They told me the curse was a kindness,
a spindle’s prick to spare the kingdom from the burden of my broken mind. “Let her sleep,” they said, “Her thoughts too sharp, her tongue a thorn, her dreams too vast for walls to hold.” But I did not sleep. Not in the way they meant. In my cage of roses, I lay awake, each thorn a needle threading whispers: What if the curse was never kindness? What if the silence wasn’t mercy? What if my dreams were a forest they feared to enter? I grew wild there. The briars were mine. When the prince came, blade in hand, I laughed to see him bleed-- for once, the world bent to my thorns. He begged for a kiss to break the spell. Instead, I offered him my dreams: a tangle of shadows too sharp to untie. Let him sleep now. Let him know what it means to carry a forest inside.
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I was always the broken one,
a jagged shard of mirrored light. The fairest of them all-- but they never told me fairness was a curse. When they laid me in the glass coffin, the dwarves wept salt that carved rivers in their faces. They did not know the coffin was not a tomb but a lens. Through it, I saw the prince’s approach, his perfect features fractured by the warped glass. I saw the cracks in his smile, the pity behind his eyes. I saw myself as they saw me: a body polished and preserved, an object too fragile to touch but too pretty to let go. So I shattered the glass with my unkissed lips, cut my way out of their story, and left the prince bleeding on the forest floor. He called me wicked, but wicked is just what they name us when we break the molds they cast us in. I wandered until I found a mirror that didn’t lie. And in its broken face, I saw my own reflection-- whole at last.
No matter how we pray or sorrow, no matter how we festoon bells and lights, no matter how we wrap and sing and bake and make lists of the futures we want, this winter might be masked and frazzled. Invoke a solstice astral alignment. Bargain with politics and viruses cajole the antique angel doorknob-dreaming. Light a flameless candle in the back window. Have cinnamon and old movies on hand. Find one craftstore present significant because it makes you laugh-- a little stuffed lion with glittery fur and a unicorn horn; improbable connundrum of strength and myth. Mail the tailed talisman on its perilous journey cross-country to a land of tumbleweeds and dewless skies. Your friend will shake his head questioning long-distance intentions. But some nights, we each need to believe. Dancing toys, talking animals, taps on the midnight roof. Telescopes or televisions trained. Everyone is looking for their cure. About the author:
Blind American author Nancy Scott's over 975 essays and poems have appeared in magazines, literary journals, anthologies, newspapers, and as audio commentaries. Her latest chapbook appears on Amazon, The Almost Abecedarian. She won First Prize in the 2009 International Onkyo Braille Essay Contest. Recent work appears in *82 Review, Black Fox Literary Magazine, Braille Forum, Chrysanthemum, Kaleidoscope, One Sentence Poems, Pulse Voices, Shark Reef, Wordgathering, and The Mighty, which regularly publishes to Yahoo News.
I chopped off my hair after the last prince. He only wanted what all princes want. The good talk ended right after his climb. I pushed him out the window while he gazed at what he could no longer reach. He only broke a few bones. Healing imperfection will humble him. I’ll weave a blonde rope and climb down. About the author:
Blind American author Nancy Scott's over 975 essays and poems have appeared in magazines, literary journals, anthologies, newspapers, and as audio commentaries. Her latest chapbook appears on Amazon, The Almost Abecedarian. She won First Prize in the 2009 International Onkyo Braille Essay Contest. Recent work appears in *82 Review, Black Fox Literary Magazine, Braille Forum, Chrysanthemum, Kaleidoscope, One Sentence Poems, Pulse Voices, Shark Reef, Wordgathering, and The Mighty, which regularly publishes to Yahoo News.
Would you measure a warrior’s worth by the rewards they’d earned or the trophies they’d spurned, by the number they’d slain or the many they’d spared; praps you’re persuaded by the songs of their kin who survived them. Or you’d celebrate their renown and vaunted prowess in battle when it is really those without such advantage who show more courage in not fleeing the field when outmatched by every other foe. See – it is those of whom you’ve not heard that might more truly deserve your prayerful thoughts and earnest hymns your hushed tales, be they ever so tall, by the warming hearth of our time-wearied feasting hall. Would you have me tell you their names though your lips are unworthy to speak them, your ears deaf and your mind too dull to grasp what it genuinely is to have known Thorin Oakenshield, last of his ancient and noble line. About the author:
A J Dalton (www.ajdalton.eu) is a UK-based writer. He’s published the Empire of the Saviours trilogy with Gollancz Orion, The Satanic in Science Fiction and Fantasy with Luna Press, the Darks Woods Rising and Digital Desires poetry collections, and other bits and bobs. He lives with his monstrously oppressive cat named Cleopatra.
