I can’t really see. I used to be able to see so well, I could see a flower in a field from much higher than this. It made me a very good scout. Not good enough apparently, we were still ambushed. But then again, we were disoriented, because everything had changed. It changed even more once the humans got us.
A changed world, and a changed me. Well, there’s a first time for everything. I hope for everyone’s sake that that first war will be the last though.
I hear the boys nearing to top, around the other side of the roof.
Oh well. Whatever I’m jumping onto, it can’t be worse than humans breaking my bones.
I jump.
For a blissful moment I’m in the air, just like old times. Nothing touching me but air. Freedom.
Then I’m falling.
Nothing can stop it. My phantom limbs flail painfully, the all-too-familiar ache biting into my back near my shoulder blades. What isn’t there can’t save me.
I can’t scream.
I can’t scream.
I can’t—
Ooo. It is soft.
I land with a small thump on the garbage pile, and it seems to comprise fabric. Maybe for the first time in a year, my luck is coming back?
I burrow into the pile. Hopefully when they search the roof, they decide that I’ve vanished. That I’ve flown off.
The thought makes me cry. I wish—
I wish for a lot of things.
Something silky and soft is against my face, and I hold it tight. It’s just fabric, I think. I can’t tell in the dark. But it reminds me of my wings.
They were silky and soft, iridescent pink-purple-blue. They could carry me home.
Now they’re gone, and my home is gone.
So here I am. A tiny trash human.
“. . . It can’t have just disappeared . . .” I hear a distant voice through the fabric. I stay still, buried where I am.
“. . . blasted little things disappear just like that!”
“It must’ve flown off!”
“But imps don’t have wings . . . I didn’t see any wings.”
“Well it’s gone now.”
Then there’s silence. How long should I wait here? Will they come down to look for me? I can only hope to stay hidden. It’s all I can ever hope for.
A nearby door creaks open. Well, I can’t go out now anyway.
Footsteps approach, and I tense.
Something lands on top of my feet, and the fabric jostles around me, falling away from one of my arms and the side of my face.
There’s a high-pitched scream, and my hands fly up to cover my sensitive ears.
“Imp! Imp! Ewww!”
I glance at the woman with fiery red hair and a dress a few shades darker. I feel like I’ve seen her before. She clutches her mouth in horror and I quickly scramble out of the trash pile.
“Shoo! Shoo!”
I turn and run, but immediately see that the alleyway ends in a dead-end. I could climb I suppose. But there’s those boys . . .
I turn back to see the woman now brandishing a broom. The alleyway’s exit is past her, past the door—
“Mina?” Calls a voice from the doorway.
I start to run while the woman is distracted, but at that moment the two boys peer into the alleyway. They see me instantly. “I told you I heard something!”
I skid to a halt.
I look at the walls around me. I can’t climb them. I’m trapped. I suppose I’ll just wait to get beaten up. Again.
“Mina! What are you doing with that broom?”
“There’s an imp, mistress, it—”
“Mina, for shame! That’s a pixie!”
That makes me look.
As much as I can’t tell age very well, the crinkles at the corner of this woman’s eyes mark her as older than the red-haired woman. If there’s one more similarity between us and humans, it’s that we both respect our elders.
“But it’s so filthy and wretched! It was crawling in our trash! And it’s got no wings!”
“Mina, you will put that broom down this instant and go back inside, or I’ll not have you in my shop another day!”
“Yes, mistress.” The woman slinks inside, and the boys also disappear from view, leaving me alone with this woman who can actually tell the difference between an imp and a pixie. It shouldn’t be that hard; I look nothing like an imp!
Her dress is cut in a dignified manner, and with shock I realise I know her.
Or, at least, I’ve daydreamed about knowing her for a year now.
She runs my favourite place in this city, that beautiful, beautiful hat shop! The one I was watching just an hour ago. She’s the store’s mistress! I always imagined myself working there, being one of her colourful human girls like this red-headed girl, sewing gorgeous hats, and she would compliment my designs, maybe we would share jokes, and and . . .
