A paper silhouette fades into the light.

You move forward, carefully putting each step in front of the previous one. On the ground there are dirty papers lying around, pieces of plastic, and urine stains from yesterday's pissers. The light from a clothing store illuminates a window, a little further away, where rigid mannequins  set up an absurd vigil, in order to display some sportswear there. Finally, a blind wall blocks the alley that you have just taken. So you turn around, and walk back your steps leaving this dead end littered with rubbish.

Once on the avenue, you actually find yourself stuck in a compact crowd of people, made out of a mixture of passersby, tramps, and seated folks busy sipping their drinks at café terraces. You walk by a few dowdy couples, which seem to be just out there in order to set up some sort of a competition, about who will turn out to be the most ridiculous of the bunch, in the end. This to such an extent that it could almost turn out to be a deadly game for them, as we like to say it in French. You try to get out of all this mess by taking shelter in a park, not far away, where you also unfortunately find a multitude of playing children. They’re soon enough all around you as, out of sheer excitement,  they keep running up and down, blowing clouds of dust into the air with their feet. While doing so, they usually utter  high-pitched little screams that make you think of the ones of some sort of tiny eunuchs, or strange hairless dwarves. Sometimes they start off chasing unfortunate pigeons for no apparent reason, as if to test their power over their surroundings. Some of them tearing off leaves or branches from the trees too, with their little white hands, as they pass by them, holding them up a bit like trophies, to be discarded pretty soon. You can easily spot their parents slowly walking at a stately pace not too far behind,  watching their offspring with a loving and an utterly stupid gaze. Many being dressed casually on this bank holiday, startlingly look like the mannequins in the store window seen by you earlier on in a street. Doing so, they also speak about trivial stuff, conversations usually revolving around all sorts of small things taken from their everyday life. After forty or beyond , they are usually showing off beer bellies and puffy faces, vaguely distorted, and perhaps a little bit like your own. You say to yourself that the majority of the parents of these kids do undoubtedly display quite an ugly scene here, and that one should be allowed to put a veil over their heads in order to hide them. The children, it must be said, are not all of them so good looking too, but at least they do not have the beer bellies sticking out from under their t-shirts, nor flabby flesh hanging down from their chins. A few graceful birds, geese, ducks or moorhens, keep drifting on the small lake lined with varied trees, located just at the center of the park. Finally, a breeze picks up and starts swinging the highest branches of the trees. There are now some gray clouds coming by the horizon, and slowly accumulating over the roofs. It will probably rain soon. You're not alone wandering out there either, as your woman is walking along with you,  kissing you too, from time to time.
​
But, despite all her love, a silence, or a void, strangely seems to surround all things out here, isolating them from one another. But it is you, above all, you alone, in this teeming park, who is isolated from all the others with these kind of thoughts, in the end.

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.

Based on the poem “Erlkönig” by Johann Wolfgang von Goeth

The father and the child walked together, arm in arm, through the great vaulted halls of the Interspace Headquarters. They passed many a portal to the left and to the right which bore signs such as “Virtual Training” and “Online Constabulary” and the like, yet their steps took them resolutely, without tarry or distraction, toward one particular destination which loomed large ahead of them as they drew close. Finally, the two pods came into view over which a largish sign was affixed which read, “Child Interspace Imprinting”.

Upon reaching the twin pods, the father carefully eased the small boy into the smaller of the two machines. His large hands installed the headset upon the child and soon the small, blond head was crowned with a device out of which many wires ran this way and that. Having ascertained the secure placement of his son in the pod, soon the father too was seated in his own machine with a larger headset. The doors on the pods closed with a click and somewhere high above in the firmament of the chamber a technician pressed a few codes through on a keyboard. The lights in the pods darkened and both father and child closed their eyes and opened their inner views on a new world. A digital forest lay before them.

Programmed as it was for the education of the young, the digital forest comprised within it all variety of visual illusion and optical confection. Within the inner world the father and son saw themselves represented by a larger and smaller pixelated figure respectively.  The two figures walked forward toward the forest together. The father figure pointed from time to time at some distant configuration and the son’s small form responded to the prompts with cautious but not clumsy movements of his own.

