The daughter (never named, only called “daughter”), has her head transformed into a pig’s head by her father who obtained a wand from a Druid. She must remain that way until she marries a man from the proper clan.’

In Kearns’ retelling, the daughter claims her father's power for her own and steps away from patriarchal oppression into a life of her own choosing. Kearns tells us: ‘In the title of this poem, I’ve crossed out the only name she’s known–daughter–so that in the end, she may rename herself.’

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The Daughter of Tir na n-Og

In an ambush of [skin & moss & unfurled light]
	I point the oaken wand, carved by a Druid, etched with lines permeating
[moss & light & withered skin–mine] at my own 
	neck. What is it called when a daughter must 

cut off her own head to set herself free? My father disappears
	into the belly of a knot, a neck, a vein, a red chasm 
I’ve opened between my shoulders, two arched tombs buttressing 
	my snake spine. Shed another [skin & moss–]

The frilled opening of my neck is a precious cave. I point 
	the druid’s wand at its mouth, at the tender nape
where my mother kissed me long ago, a dream of a dream [velvet skin & light &].
	then seal my father into the darkest place in my belly where no hand 

will force me into deformed shapes– 
a bruised pear, a bent birch tree, a pig’s snout. I replace
my crown, flesh bound to flesh, my eyes fluttering open. Daughter
	The only name he’s uttered is now a haunting of [torn skin & black moss & mutilated light].

	I swallow the word, hard and sharp as it is. Slides razor 
needles on my tongue. Daughter, I have made you. Daughter, I will change 
	you if you [know your skin & moss & light] without my 
bidding. Daughter–

	Gone. Silence. The fragrance of clean pine air.
 Only a single, fragmented line, hewn 
	in a shape like a forest path, trails around my neck. I touch its 
raised edges [sutured skin & under-moss & found light]. 

Shannon Kearns is a Bram Stoker Award nominated poet and author of The Uterus is an Impossible Forest (Raw Dog Screaming Press, 2025). Her work has been supported by the Yale Writers Workshop and as a resident at Sundress Academy for the Arts. Shannon holds an MA in English and an MFA in Poetry. She teaches writing and literature at Sacred Heart University.

Introduction

Thomas Hickathrift is a legendary figure of East Anglian folklore, similar in many ways to Jack (of Jack and the Giant-Killer). Both Jack and Tom share some traits with Thor: each are known for their enormous and hearty appetites1, their famed fights with giants, and their weapon of choice: a hammer.

According to Edith Porter:

Tom Hickathrift is the legendary giant of the Wisbech area of Cambridgeshire, although his traditions and legends extend over the county border into Norfolk. Many of the stories told about him and about his famous deeds must originally have been spread by oral transmission, but at the end of the eighteenth century he entered the realm of the chapbook and, in the nineteenth century, of juvenile literature (p. 188).

The variant we are sharing with you today was collected, edited, and published by Joseph Jacobs in 1894, for his collection More English Fairy Tales. Jacobs notes that local tradition in the Isle of Ely linked Tom to a historical figure called ‘Hickifric’ or ‘Thomas Hickifric’: a real historical village champion, or Hampden of the Fens, who is said to have defended the commons against a landlord who attempted to enclose them. According to Jacobs, whether a single man really existed or not, the fight with the giant is almost certainly a folk memory of a real struggle over common land.

According to Michael Rosen, Jacobs’ variant of ‘Tom Hickathrift’ is explicit the socialist politics of the tale. He notes that the tale ‘symbolically enacts an element of the class system in a wish-fulfilling way—the poor little person who gets the better of the gigantic wealthy one’ (2018, p. 12).

The tale of Thomas Hickathrift is often linked to both ‘Jack the Giant Killer’ and ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’. All three are part of an English ‘giant-slayer’ tale type that feature an ordinary young Englishman who defeats a giant and wins land or treasure. What sets ‘Tom Hickathrift’ apart is that he wins by virtue of his own strength, rather than through cunning or magic, and that Hickathrift’s story is firmly tied to real Fenland geography rather than a generic fairyland (this places Tom Hickathrift’s story more in the space of a legend than a true fairy tale).

As Elizabeth Wanning Harries notes, the earliest known chapbook featuring Jack, the giant killer, was printed in 1711 (2001, p. 95), while a variant of the tale of Tom Thumb, which features many similar incidents and motifs, was printed in chapbook form—in England/English—in 1621. As the Iona and Peter Opie note, this seems to be ‘the earliest extant printing of an English fairy tale’ (1974, p. 36).

Joseph Jacobs (1854—1916) was an Australian literary critic and historian as well as a notable collector of English folklore. He collected and published the tales considered the core of the English fairy-tale tradition: ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’, ‘Goldilocks and the three bears’, ‘The three little pigs’, ‘Jack the giant killer’, and ‘The history of Tom Thumb’. He published two collections of English fairy tales (English Fairy Tales, in 1890, and More English Fairy Tales in 1894) but also later published tales from continental Europe as well as Jewish, Celtic, and Indian tales. He was an editor for a great many journals and books focusing on folklore, including Fables of Bidpai, Fables of Aesop and The Thousand and one nights. He wrote on the migration of Jewish folklore, contributed to the Jewish Encyclopedia, and was one of the editors of the journal, Folklore.

Jacobs’ source for his variant of ‘Tom Hickathrift’ was a chapbook dated to about 1660, edited and republished by Sir George Laurence Gomme (GL Gomme) in 1885. The chapbook Gomme drew from, and Gomme’s edited version, were part of the collection of the Pepys Library of Magdalen College, Cambridge2. Additionally, Jacobs offers the following introductory remarks and notes:

Mr. Nutt, who kindly abridged [the Gomme chapbook] for me, writes, ‘Nothing in the shape of incident has been omitted, and there has been no re-writing beyond a phrase here and there rendered necessary by the process of abridgment. But I have in one case altered the sequence of events, putting the fight with the giant last.’

Parallels.—There are similar adventures of giants in Hunts Cornish Drolls. Sir Francis Palgrave (Quart. Rev., vol. xxi.), and, after him, Mr Gomme, have drawn attention to certain similarities with the Grettir Saga, but they do not extend beyond general resemblances of great strength. Mr Gomme, however, adds that the cart-wheel ‘plays a not unimportant part in English folk-lore as a representative of old runic faith’ (Villon Soc. edition, p. xv.).

Remarks.—Mr. Gomme, in his interesting Introduction, points out several indications of considerable antiquity for the legend, various expressions in the Pepysian chapbook (‘in the marsh of the Isle of Ely,’ ‘good ground’), indicating that it could trace back to the sixteenth century. On the other hand, there is evidence of local tradition persisting from that time onward till the present day (Weaver, Funerall Monuments, 1631, pp. 866-75 Spelman, Icenia, 1640, p. 138; Dugdale, Imbanking, 1662 (ed. 1772, p. 244); Blomefield, Norfolk, 1808, ix. pp. 79, 80). These refer to a sepulchral monument in Tylney churchyard which had figured on a stone coffin an axle-tree and cart-wheel. The name in these versions of the legend is given as Hickifric, and he is there represented as a village Hampden who withstood the tyranny of the local lord of the manor. Mr Gomme is inclined to believe, I understand him, that there is a certain amount of evidence for Tom Hickathrift being a historic personality round whom some of the Scandinavian mythical exploits have gathered. I must refer to his admirable Introduction for the ingenious line of reasoning on which he bases these conclusions. Under any circumstances no English child’s library of folk-tales can be considered complete that does not present a version of Mr. Hickathrift’s exploits.

A side note on chapbooks

‘Tom Hickathrift’ draws attention to some of the publishing history of fairy tales and other forms of folklore, which became a staple of chapbook publishing by the end of the eighteenth century. Chapbooks were a form of street literature, cheaply and simply produced, and sold by hawkers, or peddlers, known as ‘chapmen’. A great many English children were introduced to both English and translated/retold folklore through these cheap, often salacious or gory, little booklets. The poet John Clare, for example, reflects on his childhood reading of chapbooks:

… all of my stock of learning was gleaned from the Sixpenny Romances of ‘Cinderella’, ‘Little Red Riding Hood’, ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’, ‘Zig Zag’, ‘Prince Cherry’, etc and great was the pleasure, pain, or supprise increased by allowing them authenticity, for I firmly believed every page I read and considered I possesd in these the chief learning and literature of the country … every sixpence thro the indefatigable savings of a penny and halfpenny when collected was willingly thrown away for them, as opportunity offered when hawkers offered them for sale at the door (1983, p. 5-6).

Thomas Hickathrift

Before the days of William the Conqueror3 there dwelt a man in the marsh of the Isle of Ely whose name was Thomas Hickathrift, a poor day labourer, but so stout that he could do two days’ work in one. His one son he called by his own name, Thomas Hickathrift, and he put him to good learning, but the lad was none of the wisest, and indeed seemed to be somewhat soft, so he got no good at all from his teaching.

Tom’s father died, and his mother being tender of him, kept him as well as she could. The slothful fellow would do nothing but sit in the chimney-corner, and eat as much at a time as would serve four or five ordinary men. And so much did he grow that when but ten years old he was already eight feet high, and his hand like a shoulder of mutton.

One day his mother went to a rich farmer’s house to beg a buttle of straw4 for herself and Tom. ‘Take what you will,’ said the farmer, an honest charitable man. So when she got home she told Tom to fetch the straw, but he wouldn’t and, beg as she might, he wouldn’t till she borrowed him a cart rope. So off he went, and when he came to the farmer’s, master and men were all a-trashing in the barn.

‘I’m come for the straw,’ said Tom.

‘Take as much as thou canst carry,” said the farmer.

So Tom laid down his rope and began to make his buttle.

‘Your rope is too short,’ said the farmer by way of a joke; but the joke was on Tom’s side, for when he had made up his load there was some twenty hundred-weight of straw, and though they called him a fool for thinking he could carry the tithe of it, he flung it over his shoulder as if it had been a hundred-weight, to the great admiration of master and men.

Tom’s strength being thus made known there was no longer any basking by the fire for him; every one would be hiring him to work, and telling him ‘t was a shame to live such a lazy life. So Tom seeing them wait on him as they did, went to work first with one, then with another. And one day a woodman desired his help to bring home a tree. Off went Tom and four men besides, and when they came to the tree they began to draw it into the cart with pulleys. At last Tom, seeing them unable to lift it, ‘Stand away, you fools,’nsaid he, and taking the tree, set it on one end and laid it in the cart. ‘Now,’ said he, ‘see what a man can do.’

‘Marry, ‘t is true,’ said they, and the woodman asked what reward he’d take.

‘Oh, a stick for my mother’s fire,’ said Tom; and espying a tree bigger than was in the cart, he laid it on his shoulders and went home with it as fast as the cart and six horses could draw it.

Tom now saw that he had more strength than twenty men, and began to be very merry, taking delight in company, in going to fairs and meetings, in seeing sports and pastimes. And at cudgels, wrestling, or throwing the hammer, not a man could stand against him, so that at last none durst go into the ring to wrestle with him, and his fame was spread more and more in the country.

Far and near he would go to any meetings, as football play or the like. And one day in a part of the country where he was a stranger, and none knew him, he stopped to watch the company at football play; rare sport it was; but Tom spoiled it all, for meeting the ball he took it such a kick that away it flew none could tell whither5. They were angry with Tom as you may fancy, but got nothing by that as Tom took hold of a big spar, and laid about with a will, so that though the whole country-side was up in arms against him, he cleared his way wherever he came.

