Parsley Girl, Parsley Girl, Let Down Your Trichobezoar

by Natalie Zutter

If I were your mother, I would share with you this cautionary tale:

Once there was a couple who yearned for a child. When the woman was finally pregnant, she craved naught but rapunzel. Unfortunately, this plant only grew inside a neighboring garden, walled off from the world. As the expectant mother began to waste away, her desperate husband stole into the garden and snatched as much of the leafy plant as he could. But he could not outsmart the enchantress, who protected the garden as if it were her own offspring. When she caught him, she demanded he trade her their newborn baby. He said yes.

After the birth, the enchantress whisked the baby away to a tower in the woods. Rapunzel knew only the walls of her prison and the daily visits from the enchantress, who climbed up by way of the girl’s impossibly long hair. Until one day a prince climbed up instead; they fell in love; the enchantress found out. She cut Rapunzel’s hair and cast them both out of the tower, the pregnant girl into the woods and the prince into a patch of thorns, blinding him.

But as the enchantress, the best that I can do for you is cast a spell. (Continue Reading…)

The One Who Carries Abinakhee Has Died

by Jay Kang Romanus

I’m leaning in to kiss a stranger when the shooting star passes overhead. The sounds of people celebrating nearby swim through the humid air like the ancient turtle below us swims through the world’s ocean and the shooting star above swims through waves of night sky. I’m still breathing heavy from my performance, glowing from the warmth of so many eyes on me and the warmth of the stranger’s body next to me.

“Did you see it?” I ask, momentarily distracted from his well-shaped lips. He nods.

“My mother used to say they were the starships of those who left us behind.” He smiles at me with those extremely well-shaped lips. “I don’t think she was right about that, though.”

Cheering spikes through the quiet before fading away and it seems short-sighted to be spending the rare occasion of a funereal confluence with just one person, in the town I’ve spent my whole life in, on the back of the Great One whose shell has been the borders of my entire world since I was born. But he is a stranger, he wouldn’t be here without the confluence, and that’s my excuse for short-sightedness. (Continue Reading…)

A Long Tango Across A Canopy of Whispering Leaves

By Anita Harris Satkunananthan

The return of the last Festival King was not mere rumour.

Half a dozen heralds from Marip preceded his return, with a new summons from the Steward. Dusk-skinned youth dressed in flowers and skin-tight, fluorescent-blue breeches had read the proclamations from east to west. The Steward was returning the last Festival King. A new Festival King would be crowned at the duels. In the summons were also the names of four hopefuls, chosen from amongst the descendants of former Kings.

Melur’s name had been listed as one of the candidates. It was not a surprise to Melur who had been sleeping within the weave of the forests’ consciousness for twenty-five years since the disappearance of her lover. For those years, the Festival had been Kingless. It was a gap that was unprecedented for the Mykologosia. There had been Festivals for as long as there had been humans inhabiting the sentient mushroom dwellings, and there had always been Kings. But now, there was to be another duel. And if Melur was chosen, she would be the one duelling her lover, as they had both promised each other that night. (Continue Reading…)