new fairy tales issue 3

Issue 3 www.newfairytales.co.uk

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New Fairy TalesNew Fairy TalesNew Fairy TalesNew Fairy Tales

Issue 3


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Illustration on front cover

by Lily Mae Martin and on

this page by Mary Harris

Letter from the Editor

Welcome to our summer issue. Here in North

West England it always seems to be raining

whatever the season - hence the umbrella!

What another treat this issue is, the wonderful

thing about editing New Fairy Tales is that every

day I open my inbox and have no idea what I’m

going to find. There are so many good

submissions that we don’t have the room to

feature or that just aren’t right for a particular

issue; I consider myself to be very privileged to

get to read them all and I’d like to thank all of the

writers out there who continue to submit their

eclectic interpretations of what a new fairy tale is.

In this issue you’ll find a mix of the romantic, the

disturbing, the enchanting and the intriguing and

all of the tales have been brilliantly illustrated by

the artists to a very tight deadline.

The wonder of the internet is that a group of

people from across the world can work together to

produce a piece of work like this and it can be

enjoyed by anyone with computer access

anywhere. A massive thank you to all of this

issue’s fantastic contributors, they have all

provided their work for free and we would love it

if you would show your appreciation by making a

donation to our nominated charity, Derian House,

which is a children’s hospice near where I live.

You’ll find the donation link on our website.

I hope you enjoy this issue, online or on a beach,

in the sun, rain or snow - wherever you are.

Claire Massey June 09

Contents Letter from the Editor page 2

List of contributors pages 3 & 4

The tales

Dream Peddlers, by Flavia Cosma page 6

The Mock Mother, by Vanessa Woolf-Hoyle page 8

The Parrot Prince, by Caitlyn Paxson page 10

A Most Ordinary Boy, by Amanda Carr page 12

Yellow John, by Alison J. Littlewood page 14

Wedlocked, by Charlotte DeAth page 18

Creature from the Curiosity Cabinet, by Particle Article page 23


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The Writers

Flavia Cosma www.flaviacosma.com is an

award winning Romanian born Canadian poet,

author and translator. She has a Masters degree

in Electrical Engineering from the Polytechnic

Institute of Bucharest. She is also an award

winning independent television documentary

producer, director, and writer, and has published

seventeen books of poetry, a novel, a travel

memoir and three books for children. Her poetry

book 47 POEMS (Texas Tech University Press,

1992), won the prestigious ALTA Richard

Wilbur Poetry in Translation Prize. A

collection of her fairy tales has just been

published in Roumania in a bilingual (French-

Romanian) edition. In English these fairy tales

have been edited by Charles Siedlecki.

Vanessa Woolf-Hoyle lives in London and

spends her time exploring the rivers, tunnels and

sewers that run beneath the streets of her

beloved Southwark. She has contributed horror

stories to a number of magazines including One

Eye Grey and Litro. This story was inspired by the

tales told by her own awesome mother.

Caitlyn Paxson is a writer and musician. Her

other work has been published in Shimmer,

Goblin Fruit, and Dante's Heart, and is

forthcoming in Cabinet des Fees. She currently

resides in Ottawa, where she is the artistic

director of a storytelling series at the National

Arts Centre of Canada and is working on her first

novel.

Amanda Carr is a thirty-something mother of

two, wife of one, and writer of many stories.

She has been published in several short story

anthologies, magazines and ezines, and is a

member of a large online writing community.

Currently, she divides her time between family,

writing, and as a creative writing workshop

facilitator. She is one of the founding members

of the Oldham Writing Cafe, based in Greater

Manchester, UK, as well as being a Preferred

Author at Writing.Com.

Alison J. Littlewood has been obsessed with

fairy tales ever since she first began to read. She

lives in a dark, twisted forest in deepest

Wakefield, England, with a white knight, a secret

library and several ancient mirrors that refuse to

be dusted. She writes genre fiction ranging from

fantasy through to horror, but is always trying to

capture the magic at the heart of a good story.

Her work has appeared in Black Static, Aoife's

Kiss, Thou Shalt Not... and Midnight Lullabies,

among others. Visit her at

www.alisonlittlewood.co.uk.

The Illustrators

Irina Borisova graduated form the National

Academy of Arts Sofia, Bulgaria after that she

followed her education with a Master degree in

scenography in Central Saint Martin’s College of

Art and Design. She worked on a number of

theatre design projects including “Cobbo” by

Theatre Alibi, Exeter and “The Psychic Detective”

(and those disappeared) Bench Tours Company.

Her most recent group exhibition participation

was The Arts Show at The Arts Club /London/.

Other works include fashion illustrations and

storyboards. At the moment she is working as a

theatre designer for a children’s play “The BFG”

by Roald Dahl at the Space /London/. Some of

her work can be seen at http://irinab.ultra-book.com/.

Lily Mae Martin is an Australian visual artist

currently based in Berlin, Germany. Born in

Melbourne in 1983 she has spent most of her life

pursuing her passion for the arts; spending her

childhood drawing and writing rather than playing

with other children. Lily Mae's work is

predominantly figurative and she often likes to

explore the division between high and low art,

taking her influences from renaissance painters

through to contemporary graphic artists. She

works mostly in the mediums of oils, ink and

pencil. You can see more of her work at: www.lilymaemartin.com.

Mary Harris graduated from North Wales School

of Art and Design with a BA (Hons) 2:1 in

Illustration for Children’s publishing. She has

entered a variety of competitions for both writing

and illustrating and won the Bronze award for the

Randolph Caldecott Prize (UK) 2008. She has

recently started writing her first YA novel

Overshadowing Darkness and hopes one day to

be a published author and illustrator. For further

examples of her work please visit her website

www.maryjoyharris.co.uk or contact her via

her email [email protected].

Joanna Loring-Fisher graduated from Norwich

School of Art and Design in 2001 with a BA

(Hons) Graphic Design - Illustration. Inspired by

family life, nature and other artists and

illustrators such as Lisbeth Zwerger, Georg

Hallensleben, Sara Fanelli and Marc Boutevant, Jo

has more recently concentrated on illustrating

and writing for children and is currently working

on three of her own stories. After recently moving

from Norfolk to Wiltshire Jo is drawing inspiration

from her beautiful new surroundings and her

work past and current as well as a few musings can be found at joloringfisher.blogspot.com.


