closer than ever. She folded up her new staff and placed it on her lap, as he sang to the kelpie that stood waiting.

True to their tales, it began to race towards the sea, blacker than obsidian, faster than lightning. It raced in the opposite direction from the palace, its music and laughter growing more distant by the minute, heading to the coast instead.

“I thought we were headed to the ball.” She said nervously, as the tall turrets disappeared behind her, too far away for even her vision to find.

“We are.” He grinned. “But I never said which ball.” He chuckled, as the kelpie dove into the sea, spray singing from its mane. Astra held her breath. Could it be? He handed her a red cap, and she put it on, more excited than ever. For there were stories, of a ball more glamorous than any other, deep beneath the waves.
Underwater, she marvelled at vibrant kingdoms of sound. Dolphins sung. Whales warbled. Seals serenaded. Fish reverberated. Coral hummed. Kelp murmured. Wild sea grass susurrated. Even the prince mumbled a tune as they descended, and Astra couldn’t help but smile.

The carriage came to a stop, outside a brilliant bejewelled palace. Music echoed, a beat pulsing, rhythms thrumming as he helped her down. She followed the sound, her new staff rolling as it guided her forwards.
Soon she found herself in a glorious ballroom, a shipwreck’s treasure, a band delighting, people laughing as they danced in dresses of every colour. Many wore red caps, for the Merrow love to dance. Astra spotted selkie and siren, mermaid and merman, sea dragon and sea serpent, kraken and kelpie; spinning, dancing, twirling. But it was the music that entranced her the most, and she longed to move to the melody, to join clarinet and oboe and trumpet and tuba in that swinging symphony, to become one with twirling triplets and swirling dancers.

She made her way onto the dancefloor, her staff leading the way, clasping her other hand round his elbow as he guided her across. A clarinet began to play as she did, and she smiled to hear its sweet song. The crowd parted for her as the runes on the staff hummed, and many asked if they could guide her, selkie bowing, mermen flirting. She blushed many times, overwhelmed by their kindness, never knowing any to be attracted to her before.

She took his hand, his sapphire suit shimmering as they danced into the dawn, and had the best night of her life. She took up her clarinet, and joined that underwater orchestra, playing like she never had before, and was praised as one of the best in the band. Many swirled to her melodies or twirled to her passages, as her fingers flew to new rhythms she had never known before.
​
When he offered to take her home, she refused. For beneath the waves, she was accepted, welcomed, invited, celebrated. Whereas above the waves, it was a different story. She didn’t want to go back, and he understood.
And so she stayed; her clarinet crooning, her soul singing, her heart happy, often dancing into the dawn. She fell in love with the man who had transformed her life, who had become soulmate and friend. In time, she became the Queen of the Sea, forever dancing as she dreamed she would.

About the author:
Sarah Oakes is a visually impaired writer and musician in love with krakens and science fiction. She has had one short story, four poems and many flashes published, and is working on a speculative novella in flash. You can find her stories in Voidspace Zine, Literary Namjooning, The Microlit Almanac, FromOneLine, Litmora Litmag, and National Flash Fiction Day. When not writing, you can find Sarah travelling, somewhere in nature, or playing her clarinet. You can also find Sarah on Bluesky at: @sarahoakeskraken32.blsky.social

It wasn’t three pigs, it was one pig at different stages of life. He built a house from what he found, sweet grasses and wildflowers, which made a very pretty place to live. The wolf came and blew it down. The pig was upset by this. He went off and built another house, this time of deadfalls and tree limbs, a more substantial place to live. Even so the wolf came and blew it down. The pig had panic attacks. He traveled even further. For a long time he had nowhere to live. But at last he built another house. This time he made it from what you feel for someone you love and hate. From what’s inside and what’s outside go in opposite directions but always arrive together. From what you leave is what you approach. These materials were challenging to work with. The wolf came. He blew. The house—can we even call it a house?—inhaled, exhaled and stood. The wolf was satisfied. He moved in.

There was, there is, a country called Samaria.

A few days after a man’s husband died the plumbing backed up. The plumber came. They talked while the plumber worked and the man mentioned the death. The plumber took a photograph out from his wallet, of his dead brother, the hollow bruised-looking cheeks not unlike the plumber’s own, the open casket surrounded by flowers. Of the flowers he said, “They never die.”

Nothing good was expected from Samaria.