After a moment or two the father pressed through an arranged sequence and soon, his son with dutiful precision, followed his father’s keystrokes on his own smaller HUD. Then, before the two minds, twinned in pods though they were bodily, in the reflexive space of both minds, moved the two figures, a larger and a smaller, representing them both, to grasp one another’s hands. These two figures strode forward through the inner space toward the deeper forest ahead, and as they did, the figures crossed beneath a banner held aloft as though in the nanobytes of the digital air and read, “Who goes so late through night and wind?”

The first moments of training passed with no ill report. The father continued to call forth his son’s attention to either side, to small brambles or tugging vines of distraction, and, prompted as he was, the son responded truly, avoiding the underbrush and stepping free of dark hollows and black regresses. Near soon the introductory sequences were logged and bound, and the father proceeded with the longer code. A darker section of the forest opened itself to them and soon they walked together into the blackened path, and when the child figure looked back he saw the path had closed soundly behind them and no glimpse of the entry portal from where their journey began could be seen.

The son began to turn back toward the path ahead, but, in the split second before he lost sight of the way behind him, his attention was caught by a sudden flash of movement in the trees. A figure appeared behind him in the forest. The body was dark, but the face had a silvery shine. The face of the figure held still a moment, and then, horribly, a largish smile widened across the white face, as though it were a crack in the surface of the world. Though it was a smile it was somehow ghastly and the upturned lips suggested malevolent interest. The father felt the son twitch. He looked down at the small figure and saw a flicker of interference in the small body. At that same moment the father heard the crack of thunder and felt a subtle shift in the grounding of the program that governed the inner world. He perceived something change in the root code. When he bent his gaze down toward the child again he observed how the small one was resisting some outside force. He bent toward his son and quickly pressed out a message for his son to observe. “My son, wherefore tremblest thou?”
The boy was still held in terrible and rapt attention to the dark figure behind him in the forest, but when he was able to seize control of his senses he sent back to his father an urgent message of his own. “Look, father, the Alder-King crouches behind! Dost see not it? Its crown and serrated smile?”

The father, proven as he was with his own memories of the first digital steps he once took with his own father, mused to himself what his son must be seeing, unaccustomed as the young one’s eyes must be to the inner digital terrain. Often, he recalled, these digital educational pathways contained within themselves purposeful stations where caution was advised so as to better prepare the young for their future travels. This must be the cause of the thunder and the shift in the terrain, he mused to himself. He sent back a message of mollification to the child, “My son, tis merely the wraithlike mist of distraction rising up from the forest’s floor. Give it no further glance and fix thine eyes forward.”

However, in spite of the father’s message no such calm could the child find, for a moment after the father’s words arrived, they were cast aside by the strangely pitched voice of the silvery figure behind him in the forest. The child shook as he heard the words unfold, both on his screen and also, somehow, within his ears and, indeed, in his very mind. The being spoke with a terrible firmness, “Come, thou dear infant! Oh, come thou with me! Many a game I have for thy mind."

With a terrified sob the son tore himself free from the silvery words and rushed toward the figure of his father who had turned away and was continuing ahead into the woods. The child felt the Alder-Being behind him reaching for him as he ran. He stumbled in an ungainly fashion toward the father, and, reaching high up toward his father’s hand, he tried to grasp it while earnestly crying out a new message, “My father, my father, and dost thou not hear the words the silvery one breathes in mine ear?

Thinking perhaps folly and childish mischief was afoot, the father made not to stop, but briefly checked his step. He looked down at the face of his son and allowed only the briefest of messages, “Be calm, dearest child, 'tis but thy fancy. 'Tis the sad wind that sighs through withering leaves.”

