Throwback Thursday: BENTWING by Ellen Stader

He knew with great certainty that
the great birds had given him
the egg to take care of...

Editor’s note: I love the egg details and the pictures this story paints. I really feel like I can see the story. It’s from April 2019.

An old man was walking one morning on a lonely errand, bent shoulders poking up through his coat. Rounding a bend, he stopped short at the sight of five gigantic birds clustered in a circle on the road. Cranes, he thought, on their way to the river nearby. The way they lowered their red-capped heads and flapped the tips of their snowy wings, the old man could have sworn they were talking. But, talking birds or no, he had to get his errand done, and this was the only road. So he walked toward them.

The birds turned their heads as the old man approached. Instead of flying away, two walked to the east side of the road, and two to the west side; the last one stayed put. The man saw they’d been gathering around an egg. The biggest egg he'd ever seen, dappled brown and rust and gold, marred by a hole the size of his eye. Pushing down a pang of curiosity, he moved to step past the birds—but all five spread their wings until the road was blocked. The man was surprised enough to ask, "What do you want?" The birds did not reply, but one floated the tip of a wing downward, drawing his gaze to the egg.

The man looked down and noticed that whatever was inside was breathing, just enough to see. Perhaps the hole in the shell hadn't harmed its contents. He leaned toward the egg slowly, not wanting to alarm the birds. When he noticed a faint golden light glowing from inside, a calm and a peace bloomed through him. He crouched and reached out his hands, entranced. The great bird nearest him brought down its other wing and rolled the egg into the old man's hands. He hugged it close to his chest, feeling it warm and smooth and precious.

Then, in an instant, the cranes began to take off, one by one. As the man stood in amazement, each bird flew high toward the western hilltop nearby, then swooped low over his head and disappeared into the eastern horizon. The old man was left alone with the egg.

As fate would have it, this uncommon man was not only wise and knowledgeable, but also kind and warm-hearted. He knew with certainty that the great birds had given him the egg to take care of. He walked back home, errand forgotten, cradling the egg in his arm.

He fixed the egg a soft place not too near the stove, then sat down to ponder. Before an hour had passed, though, the egg moved. It jerked once, shuddered and rocked, then did the same again. The man could hear tiny scratching sounds coming from inside, but he left it alone, for he knew that usually animals are best left alone to manage their own births. He watched with a pounding heart and felt no fear but a joyous anticipation. Finally, the hole in the eggshell began to widen as pieces were chipped away from it. The old man saw dark, wet feathers, a blinking eye—and a nose.

Soon the creature inside the egg was struggling its way out. The man saw that the creature was a girl child, by all appearances human, but with two bony puffs of dark, downy feathers upon her back. While one of the wings folded neatly against her shoulder, the other was bent at an awkward angle. Maybe the hole in the eggshell had done some damage, after all.

A bent wing was the last of the man's concerns, though: He’d counted on raising a baby bird that would soon learn to find its own food, but a human child was another matter altogether. His own children were long grown; decades had passed since he last fed a child. Still, when the winged baby girl fixed him with solemn dark eyes and reached a small human hand toward him, he knew how he would willingly spend the rest of his life.

The old man raised the baby into a fine, strong girl. She was lively and mischievous, and she loved her "grandfather.” They had enough to eat, and things were right in their home until her birthday one year.

For weeks, the girl had been having flying dreams, sometimes comical, sometimes frightening, sometimes soaring. She woke from each with an aching desire to fly. So on the morning of her birthday, she went to her grandfather and asked him to teach her how to fly, naturally assuming he could do anything.

"I've got these wings, but they don’t do anything. And that seems wrong. Things with wings are supposed to fly," said the plain-spoken little girl. "Only, I'm not sure about this one…" She twitched the bent wing. "It's never felt right, and it doesn't fold flat like my other one."

"Well, we won't know until we test it," said her grandfather with a little wink. He didn't know how he’d teach her to fly, but there was nothing he wouldn't do for her, so he would try his best. The two climbed to the summit of the hill behind their home—a good starting place, the old man reasoned. There they sat for half a day, watching the hawks take off, soar and wheel, dive and hunt, then land to feed and rest. Into the evening, the girl practiced running, leaping, and flapping.