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Illustration by Irina Borisova

Important Copyright Notice

Copyright of all the work contained in

this magazine remains with the

individual writers and illustrators. The

magazine is intended for personal and

educational use only. Please respect

copyright; all enquiries about the work

contained in the magazine should be

directed to [email protected]

We will pass your enquiry on to the relevant writer or illustrator.

The Writers (cont.)

Charlotte DeAth hides in the heart of Suffolk

countryside learning the lost arts of hedge

mumbling and clod watching. She spends most

of her free time playing with the Clueless

Collective at: www.cluelesscollective.co.uk.

The Illustrators (cont.)

Sam Rees comes from the Malvern Hills but is

currently living in London. He graduated from

Interactive Arts in 2003. He’s a freelance

illustrator and you can see his work online at

www.ycnonline.com/profile/show/58673/s

am_rees. As an artist he also publishes his own

books and products which can be found at

www.samsworld.org.uk.

Sara Nesteruk is a designer based in London.

She works on illustration and moving image

projects for TV and print. You can see more of

her work at www.saranesteruk.co.uk.

Particle Article are sisters Amy Nightingale

and Claire Benson. Together they create

intricate, quirky sculptures of winged creatures

from abandoned and reclaimed materials, both

organic and manmade. Their fragile figurines

often resemble insects, fairies, angels, or hybrids

of these. They have exhibited their work across

the UK. See their website

www.particlearticle.co.uk for more details,

stockists and forthcoming exhibitions.


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Dream

Peddlers by Flavia Cosma

Once upon a time, in long

lost times, two dream

peddlers got stranded on the

rocky shores of a blue sea.

These two were older people,

a ragged old man, his white

beard and his unkempt locks

tossing in the wind, and an

aged woman, her big eyes

bright and deeply set, so it

seemed that the whole world

had been mirroring itself into

them even since it began.

No one knew where

they’d come from - from

which distant corner of the

world - but it was clear

that they must have

originated in the two most

opposite corners of the

Earth. Because, if the little

old woman came from the

East, then it was absolutely

sure that the old man

came here from the West,

or maybe it was the other

way around, though this

still remains to be

debated…

And as they were

sitting on two big boulders

on the shore, and as local

people, curious about these

two apparitions, had

gathered around to listen,

each of them started

emptying their bags full of

dreams.

But for each dream they

brought forth, the locals had

to put a copper coin in the

man’s hat, which rested on

the sand between the two,

because, as I said

beforehand, these two were

dreams peddlers, and from

the very beginning everyone

agreed to pay in order to

listen to them spinning yarns.

“I,” started the old man,

and as he spoke he became

taller and taller and even

younger, “I, can make any

woman happy.”

“Ah,” sighed all the

women, adorned with head-

kerchiefs and crimpled skirts

in many colours.

“Because I”, continued

the old man, “I understand

everyone’s care in the world,

and know what to promise

each woman, so that they

would instantly feel loved,

respected and happy.”

“I,” said the old woman

in her turn, “I left behind in

the country where I come

from, a vast forest, teeming

with wild stags and playful

does, magnificent lions and

tigers, bears and foxes,

wolves and

rabbits,

badgers,

partridges

and

pheasants,

and even

turtles as

big as a

carriage

wheel. You

may want

to know

that each of these beasts

loves me dearly and can

hardly wait for me to return

home, so they can present

themselves before me and

pay me homage.

“Ah,” sighed the men

too, pumping out their chests

and beginning to dream of

great hunting games, and of

rich prey with silky furs.

“I,” the handsome old

man continued, “I have,

where I come from, a room

equipped with four engines

with which I can thread

dreams. As soon as I sit in

front of one of these devices

and press a magic button,

the machine will start telling

me stories about the

wonderful places where I

have wandered in the past,

about stately castles that I

visited, and about kings and

emperors who bestowed their

friendship upon me, and

invited me as a guest of


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honor to

their great

festivities.

And just to

convince the

people that he

was telling the

truth, the old

man stooped to

the ground and

gathered from the

shore a fistful of

round stones,

beautifully

chiseled by

the waves. In his

large hands with

their long fingers,

those little stones

changed at once

into minuscule,

multi colored

booklets. The women, seeing

these, rushed up to grab

them, hid them in their

bosoms and took them

hurriedly home.

Then, as soon as night

had fallen and every one was

asleep, each woman would

take her magic booklet from

under her pillow and start

leafing through it in secret.

As they did, a divine music

filled their ears; and as they

closed their eyes, they

instantly changed back into

the joyful and beautiful girls

they had once been long ago.

At this point the old man

appeared before each of

them as if by magic,

transformed into a Prince

Charming, riding one of his

dream spinning engines, and,

taking each of them by the

hand, would walk with her

through a mysterious town,

known only to himself, with

large and imposing silent

houses, with lawns full of

fragrant flowers, with white

marble fountains from where

water was dancing and

singing under the sun’s rays,

and with large parks in which

one thousand stately palm

trees reigned.

“Choose for yourself a

house that you would like to

live in from now on,”

whispered the old wizard,

“and I will give it to you as a

present. Tell me where you’d

like to nestle on hot summer

days; name your favorite

silks, and all these wonders

will be yours.”

It was a beautiful and

touching dream, far from

everyday worries and the

household’s needs, far from

sickness and the tiring work

of daily routine.

The women awoke each

morning enwrapped in an

unknown joyfulness, and the

stars of the previous night

would be mirrored for a while

in their eyes. They were

much more beautiful now.

Even their respective

husbands took notice of this,

and seeing their wives happy

and content, they started

competing with each other to

make their spouses even

happier. Joyfully the women

would start humming the

songs from their youth,

songs that with the passing

of years, they had almost

forgotten. The days went by

easier, and work didn’t seem

so tiring anymore.

But during this time the

old woman was spinning her

flock of dreams too, by the

seashore.

“Tell me,” she would

taunt the fishermen gathered

around her, “wouldn’t you

like your nets to catch shells

containing the most precious

pearls, or some bigger

oyster-gems, or other great

treasures that sank, long

ago, to the bottom of this

sea?”