By now the figure of the child was juttering, detaching from the main signal. His body was half in one place and half split into another. Nothing in the father’s words could bring respite to the child for in the very moment when the father’s message faded from his vision he saw with awful clarity behind him the marked shapes of, not one, but several silvery shadows trailing behind him. The boy’s steps betrayed him, for no matter how he tried to dash toward the distant figure of his father, his feet felt trapped as though in glue. He reached down to free his foot, but at that moment the awful smiling shapes behind grew monstrously and in each face was another and another of the gaping serrated mouths. The Alder-One was writhed and encircled with many more of its kind, each with their own smaller mouth, but each one snapping and smiling with intense interest. A high, frightful song came from the murmuring, silvery crowd of figures behind the boy, and, clearest of all above the terrible words came the voice of the Being, “Wilt go, then, dear infant, wilt go with me there, my love? My daughters shall tend thee with sisterly care. They have a bed prepared for thee. They'll dance thee, and rock thee, and sing thee to sleep."

The child was now so terrified he could move his feet no further. He stood and felt his sight dwarfed by the rising figures as they approached. The figures were now close enough for him to see saliva and some kind of wet excretion dripping from their jaws. Unable to move but still with enough sense to cry out, the child pitched his message to the highest possible alert and sent it toward his father, “My father, my father, and dost thou not see how the Alder-One his daughters has brought here for me?”

The father stopped. He felt the hairs upon his neck rise. He turned and no sooner did his vision fall upon his son when he, too, heard now, with terrifying finality and utter conviction, the somehow simultaneously high and low harmonic voice of a being from the inner world. The father, now with his eyes opened from the adult-world of benevolence, heard with his own ears a thudding convicted voice of awful sentence. He saw the Alder-King touch his son and heard the black words, “I love thee, I'm charm'd by thy beauty, dear boy! I’m taking thee now."

A high-pitched cry now filled the writhing forest as the son felt his arms pulled from his body. He felt claws enter his mouth and eyes and feverishly dig therein. He vacantly marvelled that the cry he heard was his own. The father rushed back toward the horrible scene. He stretched out his arms and caught up the tortured body of his son and ripped it from the silvery shapes. He then turned and ran full force back in the direction of the entrance portal. As he ran he felt a violent shudder wrack through the body of the child and with each jerk of the entrails he heard, echoing in his mind, his child’s relentless message, pounding through his ears and out into the distant trees, “My father, my father, the teeth! They hurt me!”

In what seemed like an eternity of frantic struggle though in what may have only been a matter of seconds, the father saw, finally, the entry portal rising up before him. He clutched his child to his breast as he plunged himself forward and dove out of the aperture. Immediately he was back in his physical space within the pod. The sequence ended. He tore the headset from his head. He kicked repeatedly at the door of his pod. There was splintering and breaking and finally he was out. He lunged out and scrabbled frantically at the pod door of the smaller unit where his son still lay within. Finally, with a breaking of plastic and a shattering of screens and circuitry, the father wrenched the final hinge from its mooring. Smoke and the high smell of acid poured out. He reached in to the twisted interior of the pod. The smoke cleared and he saw pale skin and wide eyes.

The boy was dead.

About the author: 
Zary Fekete...

• Grew up in Hungary.
• Has a novelette (In the Beginning) out from ELJ Publications and a debut novella being published in early 2024 with DarkWinter Lit Press.
• Enjoys books, podcasts, and many many many films.​

​Twitter and Instagram: @ZaryFekete.

​Lucille holds in her single hand a scrap of paper. The slip of permission granted. Domino sees the gesture and grabs it to read. This woman, here, sent by the witch LaCombe. She asks Lucille to sit, flashing eyes to the other arm, a ruin. The two find themselves opposite each other at a small round table in a darkened room, faint pink light with purple, the smell of mint and ginger floating thick on the air, odor rich like a mist, difficult to breathe. 

“Don’t worry,” Domino says, touching her lip, a long fingernail there, decorated different than the other nine. Her hair is red, her own, pressed to her forehead in the front with gel, the back an elaborate updo. Always she is careful with the hair, part of the mask of character. Yet still, some part is no mask at all. Some is nothing but the real.