They returned to the hilltop often. She practiced every day for months, her wings growing stronger and sleeker, her leaps higher and longer. But to her dismay, she couldn't stay in the air. She began to doubt her crumpled wing could keep her aloft. At the end of a year, her flying dreams had turned into falling dreams. Though the old man had perfect faith in her flying, still she began to practice less, with less of her heart in it.

These worries kept her from noticing her grandfather was moving more slowly every day. Though he still sometimes accompanied her up the hill, more often he watched her from home, offering advice when she returned. He was already an old man when he found her, and many years had passed since then. He was often cold now, even in the old cloth coat that showed his bony shoulders, and he began to eat less.

One day he said to the girl, "You’re old enough to take care of yourself now—indeed, you’ve taken good care of me for some time—and you no longer need me. I will go to join my ancestors soon."

The girl wept. He was the only family she’d ever known. But he’d taught her to be strong and kind, so she dashed her tears and knelt beside him, asking, "What can I do to help you?"

The old man replied, "Before sundown, go to the river and catch five fish. Arrange them along the eastern bank, then hide and watch who comes." So after fixing his supper, the girl took her pole to the river and caught five fat fishes. She laid them on the eastern bank, each upon a little mound of leaves. Then she slipped up the western bank and sat down in the lengthening shadows to watch.

Before long, an enormous white bird with a red head and black legs was stalking up the eastern bank ... followed by another ... and then three more. Each bird walked to a fish, bent its long neck, scooped the fish into its upturned gullet, and swallowed it in a few shuddering gulps. Then, in the last slanting rays of orange light, the birds did something astonishing: They gathered into a tight circle, twitching their wingtips and lowered heads as though in deep discussion. And there they stood in the gathering twilight.

The sky was dark when the girl slipped back to the house. She said, "Grandfather, five giant cranes came and ate the fish I caught! Then they stood in a circle talking!" At that, the old man smiled and sighed.

"Then I shall be going soon," he said. The girl was puzzled, but he beckoned to her. "Sit and talk with me first." So she sat beside the man who raised her, and they laughed at memories through the night. Neither was afraid for him to go, but both were sad at the thought of parting. Finally, as the black sky turned to purple-grey, the old man said, "Go see if anyone is in the yard."

The girl reached the window to see a crane alighting. Four more followed, winging in soundlessly and landing in a semicircle to face the house. She gasped, "Grandfather, it's the five birds! What do they want?"

He unfolded from his bed, saying, "They’ve come to take me home, to thank me for taking care of you. It was from those birds that I received you years ago, still in your egg." He walked through the door toward the rising sun, shrugging off the old cloth coat. Again the girl with the bent wing gasped, for she saw upon her grandfather's shoulders two powerful, dark wings—one of them bent at an awkward angle.

As she followed him into the yard, he turned and kissed her brow, saying, "This is how I’ve always known you can fly with a broken wing. Don't be afraid anymore." And with that, the five great birds and the winged man leaped into the air, circled the yard, and swooped low over the winged girl before soaring east toward the sunrise.  

Ellen Stader is a writer and performer in Austin, Texas, who’s always looking for the right corner to turn into Animals-Can-Talk-to-People Land. She first found the characters for the story “Bentwing” while choreographing a dance. Her essays can be found on Medium, and she writes, curates, and publishes two blogs: Austin.Women.Love, telling the stories of superhero women in Austin, and I Would Write 4 U, collecting stories about Prince. Stader is currently finishing a memoir tentatively titled The Salmon of Knowledge and has no idea when it might come out.

Cover: Amanda Bergloff @AmandaBergloff

Throwback Thursday: ENCHANTRESS by Ellie Goss

The enchantress was a
miserable soul, but she had
not always been that way...

Editor’s note: Turning things on their ears, is what this story does. The Enchantress is an origin story that leaves me wanting more in a good way!