“Of course we would,”

the men answered, and

closing their eyes let

themselves be guided by the

old woman. But, wonder of

wonders! The old woman,

walking hand in hand with

these young men, became

herself again suave and

young, swaying like a green

reed in the breeze. In her

palms she gathered round

pebbles from the shore, and

laughing, she threw them far

off onto the scintillating

surface of the sea. Then the

fishermen would rush to

collect the stones in their

nets and taking them home,

they would watch them now

and then in secret at night in

the candles’ light, and

miracle! The stones would

transform themselves into

precious gems and the men

would fall asleep dreaming of

being rich, donning expensive

mantles, being surrounded by

countless servants and

pampered by dancers with


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Illustration by Irina Borisova

undulating bodies and

sparkling eyes.

So day by day, as soon

as they finished their

assigned tasks, the women,

the men and even the

children of that region,

crowded around the two old

wizards at the sea-shore,

avidly listening for hours on

end to those countless

dream-tales.

“And please don’t forget,

my dear friends,” the old

wise-man advised them from

time to time, “that the only

condition for your dreams to

become reality, is that you

have to truly believe in

them.”

But as they appeared on

their shores - one fine day -

the old man and the old

woman disappeared without

a trace. Some say that one

night, during a terrible storm,

a giant wave came upon

them and taking them away,

drowned them. Others were

of the opinion that the

wizards left on their own, one

after another, taken by some

giant birds with large steel

wings and ember eyes; yet

other locals say that in fact

the wizards never really

existed, except in the

imagination of the local

people, bored stiff by their

uneventful lives - although

most of them like to think

that the two wizards had

found in their bags a dream

that would fit them both, and

regaining finally their other

half, so long searched for,

held hands and wandered

together to a fairy tale

country, where they still live

happily to this day, and

where they whisper to each

other those fantastic dreams,

each one more fanciful than

the other.

The people of that region

continued to dream and be

happy and content with their

lot in life, even after the old

wizards had disappeared,

because now they were able

to build their own dreams

and thus smooth their

foreheads so burdened by

life’s cares. During full moon

nights, the girls would braid

fancy wreaths from lilies of

the valley, to adorn

themselves the same way the

old she-wizard did; and the

boys started building rapid

engines, with which they

started cruising the roads of

the island at high speed,

imitating the old dream

peddler, who, riding on his

miraculous engine, had

already entered the realm of

legend.

But, it happened that

one time, a morose king took

the helm of that country, a

king who was never satisfied

with anyone or anything, and

who couldn’t understand why

his subjects were so happy.

Extremely curious, he gave

an order to his servants to

enquire through the crowds

about this matter and to

come with an answer right

away.

The servants brought

back news that, in the region,

there were some enchanted

stones that made people

dream the most beautiful

dreams and allowed them to

be full of good will and joyful

always.

The king, who had

never, ever dreamt one

single time in his entire life,

and didn’t have a clue about

happiness, ordered that all

these stone be gathered and

be thrown back into the sea.

Afraid of the king’s

wrath, many obeyed and

gave up their stones, or

threw them themselves into

the water. But many more

didn’t listen to the royal

command and carefully hid

the magic stones, which,

truth told, weren’t different in

any way, shape or form from

the ordinary pebbles of the

shore. They bestowed the

stones as a precious

inheritance to their children –

for the joy and happiness of

their descendants - together

with the fantastic tale of the

two dream peddlers. This tale

would be passed on from

father to son and be told at

length by grandmothers to

their grandkids, during the

long winter nights when they

sat by the fireplace and spun

their flocks of dreams, until

the little children, tired by the

day’s fun and games, fell

asleep with smiles on their

faces.


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The

Mock

Mother A Cautionary Tale

by Vanessa Woolf-Hoyle

Stella and Harry were twins,

and their flat was so small

that their Mummy had to

sleep on a sofa bed in the

living room. However the

great thing was that it was

very high up, and out of their

window they could see the

London Eye, far away, slowly

turning. When they looked

directly down, the people

walking along their street

seemed to be as small as

your thumbnail.

Stella was a gorgeous little

girl with brown eyes like

chocolate buttons. Harry had

green eyes and he liked

fighting. Their Daddy was the

richest, bravest, most

exciting, most handsome

man in the whole of England,

but they didn’t know where

he lived and they never saw

him.

Mummy wore a long blue

skirt right down to the floor,

and her long brown hair hung

loose over her back, except

when she was working at

Asda, which was most days.

She was as skinny and floppy

as an old stick of celery, a

coincidence, because celery

was her favourite food. Every

evening, she would pick the

twins from After School Club,

kiss them, take them home

and cook their dinner. Then

she would clean and tidy.

Every evening, Stella

and Harry would ask her for

chips, and she would say no.

They would ask for Alien

Battle Guns and Princess

Lipstick and new shoes with

toys in the soles and a trip to

Thorpe Park, and she would

say no. Then Harry would

smack her as hard as he

could and Stella would

scream until her eyes went

pink. But Mummy never got

angry. She just wrung her

pale hands and said, “Oh my

dears, my dears! Please don’t

be naughty or I shall have to

go away and the Mock

Mother will come!”

The children didn’t listen.

They just thought Mummy

was stupid because she kept

her books in the bathroom,

ate vegetables and never

ever got in touch with Daddy.

One day Harry was

feeling so angry, he dropped

her favourite book down the

toilet. When Mummy saw it,

all covered in wee, she didn’t

get angry, no. She just

wrung her hands and said,

“Oh my dear, my dear,

please don’t be naughty, or I

shall have to go away and

the Mock Mother will come!”

Harry stuck his tongue

out.

One night, Stella was

sick of coleslaw. She threw it

on the sofa, splat! As the

sofa was also Mummy’s bed,

you might have thought

Mummy would lose her

temper this time, but she

didn’t. She just wrung her

hands and said, “Oh my dear,

my dear, please don’t be

naughty, or I shall have to go

away, and the Mock Mother

will come!”

The twins had their

eighth birthday at Surrey

Quays bowling. They had

pizza to eat, and all their

friends from school came.

Mummy had made them a

cake shaped like a heart, and

they both had piles of

presents. Only one thing was

missing. There was no

Daddy.

Stella and Harry were

outraged. They glared. They

sulked. They stamped. They

didn’t say ‘thank you’ one

single time.

On the bus home, Stella

gave Mummy such a kick that

she got a bruise as big as a

potato under her blue skirt.

When they arrived at the

bottom of their flats, she

said, “I hate you Mummy!”

“So do I!” Harry yelled.