There was a man and he betrayed, then abandoned, the person he loved most, the person who couldn’t and so didn’t live without him. Now he had trouble breathing. One day, talking with the friend of a friend, he described this difficulty. In turn she told him how once, years before, exhausted from living with his insanity, she had taken her brother to the airport and, after buying and thrusting into his hands a ticket whose destination she refused to know, left him, left him, ran through the terminal as fast as she could and left him there.

It was felt to be a dark place, Samaria, best avoided, best left quickly if you found yourself there.

A man arrived in an unfamiliar city. He called Lyft to pick him up at the airport. The driver made conversation. As he spoke to the back of her head the man’s small talk became a description of the darkness and small abandoned towns past the end of the old life, the unlit roads all the longer around the holidays. The driver invited him to join her family for Thanksgiving dinner, as a cousin, or, if he liked, a brother.

As much of the time as possible a state of war was maintained with Samaria, not because anyone wanted its territory, but so it wouldn’t spread.

A woman, memory long since having evaporated and her mind exposed to the elements, lived in a facility. Each Sunday her youngest son, the disappointment, cooked a meal and brought it so she wouldn’t have to eat the white Sunday dinner served to the patients. Her hand no longer understood spoons, so he fed her. This took most of the afternoon. The woman thought the man visiting her certainly was friendly. And the food here was delicious.

No one knew when Samaria had been founded, or why. It had just been there when everyone arrived. One of the conditions of life.

A man sat in his room in the locked ward of a nursing home, holding his socks and slippers. A girl, finished visiting her grandmother down the hall, looked in and asked if he needed help putting on his socks. The man thought for a moment and told her no, what he really needed was help with the demons in the bathroom, because they bothered him at night. The girl took clippers out of her backpack and gave him a pedicure, holding his feet on her knees, one at a time.

The borders were strictly patrolled because that was Samaria on the other side. Even so the breeze came and went as it pleased, so you couldn’t be too careful.

A man, harassed by voices shouting and blaming him for their deaths, stood in the middle of traffic, howling back at them. Another man came to the edge of the sidewalk and, holding up a five-dollar bill, let its mild green light shine out between the cars, and waited.

If someone from Samaria was met on the road, people turned their eyes away, though if you had to make eye contact the advice was to do so with suspicion, as the best way to avoid contagion.

A homeless man saw another man who sometimes gave him change, who was carrying something the homeless man couldn’t see, though he could tell it was too heavy. He took out the package of cookies he’d bought at the 99-cent store and offered one to the man.

The only use anyone could find for Samaria was as a measurement of what they themselves weren’t, at least.
​
There was a man who took care of three households, illness and someone he loved in each of them. One day he was set upon by the awareness of how this situation would resolve, which beat, stripped and left him lying by the side of the road. A doctor passed by and said, “They’re going to die.” A therapist passed and said, “You’ll be alone.” Another man, who spent his time making lists of his own Oscar choices for every year since the Academy began in 1929, stopped and invited the man to help him. “It will be slow at first,” he said. “But once we get going, I think we can really get some work done.”

The Samaritans believe that under the world is an ocean, not of salt water but sweet, good to drink, good for anyone, but that the earth from being walked on is packed down hard, and so needs to be broken, so that the water can rise.

I fidget with my clothing as I make my way to the guardhouse. I’m not comfortable dressing so cumbersomely, but I’m told that’s what’s expected for such a meeting. When I enter the guardhouse, I’m met by a guard with a friendly smile who is sorting papers.

“Hello,” he greets me, “do you need help with something?”

I freeze for a moment. I’m not prepared for him to ask that way, and my brain scrambles to rearrange my words without losing any important information or picking up anything extraneous. “Um… I’m Timothy of Thistlewood… I-I have a meeting about a job in the castle…?”

“Hmm… ah yes,” the guard scans some papers before picking one out, “here you are. You can take a seat while we send a runner to fetch a clerk from the castle.

I sit awkwardly for a time, as the guard at the desk busies about organizing things, but I quickly reach my limit for doing nothing. I fidget with my satchel a bit before I give in and retrieve my notebook to review some formulae. I lose sense of time as I’m engrossed in my reading until…

“Timothy?”

I start at the voice addressing me and scramble to put my notebook back in my bag, stand up, and shake the clerk’s hand all at once as quickly as possible. “Yes, that’s me… sorry…”

“You’re alright. If you’ll come with me into the other room, we can begin the interview.”

He leads me to an empty office, and we sit across a desk from each other. “So how are you feeling today?”