Exhausted from her work, the Enchantress turned from the castle she had just visited a curse upon and receded into the forest for the long travel home. She was happy with her recent work, that upstart of a Prince was a lost cause and there was almost no possibility of the spell cast being broken. A beast he was and a beast he would stay. A shame she thought that the household had come to his defense so readily, well they wouldn’t be interfering again anytime soon. 

The enchantress was a miserable soul, but she had not always been that way. Long ago she had been a beautiful maiden, always cheerful and charming. She had lived a simple life surrounded by townsfolk that she called family and friend, but after tragedy struck everything had changed, especially her.  

There had come a stranger to town. A large man who wore a great burly coat. From behind you would think him a bear and so as the rumors flew around town, he was so nicknamed Bear. His arrival coincided with the Winter Festival that had been held for generations and was a year-long in the planning, for each year the festivities grew to new and greater heights. This year there was to be a dance in the great hall with fireworks to follow.   

The night was abuzz with the chatter of the village folk and a band had started playing to welcome all to the festivities. The Enchantress could hear the music playing as she walked arm in arm with Rubin. They planned to announce their engagement this evening after the feast, as was customary and she radiated happiness with a smile that hadn’t left her face since stepping out her front door that evening. Rubin too was happy at the match, thinking the Enchantress the most beautiful girl in the village.  

  

The evening was made even more beautiful as the first fall of snow began to descend upon the crowd, snowflakes touching the glowing cheeks of all those who preferred to remain outside the Great Hall. 

  

It was decided to move the long tables outside and colored lights were strung to capture the magic of the evening. A large bonfire burnt in the center of the square and it wasn’t too long before a great meal was being served. There were trays of meats and vegetables, bowls of salad and fruits and everyone ate heartily. Then following village tradition, the time came for announcements, just as it had for hundreds of years before. 

  

Amber and Leyton were the first to declare of their intentions of marriage, setting the date for the following Spring causing cheers to be sung out amongst the crowd. Then the Enchantress and Rubin stood, but as Rubin attempted to make the speech that would gain the towns blessings and best wishes for the future marriage between them, Bear approached. 

Bear’s theatrics were set to work at once, with all the globes exploding as he walked towards the couple that stood to make their declaration. Squeals rippled amongst the group and several of the men went to stand but they were kept seated by a green mist that had emerged.  

As Rubin hadn’t been seated at the onset of the smoke, he remained standing but as the man known as Bear approached, he began to change form. As the man disappeared, a Bear had taken his place moving towards the couple until he was at a run. At the last moment when the Bear would strike at Rubin, Rubin had grabbed the Enchantress and placed her before him. He had begged to the beast to take the girl and begone.  

  

The Bear had instantly returned to the shape of a man and laughed at the people of the town before sending the fireworks he had promised into the sky. But as the small flecks fell amongst the snowflakes and settled upon their skin, they had transformed into beautiful birds. All except Rubin who had also been touched by the magic, but his curse was to take the appearance of the Enchantress, he had run screaming into the woods never to be heard of again.  

  

The events had happened so quickly that the shock of the scene had caused the real Enchantress to faint. She had spent weeks after that night wandering about until she had discovered that she too had been cursed.  

Elisha (Ellie) lives and works nestled between the Tarkine Forest and Cradle Mountain National Park, Tasmania. She published her first children's book in 2016, 'The Bunyip's Bath', before going on to publish further books and magazine stories.

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Cover: Amanda Bergloff @AmandaBergloff

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Throwback Thursday: THE NAIAD by Lillie E. Franks

To her, time flowed just as her spring did.
Some gave to her
and others only took...

Editors note: I picked this lovely little flash story to give an example of how well flash fiction can work. It was published in June, 2019. Remember, there’s a Christmas in a July contest happening this month, focusing on flash fiction and poetry. (Christmas is not your only option.) HERE are details. Enjoy!

One day, without warning, her world, which had flowed infinitely into the distance as long as she had been, stopped.