“How could I not? Not be nervous?” responds Lucille. She looks around with a twitch, as a bird surrounded by felines. The shop is wild and eclectic, full of the grotesque, the absurd, every shade of the occult laid out in obscure objects. Most near, a human skull is there with fire eyes that flicker. A holy pendant sits below it as a necklace, twinkling blue-black motes in the dim. Though there is much else to see, the skull and its subtle lights transfix Lucille’s gaze. She rubs the remainder of her right limb nervously, a habit, an itch.

“Over here,” says Domino.

The women place their palms upon the table, all three. A ritual will begin when they are ready. Forces from elsewhere pay mind to the potential opening of a gate, a heave to crack reality. Lucille sees the turning of the first card, one of a triad. Domino’s concentration is pressed forward, as an energy all its own. The women look down, expectant, anticipatory, lucid. They are one, briefly, an ephemeral bond of twinship. Domino shudders for her own fate, a beat.

The skull cackles. Lucille jumps in her seat.

“Ignore St. Meridius,” Domino suggests, knowing it’s near impossible. The long-dead saint is a mischievous sort who niggles at the boundaries of life, still, for his centuries, and the old priest knows something of what’s to come. His laughter is a warning, for he can no longer speak, all words lost in his slow decay. The skull rocks once from side to side. Lucille pretends she did not see it happen.

Then, the tarot begins to tell a tale, ominous, the first card the Ten of Swords, so many piercings of the heart. Meanwhile, a ferocious entity, a named creature banned in the ancient treaties, waits just behind the door that could arrive. Lucille’s suffused fear may be enough, or the fact she is perpetually wounded. The hovering malevolence is Guul-Goodak-Gisii, or that is what the Toltec peoples did name him, a foul spirit of deep earth and caves. He is made of shadow, a feaster upon anxiety, and for all the eras of his skulking, yet longs to destroy. He wishes his taloned feet to be soaked once more in the liquid ruin of new-killed flesh.

Domino pauses in the turn of the second card, the Tower, the prison in such a context, a mark of damnation. Lucille’s shoulders give a twinge.

The skull, St. Meridius, the faded hero of lost worlds, makes another sound, a portent. There is a stink of candles burnt to the end, smoke of hair aflame; Lucille’s skin has been scorched for her left hand above the fire. She sucks on the burned digit to ease the discomfort, and Gool-Goodak licks his lips and fangs with the serpent tongues of his four mouths. He is hungry. The door may open yet.

“I see here…” Domino pauses.

“I see here signs of wicked things to come,” she says, with a tremble. Lucille shakes her head to know the truth, touching her chin with the wreck of her right arm, the memory of the awful attempt, a coma to starve flesh of oxygen for hours. In the wake of her accident, continuing to exist, she came to a reader for all profane things to be revealed. Her mind is weak and wandering, as if under the bridge of every overpass in the city, where her dreams live barely. Her hopes are metaphysically aimed, this time, to shoot soul heroin, the dope of despair.

Even for her poor truthsight, Domino is keen. The woman before her walks the edge of the roof without a rail, seeking mercy, the alleviation of grief even it means a fall. Even a middling clairvoyant such as Domino knows well that when one is frail, the monsters salivate. 

“You were sent here by the white witch, Gizzy LaCombe,” Domino says. “Why go to her for help, then come to me?” Domino asks. The third and final card she holds in abeyance.

Lucille feels only the pain, the phantoms that swirl in her body.

“My mother died,” Lucille states. “She was all I had in the world. What’s more, Gizzy is not white in her ideals, more grey, sometimes crimson. She stinks of toad and turtle, perhaps as a witch should, but I was glad to be out of there.”

“If that’s true,” Domino posits, “then I say tomfoolery. Why trust her? You don’t know me whatsoever.” 

“No psychologist or grief counsellor will tell me of fortune, when I’m near the worst,” Lucille contends, battling emotion just barely.  

