From Modern Mythcraft to Magical Surrealism

CHOSEN ONES

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Fiction

Flash Fiction

Love Laws and a Locked Heart

Princess Nivedita is one year old when a wizard named Yash locks her heart and steals the key. Nobody finds out who Yash is, for they never see him. The King calls for help in carving another key, but none of the keys fit. Nivedita becomes the Princess with the Locked Heart.

Fiction

To Look Forward

We are the ones who dare, back and forth; our hair whipping over, our hearts full of joy. Our bodies burn bright and clean and crisp, glistening when we reach the sun. A healthy tan has coated our skin, our foreheads drip with sweat, our palms firm and slick. We are: over and over again, up in the air; not known to each other, but known to the sky. Mid-jump, mid-action, mid-reaction, mid-air; always there, on rusted swings, on creaking chains, on hot-sun days, back and forth and over, once again.

Poetry

The Secret Ingredient is Always the Same

This is the cure

Flash Fiction

An Introduction

Much pain comes from the inability to understand metaphor, so let us state up front that there is no magic door. There are also no magic keys, mirrors, picture frames, or postage stamps. We hope this does not upset you. Remember, there are magic doors everywhere. We see we are speaking too plainly. Let us begin again.

Poetry

things i love about my werewolf girlfriend

She does not shy away from hair, and

Fiction

And This is How to Stay Alive

Kabi finds my body swinging. I watch my sister press her back against the wall and slide to the ground. My mother shouts, “Kabi! Nyokabi!” No response. “Why are you not answering? Can you bring that brother of yours!” My sister is paralyzed, she cannot speak, she cannot move, except for the shivers that take hold of her spine and reverberate through the rest of her without permission. She is thinking No, no, no, no, no. But the word is not passing her lips which only open and close soundlessly. Mum is coming down the stairs.

Fiction

gezhizhwazh

everyone always tells wiindigo stories when they should be telling gezhizhwazh stories. that’s what this old one says.

Fiction

Black, Their Regalia

Outside, the quarantine train was unblemished white. Where its tracks skirted populated regions, barbed wire and warning signs—DANGER! ¡PELIGRO! INFECTIOUS MATERIALS! ¡SUSTANCIAS INFECCIOSAS!—discouraged trespassers from marking the cars with spray paint. The interior was another story. In her cabin, a narrow sleeper with four beds (one for Screaming Moraine, one for Fiddler Kristi, one for Drummer Tulli, and one for their carry-on luggage, several densely packed grocery bags, and an electric violin), Tulli found graffiti scrawled near her upper bunk.

Fiction

Eyes of Carven Emerald

Sunrise glinted bloody on giant tumbles of statue; it edged the palace beyond with blood. A limestone arm, severed elbow to thumb, came almost up to Alexandros’ waist. Fingers thick as logs lay scattered behind it. Sunrise glimmered in the statue’s blank, rain-filled eyes, and trickled down the pitted stone cheek. So too would Dareios of Persia have fallen, had the coward not fled.

Fiction

The Things My Mother Left Me

Tausi sat listening to her aunts, who crowded in a circle at the far end of the room. Their dresses were a kaleidoscope of greens, reds, blues, and yellows, each worked with repeating patterns that shifted with the eye. Huddled like that they seemed to her one polychromatic beast with seven heads and fourteen limbs. None of them made an effort to whisper as they planned her life.