Mummy didn’t reply. She

just carried the bags upstairs,

let the children inside and

then she turned around and

went straight back out of the

door.

Stella and Harry looked

at each other. Together, they

ran to the window and gazed

down. Fairly soon they saw

the tiny figure of Mummy,

with her long hippie hair and

her floor-length skirt, walking

quickly out of the flats and

away down the streets.

“Yay!” Stella shouted.

“Good riddance” Harry

cheered.

Luckily for them they

weren’t hungry that night.

They stayed up late. They

didn’t have a bath. They

didn’t even bother with

pajamas.

The next morning

Mummy was still gone. Stella

and Harry turned on

CBeebies and lay around,

feeling rather sick.


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Illustration by Lily Mae Martin

“I wonder when

Mummy’s coming back?”

Harry said. “I think I need

some of that pink medicine.”

“I’ll have a look” Stella

went to peer out of the

window, but the street below

was empty.

“I’ve got a bellyache!”

Harry moaned. “And I want

some clean clothes.”

Stella and Harry tried to

work the washing machine,

and they looked for the

medicine, but they had no

luck with either. All they did

was turn their flat into a

greater and greater mess. By

the afternoon, they were

both sitting with their noses

pressed to the window,

looking at the street below.

“I’m going to make

Mummy a card.” Stella said

suddenly. “I’ll say ‘welcome

home’. When she comes.”

Harry agreed. So they

found some pens and paper

and made the most elaborate

cards. But Mummy didn’t

come back.

It was starting to get

dark before they saw a figure

coming up the road towards

the flats.

“Look Harry!” Stella

called. “Look- I think it’s

Mummy! She’s coming back!”

Harry went to fetch the

card he’d made, and Stella

started jumping up and down

happily.

Meanwhile, far below, a

figure walked up the street

towards them. A figure with

long brown hair, and a floor

length blue skirt. A long tail

stuck out from under the

skirt, dragging along the

floor. The figure clacked its

big wooden teeth as it went

into the block of flats and

began to climb the stairs…


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The

Parrot

Prince by Caitlyn Paxson

Once upon a time, in a land

where the trees grew tall and

housed all manner of strange

creatures, there lived a girl.

She had no father and no

mother, but lived with an old

witch woman, deep in the

forest. The witch woman had

found her in the hollow of a

tree when she was no more

than a baby, and was kind to

her. She taught her how to

make oils that would cure

burns, and how to charm fat

green snakes down from the

trees and twine them about

her arms.

Behind her hut, the witch

woman kept a cage which

was woven out of vines and

branches. Every so often, she

would take the girl out into

the thick forest, and tell her

to sing. When the girl sang,

rainbow feathered birds of

green and blue and yellow

flew down from the tree tops

and settled on her shoulders.

They kept the birds in the

cage until the bone men

came to take them away. The

bone men frightened the girl

with their spears, and they

often wore bright feathers,

which made her think that

they must kill the birds. This

made her sad, and she often

watched the birds at their

play, and wondered what it

would be like to fly. But she

ate the wild pig meat which

the men brought, and

continued to lure birds with

her song.

The witch woman herself

never went into the cage.

She was afraid that the birds

would curse her, and steal

away her powers. She always

sent the girl to take food to

the birds, and sing to them

so that they would not

scream through the night.

One day, when the air

was heavy and green, the girl

went out into the forest to

dig for roots. Without

thinking, she hummed to

herself as she ground at the

dirt with a stick. The sound of

wings fluttering made her

look up, and there before her

was a man. He was young

and strong, and at first she

was afraid that he was one of

the bone men. But the bone

men all had hair of the

darkest black, and this man’s

hair was bright red like jungle

flowers. She offered him her

hand, and they passed the

day together in the forest.

He told her that he had

travelled from far away in the

forest, where he lived up in

the tree-tops with his people.

Once when he was small, he

went up to look out over the

canopy, and he saw forest

that stretched out to the ends

of the earth in either

direction. One day he decided

to try to find the place where

the forest ended, and he had

been travelling ever since.

The girl told him that she

would be afraid to climb so

high, for fear that she would

jump and try to fly away.

Then she laughed, and so did

he, and she saw that the

inside of his mouth was as

black as the earth under

rotting logs.

When the forest grew

dark, and the night creatures

began to come out, the man

said that he must go, but

that he would remain nearby

and see her again the next

day. The girl ran home, and

the witch woman scolded her

for staying out so late. She

warned her that if she stayed

out in the forest at night, the

Jungle Man would catch her

and take her away to be his

bride. But the girl only

smiled.

She met the red-haired

man as often as she could,

and she grew to love him. He

had a way of clacking his

tongue when she made him

laugh, and he could crack

kenari nuts open with his

teeth. He told her stories of

the sky, and described the

clouds he had seen from the

tree-tops.

Once day, when the wild

pig meat was almost gone,

the witch woman told the girl

that it was time to sing-in the

birds. The girl had hoped to

see the red-haired man that

day, but she could not

disobey the witch woman,

and so they went off into the

forest together.

The girl opened her

mouth to sing, and she could

not help but think of the red-

haired man, and the thought

of him filled her song with


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Illustration by Mary Harris

joy. Even the witch woman

found herself drawn to the

girl, and remembered a time

long ago when one of the

bone men brought her a

necklace, which he said was

carved from the bone of a

fish that was as long as the

trees were tall.

From high up, a single

bird began to make its way

down towards the girl. She

gasped as she saw it flying

towards her, for it was unlike

the the birds she usually

caught. The rainbow birds of

the jungle were yellow, and

green and blue, but this bird

was a brilliant red, that

caught the light so that it

shone like flame. He landed

on the girl’s shoulder, and

nestled close to her neck.

She reached up her fingers to

stroke his feathers, and he

hung down into the crook of

her arm, tangling in her long

hair.

The witch woman was

pleased. The bone men would

give them many pigs for a

red bird. This made the girl

sad, for from the moment

she had seen the bird, she

had wanted to give it to the

red-haired man. The witch

saw her expression, and tried

to take the bird away from

the girl, and carry it on her

own shoulder, but the bird

snapped at her, and she let it

be, for fear of its magic.