It was late in the evening ere he could turn homeward, and on the road there met him four lusty rogues that had been robbing passengers all day. They thought they had a good prize in Tom, who was all alone, and made cocksure of his money.

‘Stand and deliver!’ said they.

‘What should I deliver?’ said Tom.

‘Your money, sirrah,’ said they.

‘You shall give me better words for it first,’ said Tom.

‘Come, come, no more prating; money we want, and money we’ll have before you stir.’

‘Is it so?’ said Tom, ‘nay, then come and take it.’

The long and the short of it was that Tom killed two of the rogues and grievously wounded the other two, and took all their money, which was as much as two hundred pounds. And when he came home he made his old mother laugh with the story of how he served the football players and the four thieves.

But you shall see that Tom sometimes met his match. In wandering one day in the forest he met a lusty tinker that had a good staff on his shoulder, and a great dog to carry his bag and tools.

‘Whence come you and whither are you going?’ said Tom, ‘this is no highway.’

‘What’s that to you?’ said the tinker; ‘fools must needs be meddling.’

‘I’ll make you know,’ said Tom, ‘before you and I part, what it is to me.’

‘Well,’ said the tinker, ‘I’m ready for a bout with any man, and I hear there is one Tom Hickathrift in the country of whom great things are told. I’d fain see him to have a turn with him.’

‘Ay,’ said Tom, ‘methinks he might be master with you. Anyhow, I am the man; what have you to say to me?”

‘Why, verily, I’m glad we are so happily met.’

‘Sure, you do but jest,’ said Tom.

‘Marry, I’m in earnest,’ said the tinker.

‘A match?’

‘Tis done.’

‘Let me first get a twig,’ said Tom.

‘Ay,’ said the tinker, ‘hang him that would fight a man unarmed.’

So Tom took a gate-rail for his staff, and at it they fell, the tinker at Tom, and Tom at the tinker, like two giants they laid on at each other. The tinker had a leathern coat on, and at every blow Tom gave the tinker his coat roared again, yet the tinker did not give way one inch. At last Tom gave him a blow on the side of his head which felled him.

‘Now tinker where are you?’ said Tom.

But the tinker being a nimble fellow, leapt up again, gave Tom a blow that made him reel again, and followed his blow with one on the other side that made Tom’s neck crack again. So Tom flung down his weapon and yielded the tinker the better on it, took him home to his house, where they nursed their bruises and from that day forth there was no stauncher pair of friends than they two.

Tom’s fame was thus spread abroad till at length a brewer at Lynn, wanting a good lusty man to carry his beer to Wisbeach went to hire Tom, and promised him a new suit of clothes from top to toe, and that he should eat and drink of the best, so Tom yielded to be his man and his master told him what way he should go, for you must understand there was a monstrous giant who kept part of the marsh-land, so that none durst go that way.

So Tom went every day to Wisbeach a good twenty miles by the road. ‘Twas a wearisome journey thought Tom and he soon found that the way kept by the giant was nearer by half. Now Tom had got more strength than ever, being well kept as he was and drinking so much strong ale as he did. One day, then, as he was going to Wisbeach, without saying anything to his master or any of his fellow servants, he resolved to take the nearest road or to lose his life; as they say, to win horse or lose saddle6. Thus resolved, he took the near road, flinging open the gates for his cart and horses to go through. At last the giant spied him, and came up speedily, intending to take his beer for a prize.

He met Tom like a lion as though he would have swallowed him. ‘Who gave you authority to come this way?’ roared he. ‘I’ll make you an example for all rogues under the sun. See how many heads hang on yonder tree. Yours shall hang higher than all the rest for a warning.’

But Tom made him answer, ‘A fig in your teeth you shall not find me like one of them, traitorly rogue that you are.’

The giant took these words in high disdain, and ran into his cave to fetch his great club, intending to dash out Tom’s brains at the first blow.

Tom knew not what to do for a weapon; his whip would be but little good against a monstrous beast twelve foot in length and six foot about the waist. But whilst the giant went for his club, bethinking him of a very good weapon, he made no more ado, but took his cart, turned it upside down, and took axle-tree and wheel for shield and buckler. And very good weapons they were found!

Out came the giant and began to stare at Tom. ‘You are like to do great service with those weapons,’ roared he. ‘I have here a twig that will beat you and your wheel to the ground.’ Now this twig was as thick as some mileposts are, but Tom was not daunted for all that, though the giant made at him with such force that the wheel cracked again. But Tom gave as good as he got, taking the giant such a weighty blow on the side of the head that he reeled again.

‘What,’ said Tom, ‘are you drunk with my strong beer already?’

So at it they went, Tom laying such huge blows at the giant, down whose face sweat and blood ran together, so that, being fat and foggy and tired with the long fighting, he asked Tom would he let him drink a little? ‘Nay, nay,’ said Tom, ‘my mother did not teach me such wit; who’d be a fool then?’ And seeing the giant beginning to weary and fail in his blows, Tom thought best to make hay whilst the sun shone, and, laying on as fast as though he had been mad, he brought the giant to the ground. In vain were the giant’s roars and prayers and promises to yield himself and be Tom’s servant. Tom laid at him till he was dead, and then, cutting off his head, he went into the cave, and found a great store of silver and gold, which made his heart to leap. So he loaded his cart, and after delivering his beer at Wisbeach, he came home and told his master what had befallen him. And on the morrow he and his master and more of the towns-folk of Lynn set out for the giant’s cave. Tom showed them the head, and what silver and gold there was in the cave, and not a man but leapt for joy, for the giant was a great enemy to all the country.

The news was spread all up and down the country-side how Tom Hickathrift had killed the giant. And well was he that could run to see the cave; all the folk made bonfires for joy, and if Tom was respected before, he was much more so now. With common consent he took possession of the cave and every one said, had it been twice as much, he would have deserved it. So Tom pulled down the cave, and built himself a brave house. The ground that the giant kept by force for himself, Tom gave part to the poor for their common land, and part he turned into good wheat-land to keep himself and his old mother, Jane Hickathrift. And now he was become the chiefest man in the country-side; ‘t was no longer plain Tom, but Mr. Hickathrift, and he was held in due respect I promise you. He kept men and maids and lived most bravely; made him a park to keep deer, and time passed with him happily in his great house till the end of his days.

Discussion questions

• Fairy tales and other forms of traditional storytelling are often criticised for embodying and expressing outdated ideas about class, race, gender, the environment, bodies, and more. Some readers or critics use this criticism to dismiss the relevance or importance of the tales: what do you think about this tension between preserving, celebrating or being informed about literary history, and rejecting or criticising stories/practitioners that embody outdated political or social ideas?

• The known history of fairy tales is dominated by a focus on continental European traditions, particularly the French (Perrault, d’Aulnoy, et al) and German (Grimms) traditions, with a liberal sprinkling of Italian (Straparola, Basile) tales. ‘Tom Hickathrift’ is one of a relatively rare, and rarely discussed, example of an English fairy tale. What early tales do you know of from outside the French/German/Italian traditions? From outside the European tradition?

• What, do you think, marks this tale as distinctly English? Or, to put this another way, are there elements of the tale that strike you as reflecting the time and place in which it was first collected and printed (the late eighteenth century in England), or collected and rewritten by Joseph Jacobs (1894 in Britain)?

• Traditional and historical fairy tales are often criticised for embodying outdated ideas about class. Nevertheless, Michael Rosen describes this tale as socialist, focusing on the way the tale deals with class and wealth, particularly because of the ending, which—Rosen claims—make the socialist outcomes of the hero’s explicit, illustrating how ‘an egalitarian, communitarian thread was kept alive in fairy tale collections by anthologists, collectors', and retellers of traditional tales’ (2018, p. 15). Can you think of other traditional or historical tales that push back against the classist values sometimes strongly associated with traditional tales?

Writing prompts

• Write a new fairy tale that embodies socialist or communist ideals.

• Rewrite an old fairy tale that has what you consider old-fashioned or outdated ideas about wealth and class, with a focus on critiquing the old tale and/or refreshing the values it expresses.

• Create a chapbook version of a fairy tale. You could work with a traditional tale that you love, or create a completely new tale. You could experiment with creating your quick and quirky illustrations, or sourcing illustrations from creative commons/copyright-free archives, such as Wikimedia Commons or the PDIA (Public Domain Image Archive).

  • Stuck for ideas? You might like to fossick about in the PDIA, select three or four images, and use them to inspire/build a story. In other words: start with the images, instead of the story, and work backwards to create a unique new tale!

  • There are lots of sites online with intructions for creating simple chapbooks. Here’s one that we recommend: https://chapbook.info/category/binding/

References

Ashton, John 1882, Chapbooks of the eighteenth century with facsimiles, notes, and introduction by John Ashton, Chatto & Windus, London.

Clare, John 1983, John Clare’s autobiographical writings, ed. Eric Robinson, Oxford UP, Oxford.

Gomme, GL and HB Wheatley, eds 2018, Chap-Books and Folk-Lore Tracts, Vol. 1 (of 5), digitised chapbook, 12 December, Project Gutenberg, New Jersey, viewed 1 June 2026, <https://www.gutenberg.org/files/58463/58463-h/58463-h.htm>.

Opie, Iona and Peter 1980, The classic fairy tales, Oxford UP, New York.

Porter, Edith 1969, Cambridgeshire customs and folklore, Routledge & K Paul, London.

Rosen, Michael, ed. 2018, Workers’ tales: socialist fairy tales, fables, and allegories from Great Britain, Princeton UP, Princeton and Oxford.

Harries, Elizabeth Wanning 2001, Twice upon a time: Women writers and the history of the fairy tale, Princeton UP, Oxfordshire.

The story was written in Spanish by Daniel Badosa Moriyama, and translated into English by Monica Louzon.

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Dear Signore Lorenzini,

My name is Sergio Giannettino, and I write to you from the town hall of a most excellent village called Collodi. As the mayor, it is my honor and great sorrow to share with you our village’s most sincere condolences for the death of your grandfather, our great Master Pruner. May he rest in peace.

His fall has shaken the inhabitants of our town like an earthquake that lifts and tears the earth apart. No one dares clean up the stain—which is as red as an unmasked liar’s blush—that he left on the ground. Out of respect, yes, but also out of fear that one of us will inherit your nonno’s fate (may he rest in peace). We still don’t understand what happened, not even after reflecting for days in our houses and restaurants and at our magnificent stone plaza.

The Master Pruner was, as usual, working on Signora Machiette’s branches when we heard the dark sound of his fall. Could the winds from Collodi’s mountains have pushed him toward his fatal destiny? Impossible. He breathed in every gust, absorbing it as easily as he ate his breakfast and smoked his first cigarette of the day. Could it have been Signora Machiette’s fragile trunk, which he was scaling when disaster struck? This, too, is impossible, as the Master Pruner never climbed any tree unless he was certain it could hold his weight.

You, like your father and your deceased nonno (and I repeat: may he rest in peace), are an expert in everything that has to do with wood, from cutting it to stopping it to understanding it.

Signore Lorenzini, I do not exaggerate when I say that our village is in grave danger, which is why I write this letter. Please, come with haste to work on our humble town. Your nonno (once more: may he rest in peace) was the only pruner for kilometers around, and he was the last one who dared tend to our savage and ruthless boughs.

Believe me when I say contacting you was our last option, but rumors from beyond our walls and forests reveal you have also dedicated yourself to the noble office of shears and nippers in the city of Florence. You already know that, in our village, everyone talks about everything without stopping for even a single breath. The tongues of Collodi are as swift as its winds. More stories are born here in a summer afternoon than across all of Italy in ten years. We exaggerate some of them, of course, seasoning them with salt and spice to make them more interesting. A white lie here, another there. In the end, you have a story that’s almost nothing like what actually happened, but delicious nonetheless. What could be so wrong about this?