And she’s standing right here!
And she knows the difference between an imp and a pixie!
I’m speechless.
She stares at me. I’m still not so great at reading human facial expressions, and I really don’t understand humans. I don’t understand why those boys wanted to hurt me. I don’t understand why that other woman grabbed a broom instead of just letting me leave. I don’t understand what this woman is thinking now.
But I do know that all my previous daydreams and hopes and fears are bubbling up, changing my perception. I’d like to pretend that she’s looking at me appraisingly, seeing past my grimy face and dirty clothes, trying to see how she can help me. But perhaps it’s more likely she’s confused, worried that I’m about to steal something. Or that I might creep back in the middle of the night and kill everyone, like I’ve heard some humans murmur about.
But that’s ridiculous. We lost the war because we’re absolutely incapable of fighting back. Only the imps could, and they were massacred for it. I assume that’s why our King hid the Kingdom. Our only option was to run and hide. But I’ll never know for sure, I didn’t make it back in time. Because the humans found us first, and what they did to us . . . well. I could never go back even if the Kingdom was still anchored in the forest canopies.
So now I’m running and hiding alone. Maybe if this woman knows what a pixie looks like, she might know these things too? I can hope. For a moment, at least, before she beats me senseless.
“I am Mistress Ann, the proprietor,” she says at last.
“My name is Tiefli,” I reply, then blurt out, “I love your store!”
Her mouth twitches upwards. “Oh? Have you been inside?”
“No, never!” I shake my head violently. I hope she doesn’t think I’ve snuck in to steal things. People here always think the fairy folk steal things. It’s true that pixies and imps don’t have the same concept of ownership as humans, but—
“Would you like to?”
My heart flutters. This has to be a trick. Maybe this is my imagination running wild again? Humans are cruel. Always always always. Humans are cruel, just as the sky is cloudy and grey. Just as the Fairy Kingdom is gone.
“Are you . . . are you inviting me inside?” I can’t help myself. My wings are gone, my luck is gone, but blast my pixie ears, we’re hopeful creatures. I hate this flicker of hope in me. Hate it hate it hate it! But I’m hopeful.
“Yes Tiefli, come inside. We’ll get you cleaned up.”
JUST MINUTES LATER I’m sitting inside, a hot, too-big cup of tea between my fingers, a clean dress on my clean skin.
No one’s even beaten me yet!
“So, what do you do with yourself, Tiefli?” Mistress Ann asks.
“I don’t know what you mean. I don’t do anything. I sit by myself.”
“Do you work? Where do you stay? What do you do for food?”
“I find it in the bins on the streets. I stay on the streets. I don’t steal, if that’s what you mean!” Maybe she wants to get me to steal something for her? Maybe that’s what this is all about?
She smiles faintly. “N
o, that’s not what I mean. What I mean is that I’d like to help you, Tiefli. You seem nice. And since fairies are in fashion now, I think you might get along well here, at my shop.” Although her expression turns bitter at the words in fashion, her face seems open, earnest.
Hope blooms in my stomach, making me feel light, happy, and a little dizzy. I hate this hope. Why won’t I learn my lesson? Why won’t I accept that humans can’t be trusted? Why do I still hope? “Why would you do that?”
She frowns. “Not everything is about profit, Tiefli. I know that this must seem a strange place, so far from your home and your own kind, and we have our strange practices, but we’re not all selfish humans with no hearts. But, I suppose there are some pragmatic reasons. I think you’ll be good for my store. Your hands are tiny, and you can do things with the hats that my girls can’t. Pixies are also lucky.”
“I haven’t been lucky in a long time.” I wish I could’ve snapped that at her, yelled at her, but instead I’m just sad. I’ve lost so much. I don’t know at which point I lost my luck, but maybe it was over a long period of time. “What’s the real reason you want me here?”