She had been born with the spring. She swam in in it, felt it gather itself when the rain came, felt it flow past the stones and burble out in a gentle trickle where the ground was just low enough. She watched her water off, like a mother watching her children, waving goodbye as it flowed to the river, merged with its fellows, and ran its course down, down, and away to the ocean, where all water dreams of being.

To her, time flowed just as her spring did, with generations coming and going like waves pushed after each other in the deep ocean. Each was different. Some prayed to her, others smiled their thanks. Some gave to her and others only took. Each was perfectly different but overwhelming similar, different water in the same crests. They drank from her spring and her water became a part of them. She felt them with the same mingled faintness that she felt her waters rise into the air and mingle with the waters of the sky.

The ones who came to survey the land seemed no different to her than any around her. She had not worried about them because she had no concept of worry and no idea that anyone would refuse a gift of fresh water.

And then, in a blur, the construction crews and the bulldozers came and finally the cement. It poured down from the truck like a slow trickle of its own. When it had covered her spring, it stopped. To her, it was the first single moment in time, the first event that happened in an instant rather than washing in over just as many years as it took to wash out.

It was her first introduction to the cold, hard, fixed time of the humans who now lived above her.

She swam her twisting way to the thick stone block and laid her hand against it. It was heavy and thick and dead, like the now still water lying beneath it. She had eaten away stones like this in the past, but she wouldn’t eat away this one. The falling waters would find new ways to escape before that. Her spring would never flow again.

She let herself float, still, unmoving, stagnant as the water around her.

As she floated there, they built the houses above her. They were simple houses, many to each building, which would have marveled her if her spring were still flowing. Instead, the information fell into her mind like a dead leaf into a pond, adding nothing, changing nothing, simply being. They painted the walls and carpeted the floors, and she floated. They set up electricity, an invisible river flowing through channels of its own, and she floated. The houses were nearly complete, and still she floated.

Then they turned on the water.

At first she sensed it only as a far away trickle, like she sensed the drops in the clouds before they were dense enough to fall to Earth. She was responsible for the water in the spring and a concrete slab sealed the still spring from the water she sensed flowing above her. That water had nothing to do with her, and she had troubles enough of her own.

But the small tugs at her senses continued. It was lively where she and her spring weren’t. Finally, through boredom as much as anything else, she allowed herself to listen to it. It will be okay if I only listen, she told herself.

As she did, she realized what those tugs had been. The water was scared. It had no nymph to swim through it, and it had been through many strange twists and turns that it didn’t understand. Like her spring, the water above her was constantly pressing against barriers it couldn’t move, until just as suddenly, one of those barriers disappeared, and for just a few seconds, at longest some minutes, it would flow into one of the many tiny channels, over a naked person’s body or past food or into a cup. The water obeyed as it always did, but there was no one to follow alongside it and say “Good! This is your natural course. Keep on, no matter what happens.”

“Was she allowed to go to new waters?” she wondered. She had been born with the spring. She had lived with the spring, and the spring had been a piece of her just as she had been a piece of it. If the spring were still running, it would be obvious treachery to leave it. Wasn’t it a worse treachery to leave when there was only her to remember it?

But even as she told herself this, the water above her needed someone to quicken it and the water around her needed nothing. It would drain in other places and other nymphs would take it along its journeys to the sky and back. Her arguments for what should be could last only so long in the face of what was.

Her choice to leave the stagnant spring did not come in one moment like the cement above it. It came like waves, from an inconsequential ripple to a powerful tide she could ride away on.

The foundation sat between her and the water above, but she could swim through any water. Where it reached, she could reach.

She swam deeper into the ground, each stroke taking her into smaller and smaller channels bordered by smaller and smaller rocks. She swam around the houses until she came up in a small garden, meticulously kept to only grasses, with nothing to accept the offers the deeper waters made to life.

She waited in that strange, half-garden until the rain came, when, with nothing to carry her but boldness and the desire to be needed, she swam up and into the air. She passed through the rainfall in the form of a glint of light. As she did, she realized it wasn’t so different to swim in the air than to swim in any flowing water. All you had to do was keep your mind on the flow and forget the individual drops.