Compulsive lying is etched on our bones. It is the mortar of Collodi, a town founded by a carpenter—who once met a blue angel—and a wooden boy who acquired flesh, bone, and soul. With the foundations and beams of our houses rooted in that timeless story, how could we ever escape our proclivity for lying? It’s inside us like a nectarine pit that you can’t extract without consuming its juicy flesh—or letting it rot. We accepted long ago, Signore Lorenzini, that the people of Collodi are excellent liars, and we can do nothing about it.

As connoisseurs of your family’s history, we know our lies are why your father—a pruner himself—left our village with a bag in one hand and clutching, with the other, a girl with jet-black hair and a round belly in which you slumbered. Your father was tired of wrangling our lies every day. We don’t blame him. Neither do we praise him, however, as his flight marked the beginning of our current disgrace. We hope you understand there is nothing personal about this, Signore Lorenzini.

Your nonno (as always: may he rest in peace) nevertheless chose to endure our lies until the curtains closed on his tragedy. Our Master Pruner was a great man. He clung to his shears, to his black, flexible wires, to his sharpened axes, —and to his ironclad will, which refused to leave us to our fate. Without him, our village would have been lost long ago. We owe much to your nonno (all together now: may he rest in peace). We hope that we can repay it all to you, if you decide to come to our village and help us, because our lies are consuming us. We are drowning in branches. There are few bricks remaining in Collodi that can still feel the sunlight due to the leaves that hide us.

Ever since your nonno the Master Pruner left this world (and remember, without fail: may he rest in peace), we have been completely unable to stop lying because an unexplained death produces only one thing: more stories. And in the village of Collodi, we love a good story.

I’ve already confessed that it’s impossible for us to cease lying, as we spin untruths more easily than breathing. That’s why, when your nonno died (you already know: may he rest in peace), the rumors grew even greater, like the boughs that enjoy the first warm spring breezes. Our lack of self-control has become absolute. We go from worrying to overthinking, from overthinking to spinning the most complex web of lies, stories, and gossip—always resulting in the same end for us.

Don Bernadinni the fruit seller claimed that the Master Pruner’s death was intentional, that two days before your nonno split his head open, he’d been seen arguing with some acrobats who’d recently come to town with their bells, rubber balls, and foolishness. That tale made Don Beradinni’s ears grow tips as pointy as cypresses, stretching across his fruit shop and leaving him trapped between the branches of flesh and wood sprouting fromof his own overthinking. As you, too, will soon understand, we knew Don Bernadinni hadn’t told the whole truth, but we had to leave him stuck between the branches of his lies because no one had taught us how to free him. In any case, how could we learn to cut off our own noses, our ears, arms, and legs? That would be barbaric! (Not at all like your nonno, of course: may he rest in peace.)

One could assume that the fruit seller’s disaster would have put an end to our outrageous lies, that the Master Pruner’s death would have taught us a lesson in self-control and robust sincerity. Alas, one cannot teach a donkey how to bray, nor a rooster how to crow—nor a villager from Collodi how to tell the truth. Like a spring plague, unchecked rumors continue to grow—and so do we.

This isn’t just about your nonno (chorus: may he rest in peace), but also about everything in us that remained dormant until now. It is unfortunately worse than you can imagine: without a pruner to cut back our lies, we are being swallowed by wooden monsters of our own making.

Poor Dona Matarelli, the spinner: her lips grew like the boughs of peach trees after she told us that she’d been the heroine of a great war in which she saved hundreds of exiled children. And our butcher, Don Ademollo? His eyelids burgeoned like olive tree boughs after he shared how a countess had fallen in love with him, but he’d rejected her out of love for the woman he ultimately married. Our baker Dona Sanchioli’s pinkie fingers grew like twisted vines after she said she’d discovered hundreds of gold coins in a sealed casket from the Roman Empire. The noses of Don Aguinaldo’s twin sons grew like oak trees after they claimed they’d seen wolves beyond the village, stalking our cattle like white shadows of death. Most recently, Dona Tricca: her knees gnarled and contorted like the terrible legs of saguaro cacti when she declared she was happy to still be alive on this Earth.

The stones of Collodi—our village’s pride and foundation—have all been cracked by our growing extremities, appendices, and organs. The roofs of our homes and businesses prostrate themselves before the elements. The bodies of villagers with uncontrollable growths have already begun melting into the forest that surrounds our town.

If we continue at this rate, soon there will be nothing left of Collodi but wood and lies.

Signore Lorenzini, I know what you must be thinking as you read this letter, and you’re not wrong. What’s happening to us is our own fault. Telling each other ’Stop lying!’ only makes us want to justify ourselves even more, to keep saying things we shouldn’t. These mouths of ours, which that can’t control themselves, belong to villagers who all share the wooden genes of that boy created and carved by his own father’s hands. Guilt has this power over us because our founding father bestowed it upon his son—and because we don’t know how to use it wisely.

We could have learned how to prune ourselves while we still had the Master Pruner’s time and attention, but we didn’t. This was partially because your nonno (always, always: may he rest in peace) was too kind. Please, don’t interpret my words as blaming him for our situation. Let me explain, Signore Lorenzini, though this may be the last thing you read from my fingers, wood and words.

The Master Pruner helped us keep our lies in check for many decades, which meant our falsehoods neither invaded nor destroyed our homes. If your nonno (may he rest in eternal peace) had developed a cure, we would have accepted it immediately. He listened to our untruths in silence as he nodded, studying how our bodies and wood grew, nodding and pruning us little by little. Lie by lie, secret by secret. Never accumulating too much work or neglecting a falsity. If he noticed a falsehood sprouting unruly growth, he would promptly curtail it with his wires and scissors. He knew we would go on lying, just as he knew the trees in the forest around Collodi would continue growing even though he pruned them during each season of decay.

He never told us to stop lying. Never.

There are few people like your grandfather (may he rest in the most elevated peace) who remain in this world, but it is our most futile hope that you might be one of them.

Grandson of the Master Pruner, in the name of the village of Collodi, I of beg you: come, and save us from our demise.

Take up your nonno’s pruning shears (may he rest in eternal and well-earned peace). Help us cut our lies. Help us shape and control them as he did, so that we might no longer be their slaves. So that we might live normal lives, lives of meat, business, and entertainment. So that this growing forest does not become our prison. So that we will not only be defined by our founding father and his guilty nose.

We know we are gossips and liars, but we are also more than the sum of our lies. We hope to prove this if you come here, meet us in the flesh, and elect to render us your aid. I pray to the heavens that this letter will awaken in you the same compassion that your esteemed nonno (peace, peace, peace, rest, rest, rest) had for us.

I must stop now. My fingers grow like an apple tree. Soon, I will no longer be able to write.

We will await you here in the town of Collodi. Please, hurry.

Attentively yours,

Mayor of the Most Excellent Village of Collodi
Sergio Giannettino

Daniel Badosa Moriyama is a spanish author, creative writing teacher, graduate in psychology and book editor. He has published short stories in literary magazines such as Weird Review, Grafógrafxs, Pulporama, Mordedor, El Transbordador, El Yunque de Hefesto, and Sofón. He also has published Así fue la muerte del cazador (Ediciones El Transbordador, 2024), a fantasy novel inspired by the Paleolithic era and Ursula K. Le Guin’s iconic essay, ‘The Carrier Bag Theory of Fiction’.

He has won first prize in the 7th Allende Sierra Narrative Competition for his short story, /Un diamante para Papá’, in the 2nd Altavoz Cultural Stories of Japan Competition with ‘Arroz can castañas’, and the Yunque de Hefesto Prize in the fantasy category with ‘Madre de espino, madre de trapo’.

He currently lives in the countryside of Madrid with his wife and two children, where he tries to write as much as he can. You can find more information about him at: www.danielbadosa.com.

Monica Louzon (she/her) is a queer USian writer, translator, and editor. In addition to The Orange and Bee, her translations have appeared in Apex Magazine, Salvage Magazine, Translunar Travelers Lounge, and many other magazines and anthologies. Her story ‘9 Dystopias’ was a Best Microfiction 2023 winner. Monica tends to fill her free time with making zines, climbing on things, learning languages, crocheting ridiculously large blankets, and tending to her books and houseplants. To learn more about Monica and her work, please visit https://linktr.ee/molowrites.

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In one hour, at 10 am AEST (Sydney, NSW, Australia)*/ 8-9 pm EDT (Eastern Time, United States) we’ll be gathering online for our May Orange Salon, with guest salonniere Fran Wilde.

The salon is available to all paid subscribers, who can either attend live, or view the recording at a later time. Additionally, if you have a single-use unlock, you can use it to access the zoom link in this post, and attend the session.

*Use this link to check what time that is in your patch of the world.

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The salon is available to all paid subscribers, who can either attend live, or view the recording at a later time. You can also access the salon using a single-use unlock, if you have one.

When?

• 10 am Saturday, 23 May (Sydney/AEST).

  • 8 pm Friday, 22 May in New York, USA

  • 5 pm Friday, 22 May in Los Angeles, USA

You can use this online meeting planner to work out what time that is wherever you are!

Where?

• Online via zoom: the link will go out to all subscribers two hours prior to the session.

Who?

Our salon guest for May 2026 is the magical writer and artist, Fran Wilde.

Two-time Nebula Award-winner Fran Wilde has (so far) published nine novels, a poetry collection, and over 70 short stories for adults, teens, and kids. Her stories have been finalists for six Nebula Awards, a World Fantasy Award, four Hugo Awards, four Locus Awards, and a Lodestar. They include her Nebula- and Compton Crook-winning debut novel Updraft, and her Nebula-winning, Best of NPR 2019, debut Middle Grade novel Riverland. Her short stories appear in Asimov’s Science Fiction, Tor.com, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Shimmer, Nature, Uncanny Magazine, and multiple years’ best anthologies.

The Managing Editor for The Sunday Morning Transport, Fran teaches or has taught for schools including Vermont College of Fine Arts’ MFA and St. Mary’s College of Maryland. She writes nonfiction for publications including The Washington Post, The New York Times, NPR, and Tor.com. You can find her on Instagram, Bluesky, and at franwilde.net.

What would you give up to gain precious time for your art? It might be more than you bargained for.

We are grateful to our paying subscribers, who provide us with the means to keep publishing great stories, poems, and more. If you haven’t already, please consider signing up, or giving a gift subscription.

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Her hair was made of seaweed and her teeth were made of coral. Dead, bleached-white coral. When she smiled, you could smell the salt of the sea mixed with the stench of a beached whale that has rotted in the sun for four days straight. Her nails were chipped and ribbed, like cockle shells. The Coral Witch hadn’t changed a bit since I last saw her.

‘I wasn’t expecting any visitors today, least of all you,’ she said, and hobbled over to her old-wood burning stove, rust bulging from beneath the black paint. She lifted a steaming kettle and poured out two cups of tea. Despite her claim, the kettle had been boiling the moment I’d entered.

‘I’m not here to drink tea,’ I said, ignoring the cup she placed in front of me. It smelled like lavender and citrus, but I knew better than to take anything from her.

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We are grateful to our paying subscribers, who provide us with the means to keep publishing great stories, poems, and more. If you haven’t already, please consider signing up, or giving a gift subscription.