Pinocchio was born into poverty in desperately bleak times, he was the eldest of ten children, half human, half scavenger, always battling illness and hunger, barely living, just surviving, on a long narrow street which didn’t allow natural sunlight. Pinocchio was forever dreaming about being made of pine wood, so he wouldn't have to be hungry and thirsty all the time. His angry ugly rumbling tummy gurgled and guzzled and gobbled him up, all up. He longed for a blue magical fairy to save him. Instead, he was sent far, far away, to ease the burden on his parents, to live in a village with his mother’s family. All he ever wanted was to see his mother again, to feel at home again, to be healthy, happy and not have to suffer so many ordeals, over and over again. Pinocchio’s journey was full of terrible trauma, so much tragedy, so much sadness, even the fabulous adventures made him sick. The world was so beautiful but also so dreadfully ugly, it made him wish all the more to be a wooden pine puppet living in a better world. In his dreams he saw the magical Blue Fairy, who gently whispered: Prove yourself brave, truthful and unselfish, and someday you will be a true real puppet. A boy who won't be good might will never be made of wood. Pinocchio tried and strived to be brave, truthful and unselfish, he tried not to wish for the moon, the oceans and the stars. He gave so much to everyone, helped and helped till he couldn’t give any more. Exhausted he slumped down, despondent and scared. He felt sick down to his stomach at this terrible world, only in his magical dreams of fairies did he see a way through, Oh, Fairy, Fairy! Why am I still not made of pine wood? I’ve been brave, truthful and unselfish. And Blue Fairy smiled so warmly and whispered, You already are. And Pinocchio wept and wept with traumatised joy, sadly unaware that whilst he was away, his family suffered tragedy as six of his siblings died. Pinocchio was the lucky one to escape, to be free, but he never saw his mother again, never spent one perfect day together, never was home. With thanks to the life and works of the original writer Carlo Collodi, who’s original serial was Le avventure di Pinocchio: storia di un burattino (“The Adventures of Pinocchio: The Story of a Puppet”). About the author:
Peter Devonald is a UK based poet/screenwriter who has lived with disability most of his life. He is winner Waltham Forest Poetry 2022, Heart Of Heatons Poetry Awards 2023 & 2021, joint winner FofHCS 2023 and second in Shelley Memorial Poetry 2024. Finalist in Tickled Pink ekphrastic contest 2024, highly commended Hippocrates Prize and Passionfruit Review 2024, shortlisted for OxCanalFest Poetry 2024, Saveas & Allingham 2023. Poet in residence Haus-a-rest, Forward Prize nominated, two Best Of The Net nominations and widely published including Broken Spine Anthology, London Grip, Door Is A Jar, Bluebird Word, Vipers Tongue, Voidspace and Loft Books. 50+ film awards, former senior judge/ mentor Peter Ustinov Awards (iemmys) and Children’s Bafta nominated. www.scriptfirst.com Instagram: @peterdevonald Facebook: @pdevonald Twitter/X: petedevonald
A little child locked in the airing cupboard, spiralling music plays to evoke the magical, but all the little child feels is trapped. Outside the older sister laughs to see such fun, playing at her own little fabulous fairy tale, lost in her bewildering imagination, never stops to wonder at the damage done. Fifty years on the child still hates confined spaces, the fabulous music still the soundtrack to his dreams, persecuting and prodding with a witches spell. He lived in fairy tales all his life, wrote himself better, but always witches watched, whispered and cackled. He wondered why his sister ate the poisoned apple, slept for a thousand years, supressing the past. About the author:
Peter Devonald is a UK based poet/screenwriter who has lived with disability most of his life. He is winner Waltham Forest Poetry 2022, Heart Of Heatons Poetry Awards 2023 & 2021, joint winner FofHCS 2023 and second in Shelley Memorial Poetry 2024. Finalist in Tickled Pink ekphrastic contest 2024, highly commended Hippocrates Prize and Passionfruit Review 2024, shortlisted for OxCanalFest Poetry 2024, Saveas & Allingham 2023. Poet in residence Haus-a-rest, Forward Prize nominated, two Best Of The Net nominations and widely published including Broken Spine Anthology, London Grip, Door Is A Jar, Bluebird Word, Vipers Tongue, Voidspace and Loft Books. 50+ film awards, former senior judge/ mentor Peter Ustinov Awards (iemmys) and Children’s Bafta nominated. www.scriptfirst.com Instagram: @peterdevonald Facebook: @pdevonald Twitter/X: petedevonald