Even inside the building, there was still water in the air, thinner only by a little than the rain outside. Through this, she found her way as a feeling of cold and the smell of a forest after a storm.

She expanded through the building until she finally found it: a sink running to wash dishes. She reached her way upstream into the channel of water, and at last, found her place again.

She swam around the pipes and tanks of this new world, exploring every limit and boundary she met. Wherever she swam, the water rejoiced, as if to say “The place I have found is natural. Good or bad, I have followed my own rules to come here and a spirit has seen that and acknowledged it!” The people in their houses that day found some quality of their water fresher, better tasting than usual, but could not say what it was.

As people drank from her strange, many-headed spring, she came to understand them just as she understood the pumps and pipes that surrounded them. She felt their sadnesses and joys almost as vividly as she felt her own. They were like all people always had been: perfectly different and overwhelmingly similar.

In other days, she had known the sorrows of humans too. Just like now, they had been too large and interwoven for her to fix, the way she could help the frightened water. Something was different, though. There was something that made her inability to help these people harder to bear than it had been.

Back then, she had been a miracle. She had been one of the too few times the strange and awesome world granted something to the humans. Even the ones who talked of water tables and groundflow were thankful the immense forces they called natural, had made her spring.

These people were different. The water she swam in now, though its path was well more fantastic than that of rain flowing down, wasn’t a gift from nature. It was another bill to pay, another small obligation among a crushing number. When they drank her water, they were reminded not that water had been given to them, but that they had to fight for and earn it. They took no joy from her water, and she could take no joy in providing it.

She swam through all the houses and their residents, and the story was always the same. Each one was engaged in a battle to the death to keep this small place they had earned and the faucet that satisfied their thirst. Sometimes, one of them lost the battle. They were kicked out of the building, and she had no idea what happened to them next.

Some days, the residents could taste just a little of her sadness, like tears, in their water. They didn’t use it as much those days and weren’t sure why.

Again, she found herself caught between what she knew she was allowed to do and what she needed to do. Like the first time, it was a conflict that could, given time, go only one way.

She asked the water, “Will you join me in this?”

The water rushed and flowed around her, its small way of saying yes.

It wasn’t a perfect action, but it was the one she knew how to take. She was a spring and she wanted to spring forth. She needed to be a spring, and she knew the people in the houses needed a spring for them.

That day, in time as it was recorded by the people, the faucets and pipes all ran together. Pure, fresh water poured out without explanation or cost. It flowed away down its pipes and away to other places.

The people stepped out of their houses and saw the others who lived with them stepping out as well. The halls were filled with the sounds of babbling waters, a kind music all of them knew. The music told them all they needed to know about what was happening.

The naiad flittered with joy as the people in the houses smiled to each other. For that moment at least, they saw they were all alike the recipients of a bounty they could never understand.

Lillie E Franks is a trans playwright and writer from Chicago, Illinois. She believes in ghosts, fairies, and making the world better. You may follow her on Twitter at @onyxaminedlife. Under no circumstances should she be trusted with your true name.

Cover: Amanda Bergloff @AmandaBergloff

THE FROZEN BIRD by Nancy Holzner

The bird sang of soft golden light
warming the world. When the song
ceased, the old woman wanted to cry...

One day in winter an old woman left her hut to gather firewood. The glare of sunlight on snow hurt her eyes. Her meager shawl offered little protection against the cold that made her bones ache. At every third or fourth step, her foot broke through the crusted snow, and twice she fell and dropped her bundle of sticks.  

When she fell a third time, she stayed on her hands and knees in the snow. Why get up? What difference did it make whether she froze here or in bed, shivering in her shawl and threadbare blanket? Yet she dreaded the thought that someone would find her like this, an ice-bound corpse on all fours, although she couldn’t imagine who would do the finding. It had been so long since she’d had a visitor.

The old woman rose and hugged herself, warming her hands in her armpits. She stretched her cold-kinked spine. When she could feel the blood moving in her veins, sluggish though it was, she bent to collect the scattered sticks.