Megan Cartwright is an Australian poet and literature teacher. Her work has featured in journals and magazines including Barrelhouse, Contemporary Verse 2, Cordite Poetry Review, and Island Magazine.

We are grateful to our paying subscribers, who provide us with the means to keep publishing original stories, poems, and more. If you haven’t already, please consider signing up, or giving a gift subscription.

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In the crush of the throng, I imagine myself an apple in the cider press, wrung free of any goodness to give the men a throatful of pleasure. Sweat pools in my elbow crease as I cling to my sister Megan’s forearm, but she yanks it free. ‘We spoke of this,’ she snaps. ‘It’s best we say our goodbyes now.’

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What does she seek? To dance? To die? To live? To kiss the beautiful spirit of a girl that stands before her?

We are grateful to our paying subscribers, who provide us with the means to keep publishing great stories, poems, and more. If you haven’t already, please consider signing up, or giving a gift subscription.

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Those who know nothing of the desert will call it a desolate, lifeless place. They will say a desert is a place where things go to die. To Meztli Ayacosta, who was born under the full moon of which she was named, the desert is simply wide enough to let Death pass through unhindered. Her people, who live in the space cradled by black-rock mountains, have learned how to live under the white-hot eye of the sun and the cold smile of the crescent moon alike. Here, Death is not simply an eventuality but an event all its own, that the living are warned to avoid.

‘Ven, mija,’ Meztli’s grandmother had said, ushering her forward with craggy, arthritic fingers. Her dark eyes are still sharp, though, as sharp as her nail that jabs into her grandchild’s chest. ‘You are a moon child. You are born with Death on your brow. You must never seek out the Parade of the Dead, or you will be swept away, and you will never see your family again. Do you understand?’

Meztli, young and eager to please, tamped down on her curiosity and simply replied, ‘yes, Abuela.’

Her abuela nodded, kissing Meztli’s forehead, right on her pale birthmark where the moon had claimed her. The rest of the memory faded into the smell of herbal remedies and bitter healing poultices. Of her abuela guiding Meztli’s young, inexperienced hands with a molcajete, crushing pepper seeds and dried flowers.

Meztli Ayacosta is no longer a child, but a young woman of fifteen years. Moreover, she is beautiful and strong, with long blue-black hair that ripples like the breaking of volcanic rock, shiny as obsidian. Her small, narrow eyes are pitch dark and always curious, delicately framed by short black eyelashes. She is impeccably raised, polite and cheerful and responsible. She has been the apprentice curandera under her grandmother for years. She can identify ailments at the slightest glance, and her quick fingers are adept at finding precious herbs and flowers.

Indeed, as she walks through the deer trails at the foot of the mountain, her steps are sure and quiet, shifting the leather satchel from one shoulder to the other as the desert sun wanes orange in the late afternoon. The dark mountains reflect some of the sunlight and it seems that even the air itself turns pink as the sun begins its hot, slow trek to sleep. Meztli knows that a summer sunset takes hours, and so she continues her work, gathering sage and rosemary and late-blooming lavender. She gently scrapes the bark from a desert willow, a coagulant. A handful of marshmallow root, an expectorant.

Humming a tune, Meztli tilts the wide-brimmed straw hat from her head, letting her sweaty head feel the cooling breeze. Her birthmark, a splotch of whitened skin across her forehead like a streak of clay, the only thing marring her tanned face. She scanned the pink and orange sky, watching the light purple clouds billow on the other side of the mountain. A summer storm, maybe. Her eyes ticked up further.

The full moon hovered above the valley as well, a slight baby-pink hue from the sunset. Meztli took a breath, then let it out slowly. She is expected to be home before the full setting of the sun, especially during the full moon. But, like she does every month, she stands at the mouth of the mountain trail, marked by two short towers made of stacked rocks, and yearns.

The mountain trail curves into the treeline almost immediately, disappearing into the dark line of Douglas firs and Ponderosa pines. Everyone knows that the Parade of the Dead marches through that trail, skirting the little village on its nighttime trek through the desert. On a clear night, you can hear the drums as if the land itself had a heartbeat. Meztli wants, more than anything, to see.

Like a dutiful granddaughter, she gathers her materials, pulls on her hat, and walks towards the village.

Her abuela is tending to someone when Meztli comes home; as a curandera, Abuela accepts patients day or night, listening and analyzing all who come into her care with a keen eye and a quick hand. Meztli quickly puts her basket on the wooden kitchen table, hand-carved by her deceased grandfather. She heard once that this table was built for a wedding present. The intricate carvings of stars and rabbits along the edge and down the legs have been smoothed much over time, but Meztli still curves her fingers along the grooves, feeling the love built into the chipped oak.

As she sorts her herbs into different pots and jars, Meztli hears Abuela walk slowly from her office in the living room, talking with her patient. She recognizes the voice immediately: Señor Alvarez, with his arthritic knees and deep smoker’s cough. He totters into the kitchen, holding the curtain of beads open for Abuela. He is a jolly, portly figure, but his sharp stare and rough hands betray a long, difficult life.

Everyone in her village has these sharp eyes, Meztli muses to herself. Even when Señor Alvarez smiles, he can’t persuade his eyes to soften.

‘Buenas noches, chava,’ Señor Alvarez says, and when Meztli was younger, he would ruffle her hair until it playfully fell in her face. Now, he just looks at her gravely. ‘Your abuela came through for me again.’ He holds up a sachet that Meztli knows contains tea that will reduce the inflammation in his knees, and another of hard candy made of sap and mint and ginger and hardened sugar for his cough.

Meztli smiles. ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she says, her hands still moving, sorting. Absently, she takes off her straw hat, and Señor Alvarez’s face falls.

‘Ay guey’,,Señor Alvarez mutters. ‘Chava, your mark, it’s gotten bigger since last I saw you, no?’

‘It’s just the light,’ Meztli says hastily. ‘It’s about the same.’ She absently runs her fingers through her hat-flattened hair, pulling her long fringe in front of her forehead.

Señor Alvarez looks doubtful, but when Abuela, who had been watching the exchange with crossed arms and a keen eye, meets his gaze, he immediately acquiesces. Nodding mutely, he puts back on his pale, battered hat and bids his farewell. He used to laugh with her and sneak her little peppermints. Now, he simply nods to Abuela, deference but not friendliness, and leaves.

The little adobe house settles around them silently. Adobe is strong and sturdy. Adobe never creaks or groans, no matter the wind or weather. Silently, Abuela reaches over, smooths back Meztli’s black hair so that her face—all of her face—is visible, and kisses her granddaughter on the forehead.

‘Tomorrow is the full moon’s height’, she says, her voice like the sound of wind between fall leaves. ‘No leaving the village. In fact, no leaving the house. I have a bad feeling.’

They both know not to question Abuela’s bad feelings, so Meztli nods. A pit of simultaneous disappointment and frustration courses through Meztli, but she says nothing more that night.

The next night, the full moon hangs high in the sky like the eye of God, its light against the clouds a corona of gold. The air tastes like mesquite smoke and dry earth before a rain. Meztli cannot sleep. Señor Alvarez’s hard eyes, Abuela’s soft but firm edicts. The growing, pale birthmark on her forehead that grows larger every year. The silvery-gold light of the moon tugs on her chest as though it has a direct tether to Meztli’s heart. Perhaps that is the answer, she muses, carefully stepping out of bed. Maybe if she goes, just once, she will no longer feel the pull of the moon, and the Parade of the Dead.

Meztli has never snuck out before, and suddenly the little house she shares with her grandmother feels much too small, much too still. Her careful footsteps feel like the boots of a thousand soldiers. The act of slipping on her worn shoes seems to take a thousand years. Yet, when she is past the little garden that marks the borders of their home, the moon is waiting for her, and she feels giddy with the daring of it all.

She runs.

She runs through the familiar dirt paths, up the little hill and into the little valley where she forages. She sprints through the heavy blue shadows to the green smudge she knows to be the treeline.

The two towers of stacked rocks are there, looming grey-white and larger than life in this forbidden venture. This is, Meztli knows, the point of no return. Whatever happens to her, she will have to live with it from here on out.

She steps through the gate.

The trail, white against the darkness of the foliage, curves into the mountain, and up into the stars. And Meztli walks. For a while, she hears nothing but the beat of her own heart. Then, on the wind, she hears it: music.

If Meztli had a thousand years and a thousand books, she’d never be able to describe the music they play, as they march through the trees. Beautiful, like the most heartwarming ballad; sorrowful, like the most painful sierreño triste. A rousing marching beat. Calling the soldiers home.

She creeps closer, dipping off the path and ducking behind a large mesquite tree. Nestled amongst its low-hanging branches, sagebrush tickling her ankles, she watches the Parade of the Dead for the first time.

It’s as if the marchers are formed by the music itself, like golden alchemy between the air and the earth and the soul, shaping life from shadow. Some are dressed in clothes she recognizes— Oaxacan tehuana and rebozos and serapes and long, full skirts—but others are dressed strangely, wearing plain, rough-woven tunics, or very little at all but sparkling jewelry of shells and rocks and bone. There are some soldiers— adelitas with their rifles slung across their backs, soldiers from the Revolution, soldiers from revolutions yet to come. Time bends in a way that makes her feel dizzy and unmoored. In this golden-blue midnight, the dead are here from every era, and they are all dancing.

Meztli’s heart feels like the ribbon tied around it tightens, and when she looks at her blouse, she gasps out loud. There is, indeed, a golden light flickering in her chest, lighting up her ribcage from the inside.

‘How can this be?’ she gasps to herself, but too loud, because one of the revelers turns sharply, and Meztli finds herself face-to-face with the most beautiful girl she’s ever seen.

As Meztli stands, frozen like a deer, the other girl skips and dances her way to the edge of the procession, inspecting Meztli with small, dark eyes that are alight with moonlight and curiosity. These eyes tick up and down Meztli’s form, catching visibly on her white birthmark on her forehead. She smiles. Nobody has ever smiled at Meztli like this before.

Mutely, this beautiful girl, dressed in a huipil and a full skirt with intricate embroidery, black and gold and white like all her counterparts, reaches out a brown, slender hand to Meztli.

‘You look lost,’ she says, a giggle in her voice. ‘Come dance with me, moon girl.’

Meztli laughs, suddenly, explosively. She shouldn’t. She should run straight home. Back to the hard-eyed looks and the suspicious stares and hiding her death mark. Abuela would know, surely. Surely, if she dances, she won’t come back.

She reaches out anyway.

Meztli expects to be whisked away instantly, to be turned incorporeal on the spot, just air in the wind. But that does not happen. The girl’s hand is surprisingly firm and warm in her own, the warm summer air does not dissolve her into darkness. Instead, the light in her chest glows and Meztli dances. Bright brass notes, thudding drums, lilting flutes and many, many voices carry up to the heavens, where even the stars themselves tremble like they are dancing. Meztli wheels through the forest, laughing and reveling in the friendly smiles, the joyful exclamations as more of the marchers see her. They clap and cheer and make room for her, as if to say: you’re here, you’re here, we’ve missed you, we love you. Now that Meztli is close enough, she can see that all the celebrants have calavera makeup on, more detailed and flowering than her own birthmark. But it’s something, it’s close enough that Meztli feels like she belongs.

‘You are a wonderful dancer, moon girl,’ the girl says to Meztli.

‘My name is Meztli,’ she blurts out, and there’s a joy in that as well. ‘I was born dead, and when my abuela saved me, this white birthmark showed up on my forehead.’ She gestures to her forehead needlessly. ‘They say I’m halfway into the grave.’ She feels almost dizzy. She has never spoken this aloud to anyone in her life.