The girl did not want to

put the bird into the cage,

but the witch woman

threatened to put a spell on

her, and make her turn into

another red bird, and sell her

to the bone men, too. The

girl was afraid of the witch

woman’s powers, so she put

the bird into the cage. It

fought to stay on her,

climbing from shoulder to

shoulder, and then tried to fly

away. She hummed to it, and

it finally settled onto a

branch. When the girl left the

cage, the bird flew to the

door, and hung there, staring

at her. She went away to do

her chores, and when she

returned, the bird still hung

from the door.

Days passed, and the

red-haired man did not meet

the girl in the forest. She

decided that he had grown

weary of her, and had once

again set off to find the

forest’s end. She sat in the

cage, holding the red bird in

her arms, wishing that the

man had asked her to go with

him to find the end of the

forest. The red bird cackled

and muttered, as if it wished

to speak to her, and she sang

songs to calm it.

On the day the bone

men came, the air was wet

and heavy. The bone men

looked at the red bird, and

drew back in fear. They told

the witch that they would not

take the red bird into the

forest with them, for it

carried powerful magic, and

would turn against them.

The witch woman flew

into a fury, and told them

that they would take the bird

with them, and that they

would give her many pigs for

it, even if she had to kill it

herself. The bone men

agreed, and the witch woman

went into her hut and fetched

her magic stick, with which

she could kill the bird without

fearing its powers. The girl

began to cry, and begged the

witch woman to let her keep

the bird. The witch woman

told her that unless she

wanted to starve and die out

in the forest, she would hold

the bird still.

The witch woman swung

the stick to hit the bird, but

just before she struck, the

girl turned with a cry,

shielding the bird with her

body. The witch woman’s

stick hit the girl across the

head.

A blossom of red began

to form on the girl’s head,

and as the blood ran down

her hair, it changed color,

turning her hair from black to

the bright red of jungle

flowers. The witch woman

and the bone men watched

as the girl began to change.

She grew smaller, and her

arms spread wide as the

blood ran down them and

fanned out, red across her

skin. Then she was gone, and

in her place was a red bird.

The two birds took to

their wings, and flew off into

the forest, far away from the

bone men and the witch.

They flew together in search

of the forest’s end, and

perhaps they are flying yet.


12

A Most

Ordinary

Boy by Amanda Carr

Hesmoth, the baby dragon,

dreamed of being human. He

asked his mother to tell him

his favourite fairy tale again.

She smiled, the grey scales

around her eye creasing at

the corners. "Okay, little

one, but you must drink your

lava and eat your coal first.

Then, come and snuggle up

to me in the nest and I'll tell

you all about The Boy Who

Wrote."

He dutifully gobbled up

his coal and settled down to

wait for sleep in the crook of

his mother's paws.

"Once upon a time there

was a little boy --"

"Smaller than me?"

"Much smaller than you.

He was no higher than your

flanks. This little boy was

very special; there was

nothing magical about him,

whatsoever."

"Couldn't he even

breathe flames?"

"Nope. And he couldn't

even fly. He was the most

ordinary boy in every way,

except... he could work

words on any subject."

"Anything?"

"Anything! If he found a

pebble, he would scribe on

walls about where it came

from, how big it was and

what minerals it was made

up of. He would use coal and

soot to write on hides at the

tannery about how many

heifers were led to market,

and how many cows. If he

found a stick he would write

in the sand about silica, rock-

pools, flotsam, and jetsam.

Do you know what else he

wrote?"

"I know! I know! Well, I

know what he didn't write --

he didn't write spells!"

"You're a clever boy,

Hesmoth. That's right. He

wrote such wonderfully

ordinary things: things about

the weather, about what

seasonal vegetables were

ripe, what the hunters were

catching, who was marrying

who, who was the most

important person in the

village and how many sheep

he had."

"And what time the tide

came in and went back out

again -- don't forget that

one."

"I won't -- and what time

the tide came in and when it

went back out again." She

patted Hesmoth's tail with

her own to quell his

excitement before continuing,

"Now, one day a fairy

princess from a far off land

came sailing over the sea to

pick a husband. The boy was

now a young man, but no

one thought that he would

present himself to her court

as he was not in the slightest


13

Illustration by Joanna Loring-Fisher

bit magical. But when the

day came for the handsomest

bachelors to attend the

princess's ball, he arrived in

stately fashion and joined the

suitors' table."

"Could he dance?"

"Atrociously. He stood

all over the princess's dew-

drop slippers and smashed

them to pieces."

"Could he sing?"

"Like a crow. All the

ladies fainted."

"Could he recite poems?"

"With no passion and

much stumbling. The fairy

king had to leave with a

headache.

"But when it came to the

close of the evening and the

entourage made its way

down to the boats in the

harbour, he ran in front of

the party and begged them

to wait for one more hour.

The guards made ready to

dispatch him, but the

princess was curious, 'Why

should we wait, boy? The

moon is fat, and the waters

calm.'

"'Aye,' he replied, 'they

look calm now, but in a short

while they will split with the

tide; the great whirlpool will

wake and smash your ship

with more ease than I did

your dew-drop slippers. Wait

only an hour and you will be

safely home.'

"The princess looked to

her father, her father looked

to the wizards, and they

looked to the townsfolk.

Eventually, the town's chief

nodded to the princess. 'If

anyone would know the turn

and twirl of wave and tide

then it is this most ordinary

boy. He has not one ounce

of magic in him, but he

watches, notes, and records

the workings of the world

around him.'

"Upon this confirmation

the princess took the boy's

hand and declared him a

fitting husband, much to the

chagrin of the other suitors

who had danced so lightly,

sung so beautifully, and

recited so diligently. 'Why

him?' they cried. And the

princess answered, 'He has

saved my life, and so it is his

to keep. A day will come

when my feet ache from

dancing, my voice creaks

with age, and the words of

poems leave my memory,

but at least I will have a

husband who watches, notes,

and records the working of

things.'

"And they lived happily

ever after."

"Can you tell it to me

again?"

"Tomorrow night, little

one. Now is time for sleeping

and dreaming."

"I hope I have the most

ordinary dreams in all the

world!"


14

Yellow

John by Alison J. Littlewood

The valley folk knew

something was wrong,

although they did not speak

of it: not in words. They

spoke about it in the look

that passed between them as

they drank a new child's

health. Green eyes, the look

said. Yellow hair. Traits that

ran in the valley. Something

to do with old blood and

fields and rivers and trees

and the mines, where some

delved for blue john, a stone

that looked black as pitch in

the dark.