Ella Enchanted couldn't get the Glass Slipper on, let alone imagine dancing the night away until midnight; swollen feet and broken dreams, she stayed indoors and slept her life away. Her Fairy Godmother gave her beautiful dreams, of coaches made of pumpkins, horses that once were mice, footmen who were all lizards and a coachman who remains a rat. Her dirty rags transformed magically into a beautiful dress, an amazing hallucination dream, where everything is possible. Night terrors they call it, night sweats, another symptom in a land where illness is queen, but what of her handsome king, waiting? Another day another symptom, spinning webs of falling dreams from worn down spindles, so much pain to be a sleeping beauty, horrible power of invisible diseases, creeping, crawling, crying, wishing on a purple star, one day she’ll find her happily ever now. About the author:
Peter Devonald is a UK based poet/screenwriter who has lived with disability most of his life. He is winner Waltham Forest Poetry 2022, Heart Of Heatons Poetry Awards 2023 & 2021, joint winner FofHCS 2023 and second in Shelley Memorial Poetry 2024. Finalist in Tickled Pink ekphrastic contest 2024, highly commended Hippocrates Prize and Passionfruit Review 2024, shortlisted for OxCanalFest Poetry 2024, Saveas & Allingham 2023. Poet in residence Haus-a-rest, Forward Prize nominated, two Best Of The Net nominations and widely published including Broken Spine Anthology, London Grip, Door Is A Jar, Bluebird Word, Vipers Tongue, Voidspace and Loft Books. 50+ film awards, former senior judge/ mentor Peter Ustinov Awards (iemmys) and Children’s Bafta nominated. www.scriptfirst.com Instagram: @peterdevonald Facebook: @pdevonald Twitter/X: petedevonald
I’m 18 when I grow my flight feathers. They itch and stem from my shoulder blades. My mama rubs a towel onto my skin where the feathers have torn their way through me. I’m scared and shaking. I still don’t know why, don’t know how this is happening. There’s a party for me. Mama cuts two slits in the back of my thobe. My thobe is a beautiful embroidered dress. I feel bad cutting it up. We dance, all my female relatives, in thobes like mine, wings proudly jutting out from their backs. My wings are small. There’s still room for them to grow. I spread them as much as I can, mimicking the way the other women move their wings. We all dance with platters full of candles and flowers held on our heads. I take a platter and balance it the best I can with one hand while fan out my skirt with the other, bunching up the fabric. Learning to fly is difficult, but I teach myself how to stay in the air pretty quickly. When I fly, I imagine that everything below me belongs to me because I flew over it. When I fly, I feel what little freedom I am afforded. Flying is an exclusively female freedom. No men have grown wings. I take great pride in my flight feathers. In the twin slits in the back of my thobe. In my wind-blown hair. Even the pain of molting. All the good and bad. Wings are a rite of passage, and I have grown my flight feathers. About the author:
Yasmeen Amro is a neurodivergent author with publications in Fusion Fragment and State of Matter. She enjoys reading, writing, and baking.
Flying towards the beautiful, distant horizon the pilot, in charge, scrutinized the brain focused on center of runway Suddenly, the snow twirled and swirled stroke causes plane to slide off the end of tarmac what’s going to happen? With grit and strength determination rules aphasia now controls the airspace Landed in a foreign country cannot speak or understand the language new journey is ready to begin About the author:
Rochelle M. Anderson lives in Minnesota, USA. She is an attorney who had a severe stroke in 2007 and almost died. She is still disabled with difficulty walking; and because of aphasia struggles with reading and writing. Ms. Anderson has been published in four chapbooks and in an online poetry journal. Writing poetry has helped her recover; and dictation fuels her words. |
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