in the story they tell later, marie stalhbaum is given a toy, and loves him alive. marie's feet are so light that she cannot feel the floor beneath them. the stars shimmer close enough for her to reach out and pluck them from the cloud-wool sky, close enough to hold in her palm. in the story they tell later, he held his arms open and the stars came to collect him, waving and humming a song she will forget upon waking. but that is only the story they tell later. in the story a
“son of a bitch,” keli said, plucking the feather from the tip of her wings. it licked up the sunlight, edges curling inward. she could feel its warmth through her hand, soft and inviting, as gentle a lull as the way BabyTodd’s eyelids drooped when he got sleepy. “what’s wrong?” asked norma, poking her head into the nursery. she glanced at where BabyTodd was kicking idly at his mobile. “did he poop?” keli held up the feather. norma raised her eyebrows. “....very pretty?” she
What would you do, to get yourself back? What wouldn't you do? On the island of Kallsoy there is a story. The story says that once upon a time, there was a woman of the sea who fell so in love with a fisherman that she shed her sealskin and walked on new legs out of the waves to be his wife. She bore him many children, and never again turned her gaze to the sea. The story says: you can make a human out of what is not. The story says: this new human will even love you for it.
[read the sequel, 'snow white, blood red'] scroll down for part 2 the hut where grimhilde is born has only one window. she has no father. she has the woods. she knows this because her mother tells her, over and over: i cut my palm so deeply that it can no longer curl into a fist. the blood was hot. it melted the snow, and was swallowed by the dirt. the woods accepted. the woods gave me you. when she is born, the first sound she makes is the same sound all babies make: she cr
[read the prequel, "white queen, red heart"] (scroll down for part 2) the first baby is born in may, and dies in his sleep. the second does not make it to term. the third lives for a year before an unknown illness claims him. the queen pricks her finger on a needle: old magic. blood on snow on an ebony windowsill. the wind carries the contract, and the woods accept. blood now must be repaid with blood later, but the fourth baby is a girl, and she lives. she grows slowly, and
beauty is not the only weapon women have. "please," mary says, and her father kisses her too-large forehead. runs his hand along her puffy cheeks. there isn't any one thing, not any single marker of her ugliness, only individual parts that don't seem to fit together right. lumps where straight lines should be, pocks along her chin, eyes that were too bright and too big and yet still not considered striking. he kisses her and holds her and says, "no."
this is what you l
it is not a story about spring and winter: it is a story about choice. 1. They say there is a rift in the human soul which was not constructed to belong entirely to life.* Persephone doesn’t know about humans, but a hundred thousand years ago, her mother--the mother--pressed their noses together and said, “I love you.” Her mother pressed their noses together and said, “Don’t ever leave me.” Her mother pressed their noses together and said, “We’re going to be together always.
In Celtic Mythology, the wives of the underworld were lake-sirens in Wales. These lovely creatures are known to choose mortal men as their husbands. One legend has it that they live in a sunken city in one of the many lakes in Wales. People claim to have seen towers under water and heard the chiming of bells. In earlier times, there used to be a door in a rock and those who dared enter through it came into a beautiful garden situated on an island in the middle of a lake. In t