The children with green

eyes and yellow hair ran with

the others in the schoolyard,

laughing and playing. Anyone

watching might have thought

that a good many were

related. But no one spoke

about that.

Kathleen already knew Gill's

intentions. It was in the way

he glanced at her at church,

a will-I won't-I look, like

drizzle that can't quite decide

to rain.

Gill had been in her class

in school. She always noticed

his broad hands. His father,

Don Mayhew who owned the

river farm, had hands like

spades. But Gill's were

sensitive too, the bones finely

turned like stairway spindles.

When they left the church

and the women gossiped

about how the cheese was

coming, the quality of the

corn, and the fineness of the

summer, Kathleen said she

was going for a walk.

"Don't go far," her

mother said. "Not in your

best."

Kathleen strode up the

rise to the woods, without

looking back, her heart

thudding.

The woods were sweet.

Bluebells had finished

flowering but here and there

Kathleen caught their scent,

like the ghosts of flowers.

Beech trees rose like grey

pillars, solid and yet graceful.

If they had spirits, they

would be maidens, she

thought. Strong ones, with

bows in their hands.

She heard the distant

cries of sheep, the trill of the

river pouring over the crags

at Sour Milk Fosse, and the

sweet sound of birdsong.

When the birds stopped

singing she knew he was

standing behind her.

"Gill?" She whispered,

and her arms prickled. Boots

rustled through the grass.

Hands reached around and

covered her eyes.

"Gill?"

No reply. Above, the

single, sweet note of a

blackbird.

Kathleen felt his touch,

listened for his breath. His

hands were clumsy. He had

bumped her nose when he

reached for her.

"Not Gill," she said,

shaking him off. She whirled

and saw the son of Smithson,

the tanner. Her mouth fell

open.

He held something out.

It shone in the sun, dangling

on a silver chain. "It's from

Gill," he said.

She held out her hand,

palm flat, as though feeding

apples to the horse. He

dropped the chain into it and

walked away.

It was blue john, the

stone that was found here

and nowhere else. Some said

it was put here a gift,

although they never said

from whom. Sometimes it

was blue, sometimes purple,

and sometimes slate grey.

Sometimes it was yellow, and

sometimes all the colours at

once.

"They should call it

purple john," children would

say. "Or stripy john. Or

yellow john."

"Stop it," Kathleen always

said. "That's not its name."

Yellow john. Where had she

heard that before? She didn't

like it.

This stone had delicate

threads of grey and yellow,

like sunshine peeking

through storm clouds. She

closed her hand over it, the

rough edges scraping her

palm. She didn't care. It was

hers, and soon she would be

his.

Later he came knocking,

to speak to her father.

Kathleen skipped to the door

wearing the necklace.

"It's all right, Dad," she

said. "We're going for a

walk." She slipped her hand

into Gill's arm.

"You don't mind, then?"

he asked.

"You're foolish, Gill

Mayhew," she said. "But

nothing I can't put right."

"Is that a yes?"

"It may be, when I'm

asked. And when you've

explained your silliness.

Shyness, was it?"

"I just wanted to be sure

you knew it was me."

"Who else would it be?"

she exclaimed. "What do you

think I am?"

He swallowed. "There's a

legend," he said. "Yellow

John. He's supposed to come

out of the forest at

Midsummer Eve, only he

doesn't look like himself. He

takes the shape of someone

from the village, someone

who's about to wed. And he

goes to the lady, and - well,

they don't know, do they.

They can't tell the difference.

So-" his voice tailed away.


15

Kathleen shook her hand

free. "What are you trying to

say?"

"It's not that I doubt

you. It's just - how many

bairns do you see with green

eyes and yellow hair? They

say it's the valley, it's what

we're like. But do you think

that's true?"

She snorted. "Lots of

people look that way. And

they have children, and so

their children look like that. I

never took you for fanciful."

"So why is it always the

first?"

"What?"

"Always the first child.

Never the second or the

third. And it doesn't matter

what the parents look like.

It's as though..."

She raised her hand to

slap him, then the anger

faded. "That's ridiculous," she

said.

"But it's true, I think. He

comes out of the woods. And

it's nearly Midsummer. I just

wanted to be sure you'd

know the difference."

She tutted, put her hand

on his arm, and pulled him

back towards the house.

"Are you angry?"

"No. I'm going to tell my

father I'm getting married.

Then I'll start knocking some

sense into you.”

It wasn't like Kathleen to

worry, but worry she did.

What worried her was the

shape of Gill Mayhew's

hands. It was the only thing

that betrayed his friend to

her. And if the man of the

woods could look like anyone,

how would she know? Hands

could be copied.

Of course, if he came to

her before the allotted time,

she should refuse. But it

troubled her all the same. If

the creature could mimic

anyone, what other powers

might it have? What if she

could not bring herself to

turn him away?

And so, on the day

before Midsummer Eve, she

packed a dress, a comb, and

a towel. She put them in a

backpack and set out.

The woods were fresh

and green, and leaves

danced in the breeze. But

Kathleen did not pause until

she reached the Peak, where

Sour Milk Fosse thundered

over the crag. She set down

her pack, feeling the cool

spray wet her face. Then she

strode into the water.

It was as though she had

been struck deaf. She could

no longer hear the cries of

sheep from the valley, or the

lowing of cattle. Everything

was drowned out by the roar

of the water.

Kathleen edged closer to

the waterfall, braced herself,

and put her head under.

Soon she was shivering from

head to foot. She made

herself stay a while, though,

thinking of Gill, and her

wedding, and the shape of

his hands.

On Midsummer Eve Kathleen

could not sleep. She waited

by her window while the

moon rose high. The

farmyard was lit in silver, the

stars were clear, and the

man in the moon wore a look

of mischief.

She glanced towards the

woods and saw that someone

was looking at her.

His blue eyes sparkled in the

moonlight. In a moment he

stood beneath Kathleen's

window, and he called to her

in a honeyed voice. It was

deeper, richer than she

remembered, and made her

shiver. Such a voice. Who'd

have thought Gill would have

such a voice? He didn't sound

like that when he sang in

church.

He beckoned.

Kathleen slipped out of

her room, down the stairs,

and out of the door. She put

out a hand and Gill wrapped

his own around it. His hands

were broad but sensitive, and

Kathleen wondered what it

would be like to feel them

upon her body, touching her

secret places. She walked

with him towards the forest.