The girl smiles, a dazzling grin of white teeth and pink lips. ‘My name is Citalee,’ she says. ‘I have never seen you before. But you are not dead.’ She tilts her head curiously at Meztli who, for the first time tonight, feels fear.

‘I…I should not be here,’ she says in a rush. ‘I am still alive, my…my abuela will be worried. I have to go home.’

Citalee looks disappointed but, contrary to Meztli’s expectations, simply releases her gentle grip on Meztli’s shoulders. ‘Will you come back?’ she asks mournfully. ‘Will I ever see you again?’

Meztli knows she should say no, should take the escape she’s been offered and not look back. But she looks at Citalee’s eyes, shining black and beautiful like the hour of midnight, and says:

‘Yes.’

When Meztli sneaks back into the house, dawn is beginning to break pink and purple over the horizon. She is exhausted, but exhilarated. Her joy, though, is short-lived, for the moment that she closes the door, she turns to see Abuela standing livid and terrified in the living room. The two women stare at each other for a long moment until, to Meztli’s surprise and horror, Abuela begins to cry.

‘Madre dios,’ she says, reaching rough fingers to brush Meztli’s hair out of her face. ‘What have you done? What have you done? The dead have touched you! What have you done?’ And then her proud grandmother collapses into a chair, still weeping.

Meztli opens her mouth to explain, but as she steps forward, she sees herself in one of the mirrors hanging on the wall, opposite the door. She is windswept and flushed in the reflection, her long hair mussed and disheveled. But most of all, her white birthmark has grown so much that her whole forehead is pale, down to her temples and around her eye sockets. She looks like a ghost. She looks like a marcher.

Numbly, Meztli ignores her grandmother’s cries and goes to her room to dress for the day. Even as she pulls on her straw hat over her eyes, she can’t bring herself to regret what she’s done.

Meztli and Abuela do not talk about it. The townspeople still come to their little house for Abuela’s services, but Abuela is careful to send Meztli to her room, or out to the garden, whenever someone comes to call. Then, the day of the full moon’s zenith, Meztli discovers a lock on her bedroom door.

‘Is this your plan, then?’ she says, voice quaking with anger and fear. ‘To lock me away? How long until you decide that I should just stay there all the time? Will you push food under my door like a prisoner? Or even better’—Meztli paces back and forth, rage surpassing her instincts to please her grandmother—‘you can set me up in the pigpen! Charge people admission to see the dead girl!’

Abuela puts down her coffee with a sharp chink of china on china and purses her lips at Meztli. ‘There is no dead girl in my house, yet,’ she says back, raising a deadly eyebrow. ‘But she can push her luck. Yes, I hide you from the neighbors for now. You want to go out and show them what you look like? Do you think you can survive that?’ She tsks her tongue and picks up her coffee cup again. ‘You shrivel up like a helpless little mouse whenever anyone stares at you, and you think you can get by without my protection.’ She mutters something in an older language, one that Meztli does not speak. It feels like an intentional exclusion.

‘Maybe I’ll go out right now,’ Meztli shoots back. ‘Maybe I’ll go to the church and step out right in the middle of Sermon. Since I’m so shameful to you.’

Abuela looks at her, a level and unimpressed glare over the curved china. ‘Go ahead, then,’ she says. ‘You won’t be making a fool of anyone but you. Since you think you know everything, you can do whatever you wish, but not under my roof.’

‘So if I go back out tonight,’ Meztli says, her voice cracking with disbelief, ‘you won’t let me back in?’

Abuela scowls more intensely now. ‘I am trying to protect you,’ she snaps, ‘from a cruel world that will not accept you. Your birth killed your mother, killed you, and the prayers I made so that you would survive your birth…’ She shook her head. ‘Maybe I should not have. Maybe I should have left it to God. Because now look at you,’ she gestures to Meztli. ‘Disobedient and disrespectful, thinks she knows everything because she was chosen by the moon.’

‘Chosen to do what?” Meztli snaps, frustrated and hurt. ‘To kill more people? I’m sorry that I killed Mama. I’m—I’m sorry I didn’t stay dead! If I’m such a curse, then why did you save me?’

‘Because you are my family,’ Abuela says simply, though the waver in her strong voice betrays her emotions. ‘You are my blood, my kin, my granddaughter.’

Through the window, golden hour is flooding their house with the sun’s warming rays. Past the woven curtains, Meztli can see the sky turning pink and orange, swirling dust motes making the air glitter. It is almost sunset.

Meztli takes a breath, and then says, ‘I think your life would be easier without me.’ And before Abuela can respond, Meztli darts out the door, bursting out into the clear, desert afternoon.

Meztli runs, her tears blinding her but her feet remember the trails, the pathways from her house to the outskirts of the village. She bumps into people, blind with grief and rage, and she does not stop. They’ve seen her now. They must know that she is cursed. The secret is out, she thinks bitterly. Now she’ll never belong.

When she reaches the path, she walks amongst the trees for a long while, humming a lullaby from the deep recesses of her memory. Tears are still streaking down her face, and she doesn’t bother to wipe them off. Instead, she finds the same mesquite tree, its gnarled canopy umbrella-like, scraping the dark earth. She crawls underneath the branches and cries, pressing her face into the rough, gnarled bark. The mesquite tree absorbs her tears like a mother’s shoulder, and the desert wind rocks her to sleep.

When she awakes, the sky is darker, the purple clouds turning dusky and deep as the sun disappears. She wipes her face and leans against the tree, crouched in the sagebrush, and waits.

She hears, lilting over the breeze, a trilling military tune, and a deep, gentle drumbeat, thudding like a heart. She stumbles onto the trail, looking around for revelers and musicians. Ahead of her, in the darkening twilight, a singular man steps out of the forest, as though carried by the beating drums. He is tall, a little older than Señor Alvarez, but just as weathered. He wears a uniform of black and white and gold that Meztli does not recognize, and just as she prepares to run away, she sees Citalee at his elbow. The family resemblance is striking.

‘See, Papa?’ Citalee says, tugging at his elbow. ‘She’s here. I told you she would come back.’

Citalee’s father looks down at Meztli, and although his dark gaze is evaluating and keen, it is warm. He sees her face, and he does not shy away or glare.

‘I am known as The General,’ he says, and his voice sounds like the rumbling of the earth itself. ‘I am the leader of the Parade of the Dead. What do you seek?’

Meztli freezes. What does she seek? To dance? To die? To live? To kiss the beautiful spirit of a girl that stands before her? The thought makes her blush, and The General raises an eyebrow when he catches the shy exchange of glances between Meztli and his daughter.

‘I am an emissary of Death Herself,’ he says. ‘Able to grant worthy people with one wish, a boon, if they are able to say their deepest desire truthfully.’

‘Just that?’ Meztli asks despite herself. ‘No great tasks? No riddles? If I tell you what I want, you’ll give it to me?’

The General smiles under his prodigious mustache. ‘To know your deepest desire truthfully is to know yourself without judgment,’ he says, putting a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. ‘I would not give over my daughter to anyone who does not know themself. Do you, Meztli Ayacosta, know yourself?’

Meztli doesn’t know what to say. She has never thought of what she wanted, she simply knew what would be— she would learn under Abuela; she would become the town’s healer; she would carry on her craft until her death, her true death. She has always known this, and is happy to know it. Her heart is full of love for her garden and foraging paths and her abuela. But is that what she wants?

‘Do you know why my chest filled with light when I danced with you during the last full moon?’ she asks, pressing her hands against her sternum.

The General rumbles in his chest before he says, ‘You, born dead, with a hand on the cycle of the world. You were not meant to survive, but Jacinta, your abuela, made a deal with the moon: save her granddaughter and in exchange, when she is fifteen, the moon will take her back. However, your grandmother sought to keep you, despite knowing you cannot rescind on such deals.’

‘What if…I don’t want the moon to take me?’ Meztli asks.

The General looks at her gravely. ‘If that is your wish, I have the power to remove your birthmark, and take the light from your heart. You will never be called by the moon again, but you will always feel as though something is missing. That is your choice.’

Meztli’s throat is dry, and her heart pounds in her chest. Freedom. The General offers her complete freedom from the moon, from her relationship with Death, from her birthmark. No longer will people look at her with distrust or unease. With harsh eyes.

The General looks up at the sky. ‘The moon is high,’ he says. ‘You must make your choice tonight: what is your greatest wish?’

Meztli takes a deep breath. She thinks about her life, she thinks about the dance, the music, the joy of acceptance. She thinks about Abuela, kissing her on her forehead and brushing her hair out of her face.

‘I want…’ Meztli takes a shaky breath. ‘I want to be me, I want my abuela to love me, I want to dance under the moon.’ She looks at Citalee then, who beams back at her.

The General smiles again, approval lining his brow. ‘It is done.’

It’s so sudden, Meztli doesn’t realize what he said, at first. And then her chest, her full ribcage begins to glow, and joy ignites in her. Over the wind, she can hear the band striking up, the many voices lifting in song. Her huipil and skirts, originally a linen off-white, turn gold and black and white.

Suddenly the forest erupts. People with calavera faces float into view, swinging her around and shaking her hand and cupping her face. Old grandmothers pinch her cheeks, and uncles with broad handlebar mustaches ruffle her hair. Somewhere behind her, someone plays a rousing corrido. Citalee slides a warm hand into hers. Meztli knows without knowing that her birthmark is now fully in the shape of a calavera. The moon hovers above them, almost as bright as the sun, and Meztli feels love.

Jacinta Ayacosta lives ten more years after the disappearance of her granddaughter. Slowly, the townspeople stop going to her house, relying more on other kinds of medicine. They are polite to her, but never friendly. To them, she is the last matriarch of a cursed house.

One night, as the full moon is high, Jacinta tucks herself into bed and closes her eyes. As she does, she hears her bedroom door open, and the sound of familiar feet.

‘You have been gone a while,’ she says, opening her eyes. Her granddaughter stands before her, smiling brighter than she ever did in life. Her dark eyes shine with bottled moonlight and unabridged joy.

Meztli, named for the moon her grandmother pledged her to, laughs softly. ‘I know,’ she says, her voice strong and happy. ‘I had to wait until it was time. You see, I made a deal for you, too,’

Joy and love fill Jacinta’s heart. ‘Now you understand,’ she says, taking her granddaughter’s hand.

Meztli laughs again. ‘Now, I do,’ she says, and embraces her grandmother.

The moon is high in the sky as the Parade of the Dead wheels and spins through the desert. When two women, arm and arm, appear in the mist, they are welcomed with open arms, and never seen again.

KM Chavez is a genderqueer author and academic living in Albuquerque, New Mexico. They have been writing since their childhood, and avidly consumes everything science-fiction, fantasy, and horror. They have a Master's in English Education and have returned from the Great White North of Colorado to campaign for and contribute to educational reform around the inclusion of diverse authors, characters, and perspectives in English Language Arts.

In one hour, we’ll be gathering online for our April writing roundtable session: an interactive writing workshop focused on evoking the magic of the weather.

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My story starts with my grandfather dying. That probably sounds sadder than it is, but I’d only met him once when I was six, and I mostly remember that he loved to calculate my astrology birth chart. Big charts, too, not the mini horoscopes you’d get at home in England. He’d lay the paper out, and it’d be wider than my dad’s desk, covered in swooping curves and intricate golden symbols. He took it very seriously, like a science.

‘Venus collides with the Stag pulling at the threads of your fate. A love like yours is written in supernovas,’ he told me, his voice soft, his fingers blackened with ink. ‘You are not made to love gently.’

