Väinämöinen and the Singing Fish

by Marissa K. Lingen

Whenever a foreigner came to the district, all of the neighbors would
tell him how lucky he was to be in the home of the legendary
Joukahainen, charmer for the ages.  But the foreigners would squint
and say, “Joukahainen?  Never heard of him.  Is he as good as
Väinämöinen?”  And Joukahainen would seethe.

Then he would do all of his best charms.  The birds would sing an
invocation to the spirits of the forest in such piercing beauty that
any man would weep to hear it, and the fire would glow white and blue
and paint pictures of splendor, and the flowers would all
spontaneously bloom, even if it was in the middle of the long night
and snow covered them all.

And then the foreigners would clap Joukahainen on the shoulder and
say, “Keep at it, lad, and someday you’ll be as great as Väinämöinen!”
Or, “When Väinämöinen’s not around, by the gods, you’ll do!”  They
meant to be kindly, but every time he heard the name Väinämöinen,
Joukahainen’s blood boiled.

And Their Lips Rang With The Sun

by Amal El-Mohtar

There was once a Sun-woman, glorious as any of them, named Lam. She was nimble, lithe; she was all of eighteen, quite in her prime, while her bright-eyed acolyte had only just learned the sacred alphabet off by heart. She was a sensible teacher, and differed from her sisters in only one respect.

It was her custom, once the dawn-dance was done, to look out to the very farthest reaches of the horizon and imagine how far the fingers of the Rising Sun could reach, what they touched where her gaze failed. And when the evening was shaken out like a sheet between the arms of her sisters, then, too, rather than look to the closing of her palms, she would chase the last ray of the Sun as it vanished over the desert and the mountains, and wonder where She went, where She slept, and in whose bed.

These were unnecessary thoughts for a Sun-woman to have, to be sure, but perhaps none had loved the Sun quite so completely as she.

It happened one afternoon that Lam looked out, as was her wont, towards the west, and wondered. But while she thought her puzzle-thoughts, she became aware of eyes on her, and looked down to the great square before the temple of the Sun.

Watermark

by Michael Greenhut

Dear Father:

If you are reading this, Dariael murdered me.

Though I am not your favorite daughter, you also know I’m not the type of sixteen-year-old to feign suicide for sympathy. For the moment, I ask only that you believe in my abilities as a threadkeeper. If my sorcery works, you can save me in your universe. If you’re too busy to follow my instructions, you’ll never see me again.

In my timeline, I wrote this letter with your (presumably) grieving hands after you channeled me through a favorite memory. Naturally, Dariael was in the memory too. We had surprised you with that golden fleece jacket for your thirty-fifth birthday. You hugged Dariael, and I hugged you both.

The Goats are Going Places

by Tina Connolly

Once in the most boring lunchroom of the most boring junior high school in the world, there sat a girl who refused to be bored for one more minute.  Renee Ryder cut P.E. and found some interesting girls who liked to hang behind the shop building and get artistic with spray paint.  She decided to be their leader.  With Renee in charge, the girls got very good with spray paint.  In the amount of time it took a red light to change, they could paint an entire ocean on a car, with goldfish and seahorses and two dolphins doing it.  But then they got busted for tagging the vice-principal’s minivan, and then Renee was snarky and got expelled, which was fine with her because she’d mastered both the graffiti and the girls by now and it was all so boring.

Renee’s parents shrieked, which was also boring, but then Renee’s aunt Simone stepped in and said Renee could come live with her and go to
the very best junior high in the City.  Renee’s mother, who often called her sister something rhyming with witch, cackled.  “Whatever happens to you, you’ll deserve it,” she said.

“Six bedrooms, a hot tub, my own flatscreen the size of a bed?  You bet I deserve it,” said Renee.  She packed her ripped jeans and her cans of spray paint, her old teddy bear and her lighters, and went to live on 1313 Strega Place with her aunt.

Little Gods

by Tim Pratt

“I wish I could be a little goddess of cinnamon,” my wife Emily says, closing her eyes and leaning in close to the spices. I’m used to Emily saying things like that, so I don’t take any notice, just nod and pick up a bottle of peach nectar off the shelf, slosh it around, wrinkle my nose. I know all the gunk in there is supposed to be fresh natural goodness, but to me it just looks like gunk. Emily says that I deny the truth of natural origins. Emily likes peach nectar, so I put the bottle in the basket.

“A little goddess of cinnamon,” Emily repeats. “Or brown sugar.” She crosses her arms, her silver-and-brass bracelets tinkling together.

“As opposed to a big goddess of cinnamon?” I move on down the aisle
with my basket over my arm.

“Little things get little gods,” Emily says. “It’s only natural.” She trails after me, running her finger along the shelves, pausing to sniff at the black teas, to open the lid on a jar of sugar-free gumdrops. Emily is always prodding, smelling, caressing — she says that she is experiencing the world.

“So big gods are for big things, then? Like, say, whales?”

Emily sighs behind me. “Big things like . . . I don’t know . . . love.”