Domino fingers the third card again, waiting, wondering what part hovers for the teller herself. No portal swings open without responsibility. There is magic in magic, doom in doom, and nothing holds back a destiny decided. Yet it remains wise at times to seek delay, a stitch in time to save all nine, or the teller’s skin if the game is rigged for blood. Domino knows there is risk if the candles blow a certain way. If the old saint and his skull will not be still. The third card waits beneath her touch.

“Are you alright?” Lucille asks, sensing what simmers beneath, the third at the last.

“No, no. I’m fine,” says Domino, a sweat, cold, a drip just below her hairline. The sheen of doubt must be visible, even in the murk of the shop, the darkness of illusions made real.

Guul-Goodak snarls for the delay, understanding well the passkey. The Devil drawn as three of three will make for him the way, a venerable demon’s entrance unto the mortal world. Havoc awaits.

“Should we turn the final card, then?” Lucille asks, and Domino gulps a bit of air to make sure her heart still functions as it should. The women breathe, every so light, both thinking on the rule of three, and perilous things that may come.

About the author:
D. G. Ironside is an author from Canada, where they live with their lovely partner Stacey. Their work can be seen in Bewildering Stories, Dark Horses, and the premiere issue of Peasant Magazine, among other places. 

On the afternoon of my return to Newcastle, the town of my birth, I took a taxi to my brother’s large and impressive semi-detached house, set back some way from the road. A For Sale sign jutted out between two cherry trees. A woman I took to be his wife evidently saw me making my way along the driveway and was standing at the foot of a short flight of steps leading up to the front door, a concerned expression on her face. It’s an expression to which I’ve become accustomed. A middle-aged man in a wheelchair is never a welcome sight.
            ‘Can I help you?’ she asked. ‘Are you here to view the house? The estate agent didn’t tell me anyone was coming.’
            ‘Are you Catherine?’
            ‘Kathleen. Do I know you?’
            ‘No. I’m Kevin.’
            She continued to look concerned, but there were also unmistakeable elements of suspicion and alarm. Any physical similarity I had to my brother, any lingering trace of a local accent, any echo of a familiar name, escaped her. There was only the wheelchair. A stranger in a wheelchair.
            ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone, and you say I don’t know you. I’m a little confused. Are you here to see my husband?’
            ‘Yes, I am.’
            ‘Is he expecting you?’
            ‘Oh, no.’
            She took a step backwards. I had the distinct impression she was afraid I might suddenly spring from my seated position and overpower her. She was clearly finding it very difficult to hide her discomfort. For ten seconds or so, she stood there in an unsmiling silence. A girl of around eight or nine came out on to the steps.
‘Mummy – ’ she began.
            ‘Go back inside!’
            ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Who are you?’
            ‘Don’t answer him!’
            ‘Poppy.’
            ‘I said, go back inside!’
            ‘Poppy. Lovely name. I’m Kevin.’
            ‘Uncle Kevin?’
            ‘Yes.’
 
We waited for Martin in the kitchen. The steps made it impossible for me to enter by the front door, and I followed Poppy along the side of the house and manoeuvred myself through the narrow entrance. Kathleen offered no apologies, either for her initial wariness or for the difficulty I had in getting into the kitchen, but issued a series of instructions that I should not knock against any of the fitted units, her anxiety prompted not by concerns for my comfort, but for the effect any blemishes might have on the house’s resale value.
            ‘Why are you in a wheelchair?’ asked Poppy.
            ‘Be quiet,’ said her mother. ‘That’s not a nice thing to ask.’
            ‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘I’m in a wheelchair because I can’t walk.’
            ‘Why not?’
            ‘I had an accident.’
            This appeared to satisfy her, and as the initial novelty of my wheelchair started to fade, she wandered into the living room to watch television, leaving Kathleen and I alone at the kitchen table. She showed little interest in me, my history, or the reason for my unexpected reappearance, and contented herself with making several uneasy and unconnected remarks about the slowness of the housing market, the likelihood of rain, and the probable whereabouts of her two other daughters, Laura and Katy.
            ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to ring Martin?’ she asked again.
            ‘I’d rather you didn’t. I was hoping to surprise him.’
            ‘Well, I think he’d want to know,’ she sighed, irritated by my lack of co-operation. ‘But if you insist.’
            We sat mutely for several minutes.
            ‘How do I know you’re Martin’s brother?’ she asked, suddenly.
            ‘How do I know you’re his wife?’
            I was saved from any further interrogation by the sound of a car pulling into the drive. I heard Poppy run to the front door and explain to Martin in a series of disjointed whispers that someone was waiting to see him in the kitchen. As he stood in the doorway each of us tried, and failed, to conceal our surprise. My skinny, fifteen-year-old brother was now a mature, handsome, and smartly-dressed man. I watched his eyes for a flicker of recognition but there was nothing: just a prolonged and uncomprehending inspection of a wheelchair and its unfamiliar occupant.
            ‘Well, Martin,’ I said, ‘you’ve certainly changed!’
            At last, he forced himself, willed himself, to respond, with an effort that seemed almost physical in its intensity.
            ‘It’s you,’ he said softly. ‘Kevin. It’s you, isn’t it?’
            ‘Yes,’ I said, equally quietly. ‘It’s me.’
 
