Beech, Please

by Maria Paige Brekke

If Rhiannon had to carve one more butterfly into a poplar’s trunk, she was going to close her shop and fly away. And who would the forest’s dryads turn to for body art then? Eric the Pyro Pirate, with his hackneyed hook hand and asinine wood-burning technique?

Fran hopped off the table, fluffing her leafy hair and swaying her hips to an imaginary breeze as she made her way to the mirror. She squealed in delight when she saw her reflection, twisting around to admire the image Rhiannon had spent the last two hours carving into her bark.

Rhiannon resisted the urge to roll her eyes as she started cleaning her knives. It wasn’t like the butterfly was any different than the last eight she had carved. The newest trend among the poplar spirits was growing old fast.

“Willow is going to be so jealous,” Fran gushed. “Don’t tell anyone, but she went to Eric and let him burn an infinity symbol into one of her branches. From what I heard, there was a mishap with the iron, and he singed her hair. Poor thing.”

“That man is a menace.” Rhiannon’s wings began fluttering, and she had to force her toes back onto the ground. “People have been carving pictures into trees for hundreds of years. Why go and mess with that?”

Dip and Roll

by Celeste Rita Baker

On de largest beach of de smallest island in de Tania archipelago in de Caribbean Sea five shoreside metamorphic beachrocks sit chatting, as dey have done for de last hundred and sixty-odd years.

“Hey, allyou. I leaving soon. You hear me? Dis place ain’t gon’ be de same,” Craggy Dan, de boulder of de bunch, announce, as he has done every sunrise for de last four days.

“CraggyDan, don’t start wid dat again, mehson,” Cuber say, always quick to want to fight. “You been here, most of we, been here, since we get push up from de self–same sea in front of we right now. You ain’t going nowhere.”

“Huh? Somebody callin me?” Shayla, all de way in de front, can’t see anyting but de bay in front of she. She forever telling everyone ‘bout de color of de water, de shape of de waves, de fish she see jumping and when Hundred Year HardBack coming to crawl ‘pon dem for a sunning and a catch up. She had de best shape and position for vigilant surveillance, nestle as she was in front of CraggyDan, but she don’t hear dat good, what wid de waves always running down she cracks, so she always yelling. De only ting dat does shut she up is snails. Shayla say she have to sit quiet when de snails telling dey silvery secrets else she can’t make out what dey saying. She say de snails mostly does complain dat she allow she dribbles and drool to run over dem while dey trying to make dere way up she front side. Shayla say she tired explain to dem dat even doh she big and hard she ain’t got no control of de sea or de waves and don’t even start wid she about de rain neither.

“Nobody ain’t call you, Shayla.” Cuber voice rough and loud. Every generation of flies and mosquitos learn to veer ‘round de jagged stone lest de erratic vibration of he speech alter dere flight. “I just saying,” Cuber scratchy voice go on, “I tired hear CraggyDan talk. You know how he been lately, Shayla, running on and on ‘bout he leaving. Someting dat never gon’ happen.”

“You don’t know dat, Cuber,” Shayla creak, trying to turn. She can’t, though. She a rock. Alla dem is rockstones, doh sometimes dey does forget.

(Continue Reading…)

An Anklet Broken

by Chaitanya Murali

There is a man I am meant to love. He is the son of a sea-merchant, wealthy and well-connected. A friend of Karikalan, the Chola King.

And this man is my husband and a wastrel.

A sin it is for me to say these words, think these thoughts, but what else do you call a man who has pulled you from the sea and married you, only to then leave you for a courtesan?

Who bears a child on that courtesan, only to then leave her on the suspicion of her infidelity and come crawling back to you for forgiveness?

“Please, Kannagi. I was wrong to leave you — I know this now. The gods have punished me and left me destitute. I know now that I cannot live without you. Will you take me back?”

Left him destitute?

“Please. I cannot go back to my family penniless. I cannot bear that shame.”

What of my shame, Kovalan? Does that mean nothing to you?

But my mouth smiles, the expression warm and genuine, a beacon for this beleaguered cretin.

“Of course I will take you back; you are my husband, are you not?”

I reach down, unclasp the anklet around my right leg, and hold it out to him.