It was cool under the trees.

It made Kathleen more

conscious of the way their

hands entwined, warm and

snug like mice in a burrow.

"You will soon be mine,"

he said.

She knew that it was

true. "Add you'll be bine,"

she said.

He started at that but

put out a hand anyway,

taking her chin and raising

her lips towards his. Kathleen

shivered, not knowing if it

was anticipation, or nerves,

or the cool of the night.

Really, Midsummer Eve or

no, there was bitterness in

the air.

"Achoo!" she cried,

showering Gill with spittle.

"Oh," she said. "I'be zorry."

He grimaced.

"'S just a liddle cowd."

Gill backed away. For a

moment, Kathleen could have

sworn that his eyes weren't

blue at all: they were a deep,

vivid green.

"Look," said Gill. "It's a

bad idea. We should wait for

the wedding night, an' all

that." And with three bounds

he vanished into the trees.

Everything around Kathleen

grew still. Only the leaves

over her head seemed to

move in the breeze and

whisper, "Fool...fool...fool."

Then she realised something

strange. When Gill had made

his apologies, he hadn't

sounded like Gill any more, at

all.


16

Kathleen lifted the bundle to

her face and stroked the

babe's cheek. He's solid, she

thought. He'll be helping Gill

on the farm before we know

it.

She smiled up at Gill.

The child's nose was a little

like his, a little like hers. He

had Gill's eyes, though, and

his lips. She felt the child's

hands. Broad for a bairn's,

but fine and sensitive. She

smiled at Gill. It seemed they

could never stop smiling.

That night, while

Kathleen dozed, she thought

she heard a sound, floating in

through the window. It was

silvery and soft, and sent a

shiver down her back. No,

not a shiver, she thought. A

chill. That's what it was. A

chill.

"My name is Yellow

John," it said. "And I'm

coming for your son."

She sat upright, every

nerve fixed on the sound.

She fancied she heard the

sighing of trees. And then

there was only the steady

breathing of her child. It

calmed her. She rubbed her

eyes. She was tired, that was

all.

After a while she lay

down, buried her way into

the bedclothes and closed her

eyes.

Gill Junior grew ever more

like his father. His cheeks

were ruddy and his brown

hair shone in the sunlight.

But every year, on his

birthday, Kathleen woke in

the night to hear someone

singing.

"My name is Yellow

John," it said. "And I'm

coming for your son."

"But when?" she

thought. "And how will I stop

you?"

While Little Gill slept, she

worried. While he played, she

worried. When his sister

came along, her clear blue

eyes so like her brother's,

she worried. Worry put white

darts in Kathleen's hair and

lined her forehead. She did

not care, as long as he left

her son alone.

Then one day Kathleen

went to call on her mother

with the new child in her

arms, and bade Little Gill

come with her.

"I won't," he said, and

ran into the yard, snagging

his trousers on the gate.

"Gill Mayhew, come here

this minute," she said. In a

second her husband was at

her side: but Little Gill was

running around, chasing the

dog's tail.

"Oh, leave him be," said

Gill Senior. "I'll watch him.

Only don't be long: I need to

mend the gate in five acre

field."

Kathleen nodded. It was

almost Midsummer, and soon

the farm would keep him too

busy for such things.

She set out. It was a

beautiful day, the sun riding

high. Her mother's garden

was full of murmuring bees

and bright, cheerful flowers.

The baby reached for them,

laughing. There was little

wonder that they tarried. At

last the sky faded, and

Kathleen realised she should

have been home long ago.

The house was still when

Kathleen returned, her face

red with exertion.

"Gill?" she called. "Gill!"

There was nothing. She

glanced into the kitchen, and

it was empty. She looked into

the yard and saw a shape

sobbing on the ground.

She rushed outside. It

was a little boy with brown

hair, but it was wet and

plastered to his head. He

heaved with sobs and his

whole body shook. Kathleen

pulled him into her arms.

"What is it, Little Gill?" She

said, but he did not answer.

He felt heavy, and drenched

through, and cold.

She was drying the boy,

turning his skin red with

rubbing, when her husband

came in.

"Where were you?" she

cried. "Why did you leave

him?"

"What do you mean?"

Kathleen's cheeks flamed.

"Why couldn't you wait?

He's your son. Why did you

leave him all alone?"

Gill frowned. "But I

didn't," he said. "You came

for him. You said you'd left

the baby with your mother.

You said you were taking him

for a walk."

Then Little Gill tried to

talk through chattering teeth.

"W-w-went in the waterfall,"

he said. "Went in the w-

waterfall with Mummy."

Kathleen pulled the veil down

over her eyes. It was

Midsummer Eve, and her son

was dead. His chill had

turned to fever, and finally

stilled his breath.

She crept downstairs and

out of the door. The night

was fine and clear. It was

Midsummer Eve, and

somewhere, Yellow John was

walking. Kathleen felt in her

pocket, fingering the blade

she had hidden. She would

find him and she would have

his heart.

She slipped under the

canopy of the woods and

found herself in darkness.

Not knowing where she went,

she began to walk.

Trees rustled. There

came the small death squeal

of some creature, taken by

an owl. And somewhere,

before she realised it,

someone had begun to sing.

"My name is John Yellow

And no matter where you go


17

Illustration by Sam Rees

You'll never catch me, no,

ho-ho."

The sound led her

onward, although it made

Kathleen feel drowsy and

strange. It was as though the

stars had come down and

were swimming inside her

head, making everything

tingle. Still she walked, until

she came to the waterfall

where she had once bathed.

She blinked, and a man was

standing before her. He wore

the colour of leaves, his hair

was yellow, and his eyes

were green as emeralds. He

held out his hand.

Kathleen, as though in a

dream, went into his arms.

"You cheated me once,"

he said, and his voice

was like coming home.

"Not again," she

whispered. "Never

again."

He stroked the

grey in her hair and it

was gone. He touched

his lips to her

forehead and it was

clear and unlined.

Then he bent to taste

her lips. She felt his

hands in hers, the

bony hardness of

them, as though he

had twigs beneath the

skin instead of bones.

And then Kathleen

remembered and reached for

her pocket.

She took the knife and

pushed it deep into his side.

It crackled as though passing

through autumn leaves.

There was no blood. His

side was open and there were

layers inside like loam and

clay, something that gleamed

grey and purple and yellow.