We sat around a cast-iron, circular table on the patio at the rear of the house. I’d allowed Martin to push the wheelchair along the path, although it was a straightforward enough journey for me to make. Poppy sat with us; Kathleen remained in the kitchen.
            ‘I rejoice that you’re here, Kevin. I’d never given up hope that we’d see each other again. I’ve told Kathleen and the children all about you. My big brother.’
            ‘Not the prodigal son?’
         ‘No, no,’ he laughed. ‘Hardly. When the prodigal son returned, he was resented by his brother. This brother – your brother – couldn’t be happier.’
            There was an inflection to his speech and an expression on his face that I found hard to identify.
            ‘But tell me,’ he continued, indicating the wheelchair. ‘What happened?’
            ‘He was in an accident, Daddy,’ said Poppy.
            ‘Yes, I was in an accident. A rig fell on me.’
            ‘A rig?’
          ‘I was the lighting designer at a theatre. We were in the middle of a technical rehearsal. It was my own fault. I’d loaded too many spotlights on the rig. I miscalculated their weight, and the whole thing came down on me. I’m paralysed from the waist down.’
            ‘When was this?’
            ‘Six months ago.’
            ‘Does it hurt?’ asked Poppy.
            ‘It did at the time. But not now.’
            ‘I’m relieved to hear that,’ said Martin. ‘I think Uncle Kevin is very brave, don’t you, Poppy?’
            ‘I suppose so,’ she said.
            He turned to me.
            ‘And I see no bitterness. No resentment. Only courage.’
            ‘You’re not looking hard enough.’
          I gave him an abbreviated version of my life over the last three decades. I admitted that when I’d left home, I had no idea of what I might do or where I might go. After I’d tired of sleeping on friends’ floors, I left Newcastle, moved to Manchester, and signed on with a couple of events agencies where I worked as a roadie. Amid the lousy food, cheap hotels, all-night driving, egotistical rock musicians, heavy lifting, and fights with the local toughs, there were undeniable fringe benefits: the mantra of sex and drugs and rock’n’roll is something of a cliché, but there were ample opportunities to misbehave. I gradually became interested in the technical aspects of stage performance, and picked up some of the basics of sound engineering, special effects and lighting. Eventually, I was offered a job as an assistant lighting technician with a small theatre company based in Bristol; when we took our production of Equus on a tour of Denmark I found a similar job there, and decided to stay on in Copenhagen. After that, I moved around a lot, working in theatres in Stockholm, Amsterdam, Berlin, and, eventually, Barcelona. That was where I met Belinda, a postgraduate student from Canada, who was on a six-months internship at the city’s Picasso Museum. When her placement ended, we went back to Vancouver together.  And that’s where I had my accident.
‘But we’re still together,’ I concluded. ‘In fact, she’s over here with me.’
‘I’m so glad,’ my brother said, smiling.
            ‘What about you, Martin?’ I asked.
‘For a long time, I was in banking. But not now. You saw the For Sale sign? We’re moving down to Yorkshire. I’ve been a lay preacher in St George’s here for some years, I studied theology part-time at the university, I’ve gained my qualifications, and now...well, I’m joining the clergy. From next month, I’m the new curate at the parish church in Skipton. If all goes well, I’ll be ordained Deacon after a while, and then, if it’s God’s will, I’ll be given my own parish as Vicar. We’re all very excited, aren’t we, Poppy?’
            The girl nodded automatically and as she did, Martin’s imperturbability, Kathleen’s apprehension, and Poppy’s compliance fell into place.