“(I feel like I’m going to bleed out my ears, vomit, and pass out, in that specific order, but this isn’t a question I’m meant to answer honestly,) I’m fine… um… yourself?”

“I’m good, thank you. So you want to be the court wizard?”

“That’s right,” silence hangs between us, I desperately search my brain for anything else I could be expected to say in response to the question, but I come up with nothing.

Eventually, the clerk moves on, “alright, well your letter of introduction didn’t mention your master’s name…”

Silence again, I feel like I missed something, “I’m sorry, was that a question…?”

The clerk looks up from his notes, “let me rephrase, who did you apprentice under?”

“Ohhh,” relief washes over me with the understanding, “no one.”

“No one?”

Relief vanishes and inverts, “that’s right…” another expectant pause, “I-I’m self-taught (is that what you wanted me to say)?”

“Alright then,” the clerk writes some more notes, “so why should we appoint you court wizard?”

“Umm… Because I can do it (what else am I supposed to say)?”

The clerk stands up and we shake hands again, “Well, it was nice to meet you Timothy. A runner will come and get you if we choose to move forward with your appointment.”

 As I return home, I replay the interview in my mind trying to find ways I could have improved, but in the end, I can only sigh heavily and admit I don’t know what I don’t know. Eventually, I make it back to my family’s farm and head to the house to change out of my nice clothes before doing my chores. Inside my mother is waiting.

“How did it go?”

“I don’t know… they said they’ll send for me if they want to move forward.”

She must read my mood from my posture, “Well, for what it’s worth, you’re really good with the animals.”

 I hate working with the animals. They’re loud, smelly, and the work is dirty, but the work was easy to learn. I mask my disgust as I pour the slop in the pig trough, then I take a moment to watch the animals’ behavior for signs of trouble. I frown as I see the animals all seem both withdrawn and agitated. Everything from horses to chickens were circling their pens with their heads down, stopping occasionally with their ears darting around. I look to the nearby treeline and replay some recent nights chores in my mind. I hadn’t made special note of the noise from the woods, but I’m sure it was quieter today, as though the small game were all in hiding.

“What are you doing!?” I flinch at the demanding voice of my father as he’s coming back from the fields.

“I think there’s a predator prowling the area,” I reply, withering under his stare, “so I’m moving all the animals to the barn for safety…”

“You can’t do that,” he sighs in exasperation, “there’s only stalls for the horses, everything else stays outside.”

“(I’ve already planned around that) Okay…”

I move the pigs back to the pen, then kneel in front of the gate with my knife and carve some runes into the wood which roughly translate to “Welcome, friend. Evil begone.” It’s a simple threshold charm I’ve cast on the house and the barn, but I’m not sure if it will be effective on a fence, or if a pack of wolves looking for something to eat really count as “evil” but it’s all I have the time and equipment to do tonight.

In the morning I go to check on the animals, and sure enough, one of the pigs had been killed and dragged into the center of the pen. I lean on the fence and give a heavy sigh, could I have done something differently? I replay the previous night in my mind, though I know I’m just stalling until I have to clean up the mess.

“I sense regret,” the voice is unfamiliar. I look around me, but my eyes are drawn to the dead pig and everything else slowly becomes… indistinct. It’s as though we’re the only things that matter in the world.

“Who are you?” I force my fear down and project implacable calm through my words.

“A Name is a powerful thing. If you want mine, it will cost you.”

So it’s some kind of faerie creature, I’ll need to be extra careful with my words so I don’t accidentally agree to anything, “forgive me for misspeaking, I didn’t mean to ask for your True Name, but I need to call you something…”

“I have been many things to many people… for you, I think, I should be Peace.”

“Very well, and why have you come to me?”

“Why, to help you, of course. You’re having a hard time of it, aren’t you? Held back because you can’t make connections.”

“(I can’t deny that) So what do you propose? Are you going to devise a wizarding test for employers so I can prove I know what I know?”

“I’m afraid such societal change is beyond me, but I can give you peace. I’m sure on some level you realize it’s your mind that keeps you separate from your peers. Your inability to act without understanding leads to obsession, perfectionism, and frustration. If you agree, I can take away your fixations, your need to understand, and just a touch of your ability to remember. All to normalize the way your mind works.”

I have to think about that. Agreeing to this would completely change how I experience the world. What would that even look like? Would I be able to find the satisfaction others seem to hold?

“No, thank you. I can’t deny it’s a hard life, but if I didn’t fixate, I wouldn’t have had the drive to learn half the things I know now. I don’t want to find satisfaction in thankless work, drink, and noise.”