He began to sing.

"I am John i' the woods

And John i' the fields

I am John i' the earth

beneath your feet

You cannot kill me."

"You took my son,"

Kathleen said. "And I shall kill

you."

Her hand sank deep into

his body as though into wet,

cold earth, and took root

there. She tried to pull away

but she could not: and so she

pushed it deeper still, feeling

coldness seep up her arm

and into her flesh.

Slowness crept up from

the earth. It was dark and old

as time. She felt the way the

earth turned, causing one

season to pass into the next,

and the steady, ancient

growth. Her body fell still,

growing stiff and ungainly,

until an age passed, and

finally, she fell asleep.

Gill and his daughter left the

church. She was tall and

shapely, her cheeks blushed

like ripe apples. The sun

shone, and Gill noticed a

young man watching her.

He smiled.

The village children ran

past him, squealing. Their

hair was black, or brown, or

tawny. There had not been a

yellow headed child with

green eyes for many a year,

though no one spoke of it.

Gill's daughter pulled

away. "I'm going for a walk,"

she said, and slipped her

hand into the young man's

arm.

Gill knew where they

were going. He wondered if

the lad would give her a gift.

Blue john, maybe, streaked

with grey or purple: but

never yellow. They only

found the stone in dark

colours, now.

They headed for the

woods. After a while they

would reach a waterfall,

where two trees grew, each

entwined with the other. Gill

knew the place as Sour Milk

Fosse, but it was called

something different now.

Lover's Fall, they called it,

the young folk. Where two

willows grew together, where

no tree had grown before:

weeping willows, trailing their

leaves in the water,

as though reaching

after something they

both had lost.

It was a place

only visited by the

young, now. The old

felt different when

they passed by.

Something cold, like a

shiver. And they only

glanced at it, a

passing glance that

said everything they

needed to say, and

nothing more.


18

Wedlocked by Charlotte DeAth

canto 1

the midnight circus had come and gone

like midnight

but without the chimes

all the village had been there their wide eyes caught in the glances

of silver glints of flashes and of shiny things the quickness of the hand

the gestures to deceive

they gasped they squealed they applauded they roared

in all the right places

the circus then left disappeared in the mist

no one now remembers the occasion

or the flying girls

as far as the village was concerned it had all never existed

just a moment in time spun into candyfloss dreams when in their beds

a sleepy blur sleeping

a dream of mystery making

then day broke and the residents awoke in sadness some even climbed

down

from their beds crying no one was ever happy again


19

canto 2

except

john and mary stoves were not bewitched by the call of the circus

they didn’t care to be entertained or astounded their empty hearts

couldn’t bare it

it was the sadness of everyday things

a tea cup with a broken handle leaking hot water bottle

the barrenness of a never used room collecting the dust of dried tears

year after futile year

that morning as those around them stabbed at their grey porridge

with dull spoons dressed themselves in gloom fearing a smile

because of the pain it brought

john and mary were the happiest couple alive

a child

a baby to be precise left on their doorstep wrapped in a gypsy cloth

with a note attached to mary and john

please look after the boy

love him as your own

john and mary called him jack and jack became their son

canto 3

there was nothing but the ordinary about jack as the child grew to a boy

and the boy grew to a man

or at least so it would seem

from an early age jack had understood the lost hour as if

it was his nature to understand

part of his very being

or even his heritage

at first jack would use the lost hour for amusement or mischief

putting things in the wrong places helping himself to cakes and sweets

then came the lure of shiny things


20

canto 4

jack became the key collector

in the dead of night

in the dead of quiet

down the dark lanes and in the woods jack would find dropped and forgotten

keys he would creep through the cottages and search in the back of drawers

climb into attics and crawl under stairs

heeding the cry of a lonesome key

like a wolf

howl howl howling

canto 5

in his room he would listen to the stories the keys would tell

of what they unlocked and what secrets were there

and how they miss the locks that they were made for

and so jack taught himself about locks their loyalties and reassuring

presence but most of all he learnt of the intimacy they shared with keys

and how the two relied on each other

no one knew of jack’s collection he kept it under

lock and key under

his bed


21

canto 6

mostly the keys were from where he had expected the trinket boxes

or old cupboards the door from a garden shed but one key

one key felt heavy in his hand and when he held it his heart ached

and became grey and he would echo

and echo

and echo

and ech o

from the inside out

for this key jack made many locks they all worked click click lock

click click unlock but the key remained burdened and weighted

and lay in his hand with an ethereal glow

a sense of expectation

canto 7

it was little lizzie sitting by the village pond one overcast spring morning

that click click unlocked something deep inside his being

she was watching her reflection ripple

and ripple

despondent

her lover had gone to sea and with tears in her eyes she sang of a time

when he would return to marry me

jack slowly became aware that that strange key warmed in his pocket

he watched her

he watched

as her graceful movements charmed the space around her

he watched her golden hair the colour of the key and by chance

a stray glance her eyes locked onto his

that night during the lost hour he climbed into her room

and watched her sleeping and he stole some softness from her hair

to keep inside his silver locket


22

Illustration by Sara Nesteruk

canto 8

to lonely lizzie one day jack explained that he knew the mystery

of happiness he told of his special friends who share many secrets

and all kinds of private things

he invited her to come and meet them

as lizzie entered the room all the keys started singing strange arias of ghostly

eerie sounds spacious otherworldly and slowly

hypnotically

lizzie was lulled into a trance

drifting somewhere else

drifting into his smile into the light in his eyes as the keys sang her songs

with chains and the locks that he had made click click locked

by that odd little key that felt warm and content

lizzie was enslaved until the lost hour when they set off

to join

the midnight circus

in the shadows jack unfastened lizzie and told her

click click locked

I have the key to your heart so you are mine

and we shall live well on stolen happiness but I must have a son

to whom the lost hour

will belong

tonight you are my bride I have unlocked your heart and let myself inside

and I shall instruct you in the arts of

a cut purse a thief an enchantress a seducer a not to be believed

beautiful encounter

for tomorrow you will become the hostess

of lost loves

at the midnight circus


23

Creatures from Creatures from Creatures from Creatures from

the Curiosity Cabinetthe Curiosity Cabinetthe Curiosity Cabinetthe Curiosity Cabinet

by Particle Article

No.3No.3No.3No.3

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new fairy tales issue 3

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