That’s when she saw it. In a bush a few feet away perched a bird, its head raised as though in song. It was white as the snow, and as she approached it didn’t fly away. It didn’t move. The poor thing was frozen solid. Carefully she pried it from the branch. She cradled it in her hands and admired its perfection: feathers as delicate and precise as plumes of frost on a windowpane, eyes like icy dewdrops. A tiny icicle of tongue protruded from its beak. Perhaps, she thought, if I take it home and warm it by the stove it will sing to me. She slipped the frozen bird into her pocket.

Back in her hut, the old woman built up the fire, then settled the frozen bird near the stove. As she went about her tasks—sweeping the bare wooden floor, peeling a potato for her soup—she kept one eye on the creature. It remained unchanged: white and still, its beak slightly open as though poised to sing. What did its song sound like, she wondered.  

The old woman took off her shawl and fashioned it into a nest, tucking the bird into its folds. She nudged it closer to the stove. The room grew warm; heat reddened her cheeks as she carried her bowl of soup to the table. Yet the bird remained frozen. She lifted it gently and held it on her lap. She dribbled some broth into the open beak. But the bird didn’t swallow. The soup spilled from its mouth and froze into a tiny gem that fell into the woman’s lap. She held the crystal on her palm to examine it. It was beautiful—opalescent and sparkling with internal light, until the warmth of her hand melted it back to a drop of soup.

That night in bed, the old woman tried to count how many days had passed since the first snow. Was winter always so long? She couldn’t remember. She lay conscious of the small white frozen thing by the stove. Had she made a mistake bringing that fragment of winter into her home? She decided that, should it still refuse to thaw by morning, she’d return the bird to the place where she’d found it. With that, she fell into sleep and dreamed of spring.

She awoke to a freezing room and the word No! on her lips. She got up, wrapping her blanket around her, and went to check the bird. Nothing had changed. Of course, she thought. It’s not warm enough in here. She grabbed a stick of wood to build up the fire. A splinter speared her finger. She pulled it out, and blood welled from the wound. A drop fell.

Birdsong filled the hut.

The old woman looked. Her blood had fallen into the bird’s open beak. Its red tongue flitted as notes poured from its throat. The bird sang of soft golden light warming the world, of gentle breezes and sweet-smelling flowers. When the song ceased, the old woman wanted to cry.

The frozen bird sat by the stove, its head angled upward, the red tongue the only spot of color in its body.

The old woman squeezed another drop of blood from her finger.

This time, the bird’s song held memories of first love, of lash-lowered glances and blushing cheeks, of clasped hands and furtive kisses. Tears brimmed, and when she wiped them away they froze on her cheek. She looked at her injured finger. The bleeding had ceased; the wound was sealed by a circle of ice.

The song ended. Pink tinged one wingtip.

That day, and in the days that followed, whenever the old woman wanted a song she cut open a finger and dripped blood into the bird’s mouth. As the beautiful songs multiplied, ice plastered each cut. When ice stiffened her hands, she cut her arms. When her arms grew rigid with cold, she cut her torso. The cuts didn’t hurt, not beyond the first flash of pain. The ice numbed her flesh even as the songs gladdened her heart.  

With each cut, color and life returned to the bird. Its feathers reddened to pink and then a brilliant scarlet. Its eyes grew black and shiny. Only its beak stayed white and cold.  

One morning the woman awoke to soft sunlight streaming through her window. She couldn’t feel its touch on her face, which by now was swathed in ice. She hadn’t listened to a song in days. She couldn’t afford to—the single drop of blood she had left was chambered deep in her heart. She labored to raise her stiff body from the bed. Her limbs creaked like winter trees as she stood and crossed the room. With great effort she picked up the silent bird and held it between her hands. She shouldered the door open and stepped into the sunlight.