She sighs. “In truth, I don’t really know. I just want to help. I suppose that I’ve always felt bad about the war, even in the early days, before we knew we were settling right on top of the Fairy Kingdom. Then with the war, I don’t even know how I kept this shop open. I suppose I just looked away. I carried on for the sake of carrying on. And now I feel . . . sorrow . . . that we’re alone. Alone, except for a few stragglers, such as yourself, Tiefli. I suspect you can’t go back?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know where the kingdom went.”
“Exactly, so I’ll not have someone who belongs on this land out starving on the street. I want you to not just survive, but to thrive. I want you to have a home. I’d like it to be mine.”
“But you don’t even know me,” I whisper. That hope. It burns. And it makes the world sparkle again. It makes the sunlight dance on the tabletop where it falls. And what she says is the truth. I feel it. But I need to learn not to trust. Humans are fickle. I can’t trust Mistress Ann.
“Alright, I’ll stay,” my mouth betrays me.
She beams, the smile radiating away her tired crow’s feet. “Then I’m thrilled to welcome you to Ann’s Hats and Haberdashery, Tiefli. How would you feel if I made you some fabric wings, to replace the ones taken from you?”
My tears sparkle like diamonds.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: SARENA lives in Melbourne, Australia, where she works as a biochemist and mothers two kittens. Aside from her academic work, she’s been published in the SF/F anthology Unlocking the Magic (2019), and is working towards publication of her debut fantasy novel. She adores all things fantasy, and tries (and fails) to make time for all her other hobbies: video games, painting, music, languages, and martial arts. Follow her on twitter @SarenaFlanigan
The Wooing Of Sweetheart by Clare Rhoden
MARCH
Ben rented the second last cottage in town, an easy walk into work. His neighbour Franco farmed a little stone fruit, some vegetables and a few grapes. Beyond that, vineyards stretched to the hills. Ben’s new place—“shabby-chic” with “distressed features”—was in fact a sagging old weatherboard. He remembered feeling self-conscious when the agent said shabby and distressed.
The first night he kept himself busy unpacking and arranging. Everything he owned now was donated second-hand, and more pre-hated than pre-loved by the look of it. The finished effect was only bearable because of the peace and quiet. That, and the half-case of cab sav he’d brought with him.
Next morning he woke to the penetrating liquid burble of a magpie. Soon, joined by its mates, it was coaxing Ben out of bed and onto his feet. He recalled the agent’s advice: “Watch out for the maggies in spring. The old lady fed them, and now they just dive-bomb everyone.”
Dive-bombers or not, they certainly could sing.
APRIL
The harvest was peaking. The town was teeming with hungry pickers and laden trucks. The bar was busy and Ben had more shifts.
In his new peace and quiet, Ben drank red every night. He collected field mushrooms, stewed them in butter, ate them on rye toast. He had ripe figs and triple cream cheese and sour dough bread. He had apple cakes and dark chocolate. He had eggs and bacon any time he wanted.
He always saved some bacon for the magpies. They were much more interested in singing and eating than in attacking him.
Ben realised the estate agent knew nothing about communication.
MAY
One cold morning, he saw the dog.
Dirty, scraggy, all ribs and mangy fur. His first thought was dingo, and then immediately, wild dog, sheep killer. He thought about going next door, telling old Franco, borrowing his rifle. Then, as the dog slunk into the yard, nose lifted and twitching, he revised his idea. Starving stray. The dog inched closer, belly low, stopped where Ben left out the magpies’ food, and pawed the ground. The remnant smell of bacon must be driving the poor thing crazy.
Ben watched as the dog shook its head and went slowly out the gate, once more creeping close to the ground. Shook her head, he corrected himself; when the dog stood, he saw its floppy dugs and hollow belly. If she had pups somewhere, she had no milk to feed them.
He looked out of the kitchen window off and on all day. All he saw were magpies.
JUNE
“Whatta she like, this dog?”
“I thought she was one of those wild dogs, you know, a feral, going for the lambs and calves. I nearly asked for your gun.”
