Revolutions, as Told by a Humble Rice Farmer

by Lia Lao

When the Azure Dragon Emperor, conqueror of the nine lands, abhorred tyrant and most exalted strategist in the history of Jiuzhou, dies, Li Shen is farming rice.

On the other side of the country, there is great upheaval. The Dragon Empress sobs so ardently her tears turn to pearls, and she throws herself into the ocean. The White Tiger Emperor — newly anointed and soaked in silver blood — lets out a cry that will reverberate through history. His men hoist him above their shoulders, stamping on the Great Dragon’s corpse, crushing cyan scales underfoot.

And all around Jiuzhou, scholars write furiously, their brushstrokes turning, twisting, contorting. Trying to capture the tale unfolding as they breathe.

None of which means anything to Li Shen. (Continue Reading…)

The Grief Eaters

By Erin Keating

There was a time when grave dirt could summon grief eaters from the Isle of the Dead. As the midnight bells tolled across the lagoon, they’d fly on ravens’ wings to mourners’ windows. With hands of bone, they’d clear minds of sorrow, feasting on memories until there was no remembrance left to mourn. But not all who called them to their side left with the dulled edges of forgetfulness. Grief eaters were hungry. Call them on a night when they were famished, and they’d leave you without so much your name.

Nunzia knew this. Still, she stuffed her pockets full of grave dirt before the priest had finished reciting the “Ave Maria.” Heads bowed beneath fluttering black veils, as though death were a kind of wedding: a marriage of body and earth. As they lowered her grandmother into the soggy ground, the priest spoke of ashes, and dust, and of rest so peaceful, Nunzia was half-tempted to follow after her.

After the funeral, the procession rowed from the Isle of the Dead back to the village. Cries of grief echoed through the settling fog. Voice called to voice, letting them know they were still there. Nunzia’s stomach roiled with the bobbing boat. Beside her, her mother, a pillar of black lace asked, “Are you well, Nunzia?”

Nunzia, never skilled at lying, managed, “Yes, Mamma.” (Continue Reading…)

THE WORTH OF ASHES

by Amanda Helms

Aselya retained enough of her sister’s ashes to hear them sing.

She trudged through the marketplace, the ashes secured in a pouch hanging from her hip, while the ghost of Firall’s mezzo-soprano harmonized with the marketplace din of stall owners shouting their wares, shoppers haggling costs, and arguments between both on the quality of this bolt of cloth, that basket of oranges.

Death had had little impact upon Firall’s personality, and so she sang not a ballad of her life, not a sweet lullaby the likes of which she’d used to urge Aselya’s children to sleep, or even a forlorn ode to how she’d died. No, Firall sang rude tavern songs in which aubergines and melons featured prominently. (Continue Reading…)

Kɛrozin Lamp Kurfi

by Victor Forna

Breath

KADE MAKASI: In . . .

ALL THE CHILDREN: Awt . . .

Storyteller

She tells the children to call her Kade Makasi, and if this was one of her stories, she’d describe herself as bent and wrinkled and spider-like for a touch of myth and poetry . . . but she’s none of these things . . . she’s tall, thick-browed, with two braided rivers of night on her head, and you’d have never guessed what she was: kurfi, dɛbul, demon, and that she stole my child.

(Continue Reading…)

Arachnomorphosis

by Beth Goder

At night, Olivia becomes a spider. She scurries down San Francisco streets, floats gently between cotton-candy-colored houses, and hides behind signs for trendy restaurants, like Trough and Instance.

By day, she works as a software engineer for a company that rents out kitchenware and other home goods. In her spare time, she edits a periodical called Non-Random Number Generator, which showcases the poetry of local writers, but only if the poems involve the number ninety-nine. They get a surprising amount of submissions.

It’s the night that’s tricky. She lopes eight-legged, her steps tapping out a metrical line. Spondee, spondee, spondee.

The city is no place for a spider. (Continue Reading…)

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…)