“A pity,” Peace sighs, “having your capacity to learn would have made me incredibly powerful. Very well, our business is concluded.”

“Not quite. There’s still the matter of the livestock you killed to arrange this meeting…”

There’s a sheepish silence from Peace for a moment. “Forgive me, I hadn’t thought of that. What is your price?”

“Well… do you know anyone who would hire a self-taught wizard on your recommendation?”

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.”

“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.

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.

When in that fleeting
truthful week
three Thursdays came in a row
once upon a time there was, there was...
​
...an old farmer who lived in a poor hut. This peasant had a suffering son, hunchbacked and hamstrung from birth, who was unfortunately called Fortunato. At the age of eighteen, Fortunato decided to leave his father's hut and set out to seek his fortune.

He said farewell to his father, who blessed him with tears, carved himself a brand new pair of crutches and took the way towards the East, crossed mountains and plains, suffered hunger and thirst, always waiting for his luck to manifest. But luck wouldn’t come his way.

One day, at dusk, darkness was catching upon him while he lingered on an unknown path cutting through a fir forest.

He quickened his pace to reach some sort of shelter before nightfall, and he felt his heart leap with terror at the cries of the nocturnal birds and the howl of wolves.

Suddenly, between the twigs and the trunks, he thought he saw a flickering light: he sprang forward as much as his crutches allowed him, reached a wooden hut, and knocked in the cold.

The door opened: a tiny, bent, white-haired, wrinkled old lady appeared in the room, showered by the light of a fireplace.

- Good woman, I am lost; welcome me in, for charity’s sake.

- Come forward, my son.

Fortunato entered the warmth of the hut.

- I will share with you part of my dinner; you will be satisfied with the little I have. - Even a little will be too much kindness, mother.

They sat down at the table and the old woman placed between them a plate and a tiny bowl, with a crumb of bread and two grains of rice. Fortunato looked at her in amazement.

"She wasn't wrong," he thought to himself, "in telling me to be satisfied with little."

But the old lady gestured imperiously with her right hand: and behold, the crumb grew, grew, took the shape of a sparrow, a pigeon, a chicken, a roasted turkey with appetising

shades of gold. And there the bowl grew, turning into an elegant tureen where a sweetly scented soup steamed. Fortunato thought he was dreaming.

He ate with appetite, amazed to taste that magical food under his teeth. And he looked at his mysterious host with different eyes.

After dinner the old lady made Fortunato sit under the fireplace mantle, and she crouched against him in the warmth of the ashes.

- Son, tell me your story.

Fortunato told her of his illness, of his plight and of his vain pilgrimage in search of fortune.

- Help me, you must be a powerful fairy.

- I am no powerful fairy, my son, and my spells are few... I will help you by showing you a secret that everyone ignores: there’s a path in the forest, and it leads to the castle of desires...

At dawn the next day, the old lady accompanied Fortunato through the woods, stopped at a crossroads, and showed him which path to choose.

- Walk three days and three nights without looking back, no matter what you feel and hear. For centuries no one has dared to face the mystery of those walls. You will knock with this stone on the great door, and it will open by magic. You will cross courtyards and rooms, entrance halls and corridors. In the last room you will find a sleeping old man, standing with his arm outstretched, holding a green candle between his fingers; that is the talisman that you must steal and that will grant your every wish. The castle is full of magical frauds and diabolical horrors. But the necromancer, dragons and other spirits will fall asleep at noon and sleep till the strike of one. If you’re still there when the bell strikes, though, you will be lost forever...
​
Fortunato took the stone, thanked the old woman and continued along the road on his crutches. Towards evening he heard a call from behind:

- Lucky man! Hey, you, Lucky man!

He didn't remember the old woman's warning and turned around in curiosity. And he was suddenly brought back to the limits of the forest, from which he had started.

- Never mind: I’ll start again.

And he undertook the way of the forest again, and again he heard a voice calling for him. - They'll kill me! Help! Young man, help me, for goodness' sake!

He turned around in pity and there he was, brought back to the starting point again. He had a fit of anger, then patiently resumed his journey on his crutches.

He walked for two days: at sunset on the second day he heard the clash of weapons, the trampling of horses; he turned around in fear and there he was, led back to the starting crossroads.

- These are deceptions sent by that necromancer; but I will learn how to resist them.