Franco snorted, leaning over the side fence. “No gooda, that gun. I keep him anyways. My Caterina’s no-good husband come-a here, I gotta gun. And make the kids guessing. Let em go somewhere else and steala fruits.”
“Well, no call to shoot her. She’s just a harmless stray.”
Franco gave the husk of a laugh. “She visit you pretty much, I reckon. Every nighta few weeks, eh? I tell my daughter you gotta girlfriend.”
“She’s shy as all get out. Spooked. Came in after the magpies’ bacon. So I left some mince out overnight.”
“Damn fox gotta hold of it.”
“No, it was Sweetheart. I was on the watch.”
Franco’s ghostly cackle sounded again. “Mangy dog name-a Sweetheart. You gotta laugh.”
JULY
Sweetheart soon got used to the routine. On came the verandah light, out came the bowl of mince. Ben always put it on the lowest step and retreated to a chair, nursing his glass of shiraz. He could see her eyes gleaming in the light, out by the gate. Long minutes would pass, but in the end she always slunk up to the bowl. She ate quickly, quietly.
The first time he whispered, “That’s it, Sweetheart”, the dog startled and then froze. When he said nothing more, she gulped the rest of the mince and ran.
AUGUST
The nights grew frosty. Sweetheart slept in the lee of the verandah steps. Franco’s daughter Caterina gave Ben a flour sack to put there. Ben stuffed an old footy jumper inside it. Franco brought over some planks to put under the sack, and a sheet of tin they hung over the verandah’s edge to keep the rain off.
When they gathered round the pizza oven in Franco’s little orchard, Sweetheart watched, her eyes reflecting the flames.
SEPTEMBER
The verandah light showed the dog’s coat, half matted and all dirty, thin old scars across her rump and her nose. An open wound on her back. They decided she was part red cattle dog, part collie, part pointer. She might have been a pretty pup once.
Ben put out some leftover pasta with Italian sausage, artichokes and pesto. Sweetheart ate it all.
“Gotta brains, that dog,” said Franco.
OCTOBER
Ben dreamt that Sweetheart slept on the end of his bed, curled like a nautilus.
NOVEMBER
Every morning Sweetheart watched the magpies feeding from Ben’s hand. They serenaded her with chortles while she cocked her ears.
<
br /> She ate from a bowl on the top step.
DECEMBER
Sweetheart slept sprawled on the sack on the verandah. Each morning Ben moved it a little closer to his seat.
“One day soon,” he told Caterina, “I’ll sit here sipping pinot, and fondle her ears.” For now, it was enough that she stayed most of the day under the steps, panting in the shade.
JANUARY
He heard a ruckus in the morning, just after he’d put out the bacon. Sure enough, the magpies were dive-bombing Sweetheart while she snatched their treats. Ben smiled. The day was almost here.
FEBRUARY
“All ready for harvest?” asked Ben. “Need a hand?”
“We gotta many grapes,” said Franco with pride.
“And you’re welcome to help,” said Caterina. “We start next week.”
“Great,” said Ben, taking some more caprese salad. Sweetheart nudged his arm and he pulled out some bocconcini for her.
Caterina smiled.
First published at clarerhoden.com
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: CLARE Rhoden is a Melbourne author of speculative and historical fiction. She blogs and reviews at https://clarerhoden.com/
One Imperfect Soul by Helena McAuley
MY HANDS BLEED AS I pull away slabs of concrete and fallen metal sheeting. The air is full of sirens, smoke, and a cracking noise like explosions. I risk a glance at the sky. These buildings are going to fall. Maybe I should’ve kept running with the others, but I couldn’t ignore the cry for help.
On the edge of my hearing, there is a whimper.
“Nearly there!” I shout back.
Up the street, a slab of concrete slides from a building and crushes what were once my comrades in terror. Oh, crap. I’m glad I didn’t run.
Stories of Hope Page 3