            ‘I think it’s you who’s brave, Martin,’ I said, non-committally. ‘That’s a big career change.’
He must have seen the lack of enthusiasm in my eyes.
            ‘Oh, it’s much more than a career change, Kevin. I first found God in my early twenties. Or perhaps God found me. It’s ironic...you know, when Mum was ill, I prayed every night for her to recover, and when she didn’t, when her suffering increased, I decided there was no God. There couldn’t be. So, my faith, when it came, was a revelation. Jesus revealed himself to me. That’s all I can say.’
‘You had a vision?’
‘Not in the terms you imply, no. But he undoubtedly came to me. I think I denied him at first. I didn’t want to know. Why me? But once I accepted it as a fact, it seemed natural and right. He’s a part of me. He teaches me, he watches over me, he guides my every action. His love is the defining element of who I am.’
‘Just as this wheelchair is the defining element of who I am?’
‘Not in God’s eyes.’
‘You think?’
‘I know.’
            ‘OK,’ I said, trying to change the subject. ‘Tell me how Dad reacted to your new life?’
            ‘Oh, you know what he was like. He disliked anything abstract, anything beyond his control. He never knew God. He always remained uncomfortable about it.’
            I nodded. Our father maintained a strict, almost fanatical, conviction that his view of the world was the only possible one. As though he were God. Anything that challenged his view was misguided or dangerous or stupid, and deserved to be punished. I’d been right to leave when I did.
            ‘You look troubled, Kevin,’ he said. ‘Can I help?’
‘I’m confined to a wheelchair, Martin. Of course I’m troubled.’
            ‘God is with me. He can be with you, too. You may not understand this, but I believe he has always been with you.’
            ‘Even when I had my accident?’
            ‘Especially then.’
            ‘It’s a pity he didn’t do something to prevent it.’
            ‘You know that God moves in – ’
            ‘In mysterious ways. Yes, so I’ve been told.’
            ‘Tell me what you’re thinking, Kevin...what you’re really thinking. You can be honest.’
            ‘I will be honest, Martin. I’m not a religious person. In my view, religion – any religion – is science-fiction, a fantasy, a fairy tale.  You’ve simply replaced one father who had all the answers and expected you to obey him with another one. The only difference is that this new Father comes with a capital F.’
We sat staring into each other’s eyes, until eventually he looked away.
‘This is unfortunate, Kevin,’ Martin said, rising from his seat, ‘but I really must leave you. I have a meeting – my last meeting – of the parish council to attend, and I believe they have some kind of presentation to make to me. Where are you staying?’
            I gave him the name of my hotel and he promised to call tomorrow morning.
            ‘And then you must come back for lunch. There’s so much to talk about. We’ll have the whole afternoon. We’ll have a proper conversation. You know, I envy you.’
            I looked at him in disbelief.
            ‘You do?’
            ‘Of course. God intended your accident as a liberation, not an imprisonment. He has a plan for you.’
            ‘You know, Martin,’ I sighed, ‘Perhaps you mean well, but statements like that...’ I left the sentence unfinished.
 
Belinda was waiting for me in the lobby of the hotel.
            ‘Well?’ she asked, leaning down to kiss me. ‘Was it what you expected? Has your brother changed?’
            ‘Yes,’ I said, taking her hand in mine. ‘He has. We both have. If we hurry, we can catch the 7.30 train down to London. There’s no point in staying.’

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.