And he blocked his ears with flax tows and continued along the road calmly, unaware of the calls that were trying to distract him. After three days he arrived at the uninhabited castle. He waited for the stroke of twelve and banged with the stone. The immense door, sculpted with fabulous carvings, opened by magic.

Fortunato recoiled, horrified. In front of him was a courtyard full of gigantic salamanders, toads, vipers, colossal scorpions. But everyone was asleep and Fortunato took courage and walked on his crutches among the slimy backs, the tails, the iron armour plates, the inert tentacles. He crossed courtyards, entrance halls, corridors, and eventually reached a room completely cladded with silver coins: struck by awe, thinking of everything he could do with such riches, he bent down and filled his pockets with them. He came to a second room full of gold coins: he bent down, tossed away the silver coins and picked up the gold coins. He came to a third room, cluttered with tall pyramids of gems: he emptied his pockets of gold and filled them with diamonds. He crossed other courtyards, other corridors, arriving in a final, immense and dark room.

The decrepit necromancer, with his long, white beard, slept standing up, holding the green candle in his outstretched hand.

Fortunato looked at him in amazement, and with equal amazement he inspected the thousand things in his diabolical laboratory. Then he remembered the time was passing, snatched the candle from the necromancer's hand, ran back, and got lost in the corridors. Dawn must have been imminent and if he couldn’t come out before that, he was going to be lost forever. He finally found the room again with diamonds, and the one with gold, and the one with silver, crossed the courtyard of the sleeping beasts, passed on his crutches between the slimy backs and tails again, and reached the immense door. The doors closed behind him with a dull crash.

The touch of one resounded instantly.

A frightening clamour arose behind the castle walls: croaks, hoarse and furious screams; they were the guardian monsters who noticed the theft. But Fortunato was safe outside the walls.
He immediately lit the candle and commanded:

- Let my legs straighten, let my illness be gone!

And the hump disappeared from his back, and his legs straightened strong, and the pain melted away from his body. Fortunato threw away his crutches, put out the candle because it was burning very quickly, and headed for the city. He arrived there late at night, chose a spacious hill and lit up the candle again, commanding it to build a residence more beautiful than the Royal Palace.

At dawn the citizens looked in amazement at the new marvellous building, its towers, loggias, staircases, terraces and hanging gardens that blossomed in a single night. Fortunato stood there on a balcony, dressed as a great gentleman, and bathed in their admiring looks.

The King, who was an evil tyrant, burned with indignation and envy for the unknown stranger and sent out a valet ordering him to appear in front of the Court and explain his sudden arrival.

- You will tell the King that I bow to no one. If he thinks it’s important, he can be the one to come to me.
The King ordered the valet to be beheaded, and swore eternal hatred to the mysterious stranger.

Fortunato lived the life of a great lord, eclipsing the king with a display of rich clothes, horses and riches: all he had to do was light the green candle for a few seconds and his every wish was immediately satisfied. But the candle was getting shorter and shorter, and Fortunato was starting to get restless and reduce his commands. And he wasn't happy. He felt that something was missing from his life, and he didn't know what.

One day, riding through the city, he saw the King's only daughter in a loggia of the palace. The princess seemed to smile benevolently at him, but she was surrounded by the ladies and watched closely by pages and knights.
The next day Fortunato passed under the loggia again and saw the princess among her women giving him a complacent smile. Fortunato fell madly in love with her.

One full moon evening he stood on the highest of his hanging gardens, leaning on the balustrades that dominated the city.

- Perhaps the candle could satisfy me in this too...

And he pondered for a long time how to express his desire for her.

- Candle, beautiful candle, I want the princess to be made invisible and to be transported instantly to my garden.

Fortunato waited, with his heart beating strongly...

And here the King's daughter appeared, dressed in a white tunic and with her hair undone.
- Help! Help! Where am I? Who are you?

The princess trembled, gripped by terror. She felt herself being lifted from her bed, and carried away through space. Fortunato knelt beside her, kissing the hem of her tunic.

- I am the knight who passes under your balconies every day, princess, and if I had you transported here it was not with an evil purpose, but only to be able to humbly speak to you.

And Fortunato declared his love for her and told her that he wanted to introduce himself to the King and ask for her hand.

- Don't do that! My father hates you because you are more powerful than him. If you show up he'll have you instantly killed.