When my mother emigrated to England, he stayed back in India. Twenty years later, I’m in the village where my mother was born, and my grandfather has passed. His home clings to the lower slopes of the Himalayas, at the edge of a forest so old it forgets ever being young.

I listen to the chorus of family and friends repeating the stories he had told. My mother, the junglee child running wild through the trees, his life managing the railroads carved through the mountains, and of the golden deer that used to visit his home.

That is the story I prefer, and other people seem to like it as well, albeit for different reasons. I want to hear about the old god with moonlight for eyes; these neighbours explain how it caused my grandfather to lose his mind.

He told of children that wandered into the woods, lured by the sound of hoofbeats. ‘If you hear it, don’t follow,’ the neighbours repeat his words. ‘No matter how beautiful it is, no matter how it calls. That deer is not of this world.’

I sip my masala chai, sweet as memory and spicy as my regrets, and wish I’d not been too busy with university and the beginning of my life to miss the end of his. Why had that girl felt like everything to me, when she’d thrown me away without a thought? So much for a blazing bright love life for me.

My Hindi isn’t fluent enough to follow everything, so I let the discussion wash over me.

‘Go.’ Mum gestures outside.

I don’t want to. I’m tired after the fifteen-hour flight. But the aunties cluck and fuss and usher me out the door. They want to talk about adult things without the child there. Sad, single, unmarried, I am nothing like them.

I pad through the fields behind the house. The soil is dark and rich, monsoon-fed and grasping at my trainers. A rice paddy glints emerald off to my right, the rest of the village off to my left. And above it all, the Himalayas loom, jagged teeth against the sky, crushing me beneath their weight. I turn to them.

The forest waits for me ahead. The wilderness is nothing like the genteel woodlands of home. Towering trees tangle their broad leaves, clumps that look like bamboo, and huge sentinels that guard their mysterious fruit. I’ve heard the hum of insects in films, but I’m shocked by how loud it is when they’re right beside you.

The farther I go, the more I feel like I’m in my grandfather’s stories. The trees twist together, vines coil across my path. The light dims to a perpetual twilight, the leaves an unbreakable canopy. Birds still fly above, but I have no idea whose hoofbeats are rustling the plants beside me.

The forest breathes wrong.

I run. Branches lash at my arms; vines slither to trip me. I turn for the mountains, but the sky has vanished. My heartbeat drums through me. I sprint through the choking dark. The thing keeps pace with me. A flicker of yellow-white.

I break into a clearing, and the world falls silent. No birds, no insect hum, only the sound of my own breath. The space is perfectly circular, littered with bones scattered around a tree decorated with strips of leathery hide. The sweet scent of jasmine is undercut by the reek of decay.

The deer steps into the clearing, dainty like a dancer. Its hide is woven from the night sky itself, body shimmering with golden constellations. Antlers spiral like galaxies, tipped by a burning star. It stares with the gravity of the sun.

My legs refuse to run. My breathing is more like gasping.

A wet, clicking sound rattles from its throat; its voice the sound of wind through dead leaves. ‘You found me.’

I find myself moving. A step on the grass peels back to reveal wet flesh. The ground pulses like a living thing. Tiny ribs snap brittle under my feet. The closer I get, the stronger the cloying smell of something long dead.

Its stardust hide is cool beneath my fingers, resonating with the hum of creation. It’s too celestial for earth and too earthly for the gods. My fingers sink into its body, its hide stippled with patches dark and glistening. It turns its head all the way around, its neck twisting like rope. It watches me, its mouth too wide, its lips stretched into something that is not quite a smile.

Run. The thought appears in my mind.

‘Love me,’ it commands. The ancient trees bend close like they’re listening.

I whimper. The sound is pathetic. I’m going to vomit. Why did I come here?

‘You will be beautiful,’ it promises. ‘See.’

I look at the tree. The trunk is a twisted horror of bodies fused together, limbs like branches. Its bark is the mottled colour of bruises. The leather strips are not from animals.

‘Come,’ it whispers. ‘I will show you wonders.’

The deer leans in, its breath hot and foetid, pressing close as a lover. Stinking of ozone and the iron scent of meteors. I try to scream, but my throat is full of stardust.

Above me, the constellations wink out. And the world unravels.

Georgina Kamsika is a speculative fiction writer born in Yorkshire, England, to British Asian immigrant parents and has spent most of her life explaining her English first name, Polish surname, and South Asian features.

We are, here at The Orange & Bee, quietly thrilled to share such a beautiful, tender piece of work with you that honours two of our very favourite things: Mary Oliver, and bees.

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Living Poet Nick Flynn Teaches Mary Oliver To Keep Bees After Her Death

in Egyptian mythology, Ra’s tears became honeybees, and Duat is the Egyptian afterlife; Mary Oliver, poet 1935-2019; Nick Flynn 1960-

Mary never carved out time to cultivate her own hive on earth—choosing to spend afternoons strolling her property, striding from rose to rose to rose to rose—but now she has infinite leisure. Her afternoon walks take her across afterlife traditions from Duat to Elysium to Valhalla and back in a meandering loop.

Now that she can devote the time, she borrows the bones of a raw apiary—bleached boxes and ribs of hexagonal-surfaced frames—from the famous entomologist François Huber. It is the least he can do, after gently refusing to teach any more poets the ways of the bees. He is so weary of their short devotion, and he does not know Mary well enough to judge her differently.

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What’s a writing roundtable?

The Orange & Bee’s writing roundtables are opportunities to engage with the editorial team, and with other writers who are part of the Orange & Bee community. Each writing roundtable is a live and interactive zoom session during which the editorial team from The Orange & Bee provide generative writing prompts, as well as writing advice and support.

While the roundtables are a perk for paying subscribers, if you have a single-use unlock, you can use it to access the zoom link and participate in the workshop. The zoom link goes out, as a post/newsletter just like this one, an hour prior to the workshop.

What’s the focus of the April roundtable?

The April roundtable will be an intensive writing session during which we will explore the impact of the weather and the seasons on mood, action, and character. The session will include four writing prompts or provocations: one for each season of the year.

Participants will be invited to share material they generate during the workshop, if they wish to, but this is not required or expected.

When is the April roundtable?

Our next writing roundtable will take place on Friday, 17 April, at 3:00 pm (AEST).

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The story of Rhodopis, recounted by the Greek geographer Strabo around 7 BCE, about a Greek slave girl who marries the king of Egypt, is usually considered one of the earliest known variants of Cinderella. The first literary European version of the story was published by Giambattista Basile in his Il Pentamerone: Lo cunto de li cunti, also known as The Tale of Tales (1634-36); the most popular version was included in Charles Perrault Histoires ou contes du temps passé (1697), and a later variant was popularised by the Brothers Grimm.

Although the story’s title and main character’s name change in different languages, in English-language folklore Cinderella is the most common name given to the tale’s protagonist. The word ‘Cinderella’ has, by analogy, come to mean one whose attributes were unrecognised, or one who unexpectedly achieves recognition or success after a period of obscurity and neglect. The still-popular story of Cinderella continues to influence popular culture internationally, lending plot elements, allusions, and tropes to a wide variety of media.

The Aarne–Thompson-Uther system classifies Cinderella as Tale Type 510A The Persecuted Heroine. Others of this type include ‘The Sharp Grey Sheep’; ‘The Golden Slipper’; ‘The Story of Tam and Cam’; ‘Rushen Coatie’; ‘The Wonderful Birch’; ‘Fair, Brown and Trembling’; and ‘Katie Woodencloak’.

Aschenputtel

[translated from the Brothers Grimm variant, first published in the 1812 edition of the Kinder -und Hausmärchen]

A rich man’s wife became sick, and when she felt that her end was drawing near, she called her only daughter to her bedside and said, ‘Dear child, remain pious1 and good, and then our dear God will always protect you, and I will look down on you from heaven and be near you.’ With this she closed her eyes and died.

The girl went out to her mother’s grave every day and wept, and she remained pious and good. When winter came the snow spread a white2 cloth over the grave, and when the spring sun had removed it again, the man took himself another wife3.

This wife brought two daughters into the house with her4. They were beautiful, with fair faces, but evil and dark hearts. Times soon grew very bad for the poor stepchild.

‘Why should that stupid goose sit in the parlor with us?’ they said. ‘If she wants to eat bread, then she will have to earn it. Out with this kitchen maid!’

They took her beautiful clothes away from her, dressed her in an old gray smock, and gave her wooden5 shoes. ‘Just look at the proud princess! How decked out she is!’ they shouted and laughed as they led her into the kitchen.

There she had to do hard work from morning until evening, get up before daybreak, carry water, make the fires, cook, and wash. Besides this, the sisters did everything imaginable to hurt her. They made fun of her, scattered peas and lentils6 into the ashes for her, so that she had to sit and pick them out again. In the evening when she had worked herself weary, there was no bed for her. Instead she had to sleep by the hearth in the ashes7. And because she always looked dusty and dirty, they called her Cinderella.

One day it happened that the father8 was going to the fair, and he asked his two stepdaughters what he should bring back for them.

‘Beautiful dresses,’ said the one.

‘Pearls and jewels,’ said the other.

‘And you, Cinderella,’ he said, ‘what do you want?’

‘Father, break off for me the first twig that brushes against your hat on your way home.’

So he bought beautiful dresses, pearls, and jewels for his two stepdaughters. On his way home, as he was riding through a green thicket, a hazel9 twig brushed against him and knocked off his hat. Then he broke off the twig and took it with him. Arriving home, he gave his stepdaughters the things that they had asked for, and he gave Cinderella the twig from the hazel bush.

Cinderella thanked him, went to her mother’s grave, and planted the branch on it, and she wept so much that her tears fell upon it and watered it. It grew and became a beautiful tree.

Cinderella went to this tree three10 times every day, and beneath it she wept and prayed. A white bird11 came to the tree every time, and whenever she expressed a wish, the bird would throw down to her what she had wished for.

Now it happened that the king proclaimed a festival that was to last three days. All the beautiful young girls in the land were invited, so that his son could select a bride for himself. When the two stepsisters heard that they too had been invited, they were in high spirits.

They called Cinderella, saying, ‘Comb our hair for us. Brush our shoes and fasten our buckles. We are going to the festival at the king’s castle.’

Cinderella obeyed, but wept, because she too would have liked to go to the dance with them. She begged her stepmother to allow her to go.

‘You, Cinderella?’ she said. ‘You, all covered with dust and dirt, and you want to go to the festival?. You have neither clothes nor shoes, and yet you want to dance!’

However, because Cinderella kept asking, the stepmother finally said, ‘I have scattered a bowl of lentils into the ashes for you. If you can pick them out again in two hours, then you may go with us12.’

The girl went through the back door into the garden, and called out, ‘You tame pigeons, you turtledoves, and all you birds13 beneath the sky, come and help me to gather:

The good ones go into the pot,
The bad ones go into your crop.

Two white pigeons14 came in through the kitchen window, and then the turtledoves15, and finally all the birds beneath the sky came whirring and swarming in, and lit around the ashes. The pigeons nodded their heads and began to pick, pick, pick, pick. And the others also began to pick, pick, pick, pick. They gathered all the good grains into the bowl. Hardly one hour had passed before they were finished, and they all flew out again.

The girl took the bowl to her stepmother, and was happy, thinking that now she would be allowed to go to the festival with them.

But the stepmother said, ‘No, Cinderella, you have no clothes, and you don’t know how to dance. Everyone would only laugh at you.’

Cinderella began to cry, and then the stepmother said, ‘You may go if you are able to pick two bowls of lentils out of the ashes for me in one hour,’ thinking to herself: she will never be able to do that.

The girl went through the back door into the garden, and called out, ‘You tame pigeons, you turtledoves, and all you birds beneath the sky, come and help me to gather:

The good ones go into the pot,
The bad ones go into your crop.

Two white pigeons came in through the kitchen window, and then the turtledoves, and finally all the birds beneath the sky came whirring and swarming in, and lit around the ashes. The pigeons nodded their heads and began to pick, pick, pick, pick. And the others also began to pick, pick, pick, pick. They gathered all the good grains into the bowls. Before a half hour had passed they were finished, and they all flew out again.

The girl took the bowls to her stepmother, and was happy, thinking that now she would be allowed to go to the festival with them.

But the stepmother said, ‘It’s no use. You are not coming with us, for you have no clothes, and you don’t know how to dance. We would be ashamed of you.’ With this she turned her back on Cinderella, and hurried away with her two proud daughters.

Now that no one else was at home, Cinderella went to her mother’s grave beneath the hazel tree, and cried out:

Shake and quiver, little tree,
Throw gold and silver down to me.

Then the bird threw a gold and silver16 dress down to her, and slippers embroidered with silk and silver. She quickly put on the dress and went to the festival.

Her stepsisters and her stepmother did not recognize her. They thought she must be a foreign princess, for she looked so beautiful in the golden dress. They never once thought it was Cinderella, for they thought that she was sitting at home in the dirt, looking for lentils in the ashes.

The prince approached her, took her by the hand, and danced with her. Furthermore, he would dance with no one else. He never let go of her hand, and whenever anyone else came and asked her to dance, he would say, ‘She is my dance partner.’

She danced until evening, and then she wanted to go home. But the prince said, ‘I will go along and escort you,’ for he wanted to see to whom the beautiful girl belonged. However, she eluded him and jumped into the pigeon coop. The prince waited until her father came, and then he told him that the unknown girl had jumped into the pigeon coop.

The old man thought, ‘Could it be Cinderella?’

He had them bring him an ax and a pick so that he could break the pigeon coop apart, but no one was inside. When they got home Cinderella was lying in the ashes, dressed in her dirty clothes. A dim little oil-lamp was burning in the fireplace. Cinderella had quickly jumped down from the back of the pigeon coop and had run to the hazel tree. There she had taken off her beautiful clothes and laid them on the grave, and the bird had taken them away again. Then, dressed in her gray smock, she had returned to the ashes in the kitchen.

The next day when the festival began anew, and her parents and her stepsisters had gone again, Cinderella went to the hazel tree and said:

Shake and quiver, little tree,
Throw gold and silver down to me.

Then the bird threw down an even more magnificent dress than on the preceding day. When Cinderella appeared at the festival in this dress, everyone was astonished at her beauty. The prince had waited until she came, then immediately took her by the hand, and danced only with her. When others came and asked her to dance with them, he said, ‘She is my dance partner.’

When evening came she wanted to leave, and the prince followed her, wanting to see into which house she went. But she ran away from him and into the garden behind the house. A beautiful tall tree stood there, on which hung the most magnificent pears. She climbed as nimbly as a squirrel into the branches, and the prince did not know where she had gone. He waited until her father came, then said to him, ‘The unknown girl has eluded me, and I believe she has climbed up the pear tree.’

The father thought, Could it be Cinderella? He had an ax17 brought to him and cut down the tree, but no one was in it. When they came to the kitchen, Cinderella was lying there in the ashes as usual, for she had jumped down from the other side of the tree, had taken the beautiful dress back to the bird in the hazel tree, and had put on her gray smock.

On the third day, when her parents and sisters had gone away, Cinderella went again to her mother’s grave and said to the tree:

Shake and quiver, little tree,
Throw gold and silver down to me.

This time the bird threw down to her a dress that was more splendid and magnificent than any she had yet had, and the slippers were of pure gold. When she arrived at the festival in this dress, everyone was so astonished that they did not know what to say. The prince danced only with her, and whenever anyone else asked her to dance, he would say, ‘She is my dance partner.’

When evening came Cinderella wanted to leave, and the prince tried to escort her, but she ran away from him so quickly that he could not follow her. The prince, however, had set a trap. He had had the entire stairway smeared with pitch. When she ran down the stairs, her left slipper stuck in the pitch. The prince picked it up. It was small and dainty, and of pure gold.

The next morning, he went with it to the man, and said to him, ‘No one shall be my wife except for the one whose foot fits this golden shoe.’

The two sisters were happy to hear this, for they had pretty feet. With her mother standing by, the older one took the shoe into her bedroom to try it on. She could not get her big toe into it, for the shoe was too small for her. Then her mother gave her a knife and said, ‘Cut off your toe. When you are queen you will no longer have to go on foot.’

The girl cut off her toe, forced her foot into the shoe, swallowed the pain, and went out to the prince. He took her on his horse as his bride and rode away with her. However, they had to ride past the grave, and there, on the hazel tree, sat the two pigeons, crying out:

Rook di goo, rook di goo!
There’s blood in the shoe.
The shoe is too tight,
This bride is not right!

Then he looked at her foot and saw how the blood was running from it. He turned his horse around and took the false bride home again, saying that she was not the right one, and that the other sister should try on the shoe. She went into her bedroom, and got her toes into the shoe all right, but her heel was too large.

Then her mother gave her a knife, and said, ‘Cut a piece off your heel. When you are queen you will no longer have to go on foot.’

The girl cut a piece off her heel, forced her foot into the shoe, swallowed the pain, and went out to the prince. He took her on his horse as his bride and rode away with her. When they passed the hazel tree, the two pigeons were sitting in it, and they cried out:

Rook di goo, rook di goo!
There’s blood in the shoe.
The shoe is too tight,
This bride is not right!

He looked down at her foot and saw how the blood was running out of her shoe, and how it had stained her white stocking all red. Then he turned his horse around and took the false bride home again.

‘This is not the right one, either,’ he said. ‘Don’t you have another daughter?’

‘No,’ said the man. ‘There is only a deformed little Cinderella from my first wife, but she cannot possibly be the bride.’

The prince told him to send her to him, but the mother answered, ‘Oh, no, she is much too dirty. She cannot be seen.’

But the prince insisted on it, and they had to call Cinderella. She first washed her hands and face clean, and then went and bowed down before the prince, who gave her the golden shoe. She sat down on a stool, pulled her foot out of the heavy wooden shoe, and put it into the slipper, and it fitted her perfectly.

When she stood up the prince looked into her face, and he recognized the beautiful girl who had danced with him. He cried out, ‘She is my true bride.’

The stepmother and the two sisters were horrified and turned pale with anger. The prince, however, took Cinderella onto his horse and rode away with her. As they passed by the hazel tree, the two white pigeons cried out:

Rook di goo, rook di goo!
No blood’s in the shoe.
The shoe’s not too tight,
This bride is right!

After they had cried this out, they both flew down and lit on Cinderella’s shoulders, one on the right, the other on the left, and remained sitting there.

When the wedding with the prince was to be held, the two false sisters came, wanting to gain favor with Cinderella and to share her good fortune. When the bridal couple walked into the church, the older sister walked on their right side and the younger on their left side, and the pigeons pecked out one eye from each of them. Afterwards, as they came out of the church, the older one was on the left side, and the younger one on the right side, and then the pigeons pecked out the other eye from each of them. And thus, for their wickedness and falsehood, they were punished with blindness as long as they lived18.

Discussion questions

According to Jane Yolen:

Beyond the cultural accoutrements, the detritus of centuries, Cinderella speaks to all of us in whatever skin we inhabit: the child mistreated, a princess or highborn lady in disguise bearing her trials with patience, fortitude, and determination. Cinderella makes intelligent decisions, for she knows that wishing solves nothing without concomitant action. We have each been that child. (Even boys and men share thatdream, as evidenced by the many Ash-boy variants.) It is the longing of any youngster sent supperless to bed or given less than a full share at Christmas. And of course it is the adolescent dream.

To make Cinderella less than she is, an ill-treated but passive princess awaiting rescue, cheapens our most cherished dreams and makes mockery of the magic inside us all—ability to change our own lives, the ability to control our own destinies (Yolen 2005).

• When a fairy-tale heroine is passive—waiting for rescue, silent in the face of cruelty, dependent on magical intervention she did nothing to earn—what is the story actually communicating to its audience? Is passivity ever a form of power or strategy in these tales, or is it always an erasure of the heroine's agency? What is lost—or gained—when a reteller chooses to restore that agency?

  

The father is a mystery to me. Is he so besotted with his new wife that he cannot see how his daughter is soiled with kitchen refuse and filthy from her ashy bed and always hard at work? If he sensed there was a drama in hand, he was content to leave the entire production to the women for, absent as he might be, always remember that it is his house where Ashputtle sleeps on the cinders, and he is the invisible link that binds both sets of mothers and daughters in their violent equation (Carter 1995).

• ‘Aschenputtel’ opens with the dramatic death of the mother and the second wedding of the father. The story emphasises the bond between mother and daughter, contrasted strongly with the familial strife that arises with the introduction of the stepmother and her daughter. The evil stepmother has become an easily recognisable trope, emphasising the competition between women within a family or household: the good mother versus the evil second wife, a mother redirecting family resources to her natural-born daughters instead of her new husband’s first issue, young women attempting to displace their rivals. How does this tale type shape reflect or shape reader’s ideas about domestic relationships between women, and what might happen if those expectations were subverted?

Writing prompts

• In the Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm version ‘Aschenputtel’ (1812), the stepmother hacks off a toe and then a heel in her efforts to force her own daughters’ feet into the infamous slipper. In this variant, the stepmother and stepsisters are then blinded by the ghost of Cinderella’s dead mother in bird form. Change the main character and tell this tale from the perspective of one of the stepsisters. Another option would be to write a retelling from the dead mother’s point-of-view.

• There are several ancient myths and stories which include a few Cinderella motifs, but there are not many easily recognisable Cinderellas in the mix. At this time, one of the best published discussions about Cinderella in antiquity can be found in Graham Anderson’s book, Fairytale in the Ancient World (2000). One of the earliest variants is ‘Rhodopis’, first recorded by the Greek historian Strabo and later published in Aelian’s Varia Historia. The tale was popularised as an Egyptian Cinderella during the 19th century with several literary retellings. Retell one of these older versions in a wildly different genre such as space opera or solarpunk. What elements can be reimagined in unique and alternative ways?

References

Carter, Angela 1995 ‘Ashputtle, or the mother’s ghost: three versions of one story’, Burning your boats: the collected short stories, Henry Holt & Co, New York.

Yolen, Jane 2005, Once upon a time (she said), NESFA Press.

The salon includes an interview with Kathleen, during which she talks about fairy tales, turning the ordinary extraordinary, and her writing process. This is followed by an interactive workshop session, in which Kathleen share some …

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We are grateful to our paying subscribers, who provide us with the means to keep publishing great stories, poems, and more. If you haven’t already, please consider signing up, or giving a gift subscription.

Click play to listen to the author, Allison Burris, reading her poem ‘One Hundred Years Dreaming’ and/or scroll down to read the poem as text-based images.

Allison Burris grew up in the Pacific Northwest and currently lives in Oakland, California. Her poems affirm stories and cultural memory through surrealism and whimsy. She received her MLIS from San Jose State University and her poetry appears and is forthcoming in various journals, including Passionfruit Review, Hoxie Gorge Review, Heartlines Spec, and Metphrastics. Connect with her via https://linktr.ee/allisonburris.