After that evening Fortunato often invited Princess Nazzarena to his terraces through the magic of the candle.
She appeared at Fortunato’s call, no longer pale and trembling, but sudden and smiling, like a celestial vision. They walked under the palm trees, among the roses and jasmine, and looked at the sleeping city. At dawn Fortunato commanded the green candle to transport the princess to her rooms and she found herself, a few moments later, laying in her alabaster bed. But a malevolent maid had noticed these nocturnal absences and reported the matter to the King.

- If it's not true I'll have you hanged - the King said threateningly.

- Your Majesty, you can verify this with your own eyes.

The next evening the King hid behind the curtains, spying on his sleeping daughter.

And behold, towards midnight, a very remote voice said: - Candle, beautiful candle, bring me my beloved Nazzarena!

And then his daughter became invisible and the window opened by magic. The King was furious.

And when at dawn Nazzarena reappeared sleeping in her bed, her father grabbed her by her golden braids:

- Where have you been, you wretched girl?

- In my bed, father: I slept all night.

The King calmed down.

- Then it is a curse you are unaware of, and that I will uncover its secret. He consulted a necromancer, who pondered around the matter in vain.

- There is only one expedient, Your Majesty. Hang a perforated bag full of flour on Princess Nazzarena's robes: at dawn we will discover the path she takes.

With the help of the treacherous maid, a perforated bag full of flour was hung above the princess's bed so that it would overturn as she moved. At dawn the King armed his entire guard, and with sword in hand he followed the thin white trail... And the trail led him to the palace of the mysterious stranger.

He burst into Fortunato's sleeping room, where he was conversing with the princess. Before he could resort to the saving candle, the King had him tied up, transported to the royal palace, imprisoned in the basement, and awaiting punishment.

He was condemned to death, and people crowded the large square on the day of his execution. On the balconies of the royal palace stood the whole Court, with the King, the Queen, and the pale and desperate Princess.

Fortunato calmly climbed the scaffolding.

The executioner said to him:

- As is customary in the kingdom, you can express one last wish to His Majesty.

- I only ask that a small green candle be brought to me, which I left back at my palace in an ivory casket. It is a dear memory and I would like to kiss it before I die.

- May it be granted to him - said the King.

A valet returned with the ivory casket and, amid the attention of all the people, Fortunato took the green candle, lit it, and murmured:

- Candle, beautiful candle, may all those present here, with the exception of the princess, sink into the ground up to their chin.

And the crowd, the Court, the King, the Queen, suddenly sank into the pavement.

The square and the streets of the city appeared covered with heads staring and crying for help. Fortunato distinguished among the innumerable heads the crowned head of the King who rolled his eyes to the right and left, and imperiously commanded for someone to free him. But in the whole kingdom there was not a single subject left standing.

Fortunato took Nazzarena by the arm and approached the royal head. - Your Majesty, I have the honour of asking you for the hand of Princess Nazzarena. The King looked at Fortunato with angry eyes and said nothing.
- If you remain silent, I will depart with her today and leave you and your subjects forever buried up to your chin.
The King looked at Fortunato, saw him young and handsome, recalled he was more powerful than him, and recognised he would be a good successor.

- Your Majesty, I ask you again for Nazzarena's hand.

- May it be granted to you - sighed the king.

- Upon your Royal word?

- Upon my Royal word.
​
Fortunato commanded the candle to dig up everyone, and everyone soared from the ground by magic.
And on the same day, in place of a ferocious beheading, a wedding was celebrated instead.

About Guido G. Gozzano:
Guido G. Gozzano, born in Turin on December 1883, was an Italian poet and writer and he belonged to the literary movement known as the "Crepuscolari" (Twilight Poets), which emerged in Italy during the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Gozzano came from a well-established family and pursued classical studies at the Liceo Classico Cavour in Turin. In his early years, he was influenced by French symbolism and decadentism, and his poetry often reflected a sense of nostalgia and melancholy. Inspired by Leopardi and fierce political opposer of Gabriele d’Annunzio, Gozzano published both poetry and prose.

His notable works include "La via del rifugio" (The Way to Refuge) and "I colloqui" (Dialogues). His poetry, characterized by musicality and refined language, explored themes of fleeting beauty, disillusionment, and the passage of time.

During the latest years of his life he dedicated himself to delicate fragments of poetry called The Butterflies, segments of prose in epistolary form and, most importantly, the fairy tales published in this collection. They originally appeared serialized on the children's magazine Corriere dei Piccoli.

His life was cut short when he succumbed to tuberculosis at the age of 32. His poetry continued to gain recognition posthumously, and he is remembered as one of the significant figures of Italian symbolism.

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.

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.