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The little black cat paces in front of the gravestone, trying to think of what she’ll say. She isn’t much more than a teenager in cat years (an infant, the way life is reckoned by humans) and her muscles flex and extend with coiled tension. ‘Sir,’ she mumbles, extending a paw. ‘It’s an honour… a pleasure? No, no, an honour. It’s an honour to finally meet you. Sir.’

She flicks her tail dismissively.

No, that isn’t right.

Bast, it’s hopeless. She can’t even introduce herself, let alone write a half-decent poem. And half-decent doesn’t get you into the history books.

She leans back on her haunches, slumps over the grave, rests her weary head on the earth. ‘The others are right,’ she says. ‘This is a mistake.’

The wind blows, rustling the grass, carrying a musky scent on the air. She looks around. Amidst the violets a few gravestones down is a tasty little morsel of a mouse. Not much for a meal, but more than enough for a distraction.

‘I’ll go,’ she says. ‘I’ll go and bat at a butterfly like all the others. He won’t know the difference. I’ll lay about like a common idler and forget all about–’

The air trembles. The little cat’s fur prickles.

She knows that feeling.

Too late, she thinks. Too late.

John Keats notices three things when he wakes in Rome’s Protestant Cemetery two hundred years after his death. First, his frail, consumptive lungs no longer burn to breathe. Second, he isn’t breathing. In fact, he has no lungs. Finally, there is a cat purring in his chest, right where his heart should be.

Keats sits up and the little black cat hops into his lap. He reaches down to scratch her ears, but his transparent hand glides through her like woodsmoke through autumn air.

He looks around at the pale morning sky. At the sun rising over the sharp stone angles of the Pyramid of Cestius. At the clowder of cats lounging lazily in the first languid beams of daylight.

The last thing Keats remembers was poor Severn hunching over him in that little room above the Spanish Steps, his keen painter’s eyes capturing every line of the poet’s withered features, his delicate fingers nestling a blissfully cool cloth on Keats’ fevered brow, wiping bloody spittle from his parched lips. Knowing he was about to die, knowing finally that he would be released. And before that he remembers…

‘Fanny,’ Keats whispers.

The black cat stirs and raises a paw. ‘Nerina, actually,’ she says. ‘It’s an … honour to finally meet you.’

Before Keats can register this, a horseless metal carriage speeds past a line of tall Italian cypresses. Then, from high above, comes a drone like rolling thunder as a white metal cross trails a stream of clouds through the sky.

‘Oh,’ murmurs Keats. ‘Oh, my miserable unending life.’ The poet would cry if he could. But he cannot. John Keats is dead. He has no tears to weep.

Normally, the free cats of Rome do not speak English. They don’t speak modern Italian either, or Latin, or even Etruscan. Not among themselves. Together, they speak the ancient Egyptian of the people who first domesticated them, the ones who saw in them the aspects of gods, who brought them into their homes, and their afterlives too.

Law no. 281, enacted by the Parliament of Italy in 1991, gives free cats a right to live and be fed in the place of their choosing, safe from interference. Free to live where they please, a small number of Rome’s cats, homesick for a place they’ve never seen, skulk beneath the hulking pyramid of Cestius and hunt in the shadow it casts over the tombs of the Protestant Cemetery.

They could learn whatever language they chose, and even practice with any of the foreign ghosts that rise after slow centuries from the cemetery graves. But only one of them, the little black cat, ever speaks to the ghosts.

It is the nature of cats to think themselves superior. But Nerina is wiser. A literate cat, she has read enough to know better. She knows herself superior. But even she is humbled before her idol, before what rises from all that was mortal of the English poet.

She is a Roman cat. Strong and proud. But it is not every day that even a Roman cat meets her hero. For Nerina, for Keats, it will be only one day. This day. From dawn to dusk.

The little black cat allows Keats to rise and get his bearings, to spot Severn’s grave with its motif of palette and brushes and then, beside it, Keats’ own tombstone. Keats knows it is his, though his name is not written there. Dead or alive, he’d know his own words anywhere. ‘Here lies One Whose Name was writ in Water.’

‘An inaccurate prediction,’ says Nerina, ‘as it turns out.’

Keats faces the cat. ‘Writ in marble if not water,’ he says. ‘Whatever little difference it makes to a long-forgotten poet.’

‘Writ in sterner stuff than marble,’ says Nerina. She licks a paw and inclines her head. ‘See.’

From across the cemetery, a man approaches. He does not see Keats because Keats, the poet remembers, is dead. Still, he steps back as the man kneels before his grave. From a pocket in his coat, the man pulls a well-read paperback. He thumbs the pages, changes his mind, closes the book and speaks from memory: ‘To Sleep’ he says, then clears his throat.

‘O soft embalmer of the still midnight,

Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,’

‘Our gloom-pleased eyes, embowered from the light,

Enshaded in forgetfulness divine.’

Keats watches, silent at first, then finds his lips moving unbidden, carrying the words forward to the poem’s conclusion, his mind racing more swiftly even than the words trip from his lips.

‘Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.’ The man places the book on Keats’ grave and, after a moment, stands, dusts off his knees, and walks away. And then it is Keats’ turn to fall to his knees.

‘I imagine it’s a terrible shock,’ says Nerina. ‘To find yourself famous.’

‘It is a shock,’ says the poet, ‘to sleep, to think oneself finally released.’ He looks down at his grave. ‘And then to wake.’

Nerina does her best to explain things slowly. Keats’ death, his slow unconscious rise through the earth, his appearance as a ghost for this one day, his impending disappearance into– well, Nerina doesn’t know where. None of the ghosts has ever come back to tell her.

She tells him about his legacy. For Keats, all told, it’s rather good news. Two-hundred years dead and figured among the great poets not just of the Romantic era, but of history.

It’s quite a lot to take in, even for a ghost.

Nerina paws at the book the man left behind, flips the pages with her paws (a handy little trick she’s practiced), and reveals to Keats his life’s work. The poet appears mostly bemused, though now and then she catches a slight smile as he spies an adulatory or, better yet, insightful notation scrawled in a margin.

But in time his interest wanes. Nerina catches him looking about the cemetery, at the breeze rustling the umbrella pines, at the sunlight cutting stark shadows over the lawn, at the daisies dancing atop his grave.

‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ says Nerina, trying to catch his attention. ‘I have this dream.’

‘Hmm?’

Nerina speaks up. ‘We cats don’t live so very long, not even as long as you did. And I … Well, I’d like my life to mean something. I don’t just want to lounge about like the others. I’d like to be remembered.’

Keats doesn’t acknowledge her. He lies on his back, staring up at the sky.

Nerina hops into his chest again, her whiskers poking up above his chin, then nestles above his shoulders, forcing her face into his line of sight.

‘I’m…’ She pauses. ‘I’m a poet too. Or anyway I compose poetry which, well, I think that makes me a poet, and I was thinking…’

Keats does not look at her, but a smile crosses his lips. ‘How many odes and hymns hast in thy days composed?’

Nerina quirks her velvety ears. ‘Huh?’

The poet shakes his head. ‘A little joke,’ he says. ‘You’ve not read my Sonnet to a Cat, I take it? No, never mind, good cat. Prythee, go on.’

‘Well, I thought you might,’ says Nerina, ‘that is, I thought maybe you might offer me some instruction.’

Forgetful, Keats tries again to stroke her back, but his hand passes through her and he draws it back as though stung. ‘Oh, little kitten. My days of poetry are done.’

Nerina rises to her haunches. ‘What?’ she asks. ‘What do you mean?’

Keats sits up and looks around. ‘The sky,’ he says. ‘Faded. Pale. Scarcely blue. This fresh-cropped grass? It has no fragrance. I cannot feel the soft fur beneath your ears. This world, my experience of it, lacks any vigour, any life, any beauty. My wretched form lacks any sensation, and without it, there can be no truth in any words of mine. And without truth–’

‘No beauty,’ murmurs Nerina.

Keats nods. ‘The words I wrote while I yet lived are greater than any wisdom this pale shade might offer now.’

‘But,’ says Nerina. ‘But–’

Keats holds up a hand to stop her, his eyes tracking a yellow Vespa speeding by the cemetery fence. He stands. ‘Let us walk,’ he says. ‘Show me this new world of yours.’

And so together they pace amidst the headstones, Keats picking out the names of other dead he once knew.

‘How has Shelley fared?’

‘Much like you. He never lived to see his own success.’

Keats chuckles. ‘Even in life, I lived a posthumous existence. Consumption’s aptly named. All consuming. I scarcely had a chance to live before I died. Twenty-five years living and two hundred a memory.’ Keats tries to kick a stone but his boot passes clear through it. He laughs, then looks about at the various cats batting at flies or lounging on warm flagstones. ‘There is little enough life to be lived for any of us, little cat. You say you would like to be remembered. Well, take it from one remembered. I would like only to feel the touch of sunlight, smell the dusty heat of summer rain on weathered stone, hold Fanny’s hand, feel the quill scratch beneath my fingers. I would like to live.’

Together they reach the pyramid. Keats leans back, stretching against it, and Nerina coils at his feet. ‘If only,’ Keats says, ‘because through living may the words stir within us.’

Nerina inclines her head, but Keats goes on.

‘You have life to live, little cat. Catch mice, bat flies, sprawl in sunbeams, saunter through the forum, steal tit bits from the trattorias of Trestevere, wrestle thy rivals in the Colosseum.’

Nerina laughs and a spark of light dances within her eyes. She looks up and sees for a brief moment that same light reflected in the eyes of the poet.

‘You wish for instruction?’ he asks. ‘Let us seek instruction from the world.’

So there they stand, not touching but together, commenting on the varied dress of the tourists, noting the light upon the leaves gusting over the pavement, watching as the day’s light swells, then dims, then darkens.

It is a day that lasts forever. It is a day that is gone in a blink. As the sun sets towards the Tiber, a gibbous moon rises above the Pyramid of Cestius, casting the cemetery in silver light. Keats stretches habitually and turns back towards his grave, Nerina trotting beside him.

‘I believe I will soon be taking leave of you, little cat, leave of everything, for good and all, perhaps.’

Nerina nods. ‘Yes,’ she murmurs.

‘If there is somewhere beyond here,’ Keats continues. ‘Somewhere where we might meet again, I would cherish seeing what that little heart of yours might conjure from a life lived to the full.’

Nerina bounds behind him, batting at a shadow she mistakes momentarily for a mouse, batting at it again anyway because of the thrill the motion shoots through her.

The poet lies down atop his grave and Nerina curls up in his chest, purring where his heart should be.

‘Goodbye, Keats,’ she says.

He smiles. ‘Goodbye, little cat.’

Though he cannot feel her, he strokes her head, his fingers passing through her so that they are two beings in one space. In these, her last earthly moments with her hero’s shade, she does not dwell on Keats’ words, his living ones or his dead ones either. Instead, she savours the touch of the midnight breeze, as warm and gentle as if it were Keats’own hand tousling her fur. Nerina purrs, and as her mind drifts down towards slumber, she does not notice when the poet’s ghost is finally gone, his posthumous life finally over, and hers only just beginning.

THE END

Christopher Blake is a physician by day and a writer by night. He is a dad (cat and human) by his back-of-the-napkin calculations, approximately 32 hours a day. His short fiction has appeared in Strange Horizons, Tractor Beam, Flash Fiction Online, and other publications.

In two hours, At 11am AEST (Sydney, NSW, Australia)* we’ll be gathering online for our February Orange Salon, with guest salonniere Kathleen Jennings.

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