The mild air carried scents of flowers and damp earth. The frozen woman raised her face to the sun as she pressed the bird to her chest, directly over her heart. There was pain as its beak drilled into her flesh and through her breastbone. There was emptiness as the little tongue scooped out her last drop of blood. But oh, the beautiful song that filled the woods! One tear escaped, then froze on her cheek as she stood, rapt. She could almost feel the sun’s warmth as it stroked and softened her frozen flesh.

One summer’s day a hunter found an abandoned hut deep in the woods. Its single window was shattered, its door swung from a broken hinge. He peered into the cold, dim interior and saw nothing of value inside. But it was a lovely spot, with a small, clear pond just steps from the door. The hunter drank. The water was icy cold but held a hint of salt. Above him, perched high in a tree, a scarlet bird sang and sang.

Nancy Holzner is the author of the Deadtown urban fantasy series, as well as numerous short stories. Nancy lives in Ithaca, New York, where she teaches in the Ithaca College Writing Department.

Cover: Amanda Bergloff @AmandaBergloff

COFFEESHOP WISHES by Jade Wilburn

"I need to make a wish."
"I can do that for you.
But what are you going to
offer me in return?"

There was a reason Fae did the most business in the wintertime. Being cooped up indoors for an entire season had a way of bringing out the desperation in people when they couldn’t wash away their miserable thoughts and horrid personalities with soothing spring rains, summer rays of sunshine and ever-changing foliage.

Ariadne supposed there were some perks to this time of year when glistening white blankets covered the gray dreariness of sky-high buildings and black-top parking lots. If she had the time, she might’ve even closed her eyes and reminisced about the glory days, when magic was rampant and wild and free from modern sensibilities.

But right now, she had trudged through several feet of snow and was starting to lose feeling in her toes.

“Coffee!” She moaned in relief as she crossed the protection spell laying across the threshold and stepped into the warm embrace of the tiny coffeeshop. There were some delights to be found in this modern era, and the fragrant roasted beans, conveniently found on every corner, were at the top of her list.

Her favorite barista chuckled at her dramatics before grabbing a white chipped mug and setting it on the wooden counter.

“Your usual?” She teased and Ariadne nodded gratefully.

Whipping off her beanie and freeing her pointed ears, the faery slumped into the cracked vinyl stool with less grace than was expected of her kind. The barista snorted and quickly filled the mug.

Smiling toothily, Ariadne cupped her brown hands around the mug, savoring the warmth and rich earthy smell. Sure, she could use magic to warm herself up, but sometimes it was nice to play mundane.

  

“So, what brings you in today?” The barista asked, cocking her hand on her hip as she leaned against the counter. “Wait, let me guess… still got that gremlin infestation?” 

“It’s gotten worse, they keep multiplying!” Ariadne shuddered. “Demanding little creatures! They were driving me crazy with their incessant demands, and I needed to get out of there for a while.”

She tossed her head back and took a deep swig of the beverage, not minding the scorching temperature.  Feeling much warmer, she took a moment to sweep her coat off her shoulders and tossed her damp silver hair out of her face. Her sensitive ears twitched at the sounds of the barista’s inaudible swallow and Ariadne’s lips quirked into a knowing grin.

  

The barista flashed a shy dimpled smile as she played with the fringe of her apron – she was a pretty little thing, Ariadne thought faintly, with rich onyx skin and tight curls that threatened to devour wayward hands that attempted to touch them without permission. 

If they were anywhere but here, she might’ve spirited the girl away, cocooned her in sheets of golden spider silk with a braided crown of dahlias and peonies nestled atop her head. 

Alas, that was labeled as ‘kidnapping’ nowadays and was heavily frowned upon in modern society. 

“Slow night?” Ariadne asked, peering around the empty shop.

The barista gave her a knowing look. “Yeah, I mean, it’s not like the shop is super popular in the first place, at least with us humans. Folks aren’t real keen on places that welcome supernaturals, y’know?” 

She rubbed her face tiredly. “It’s been real quiet the last few shifts though. Although, I guess that’s to be expected, what with the new laws and restrictions by the Supernatural Regulation department. The boss even got a witch to strengthen the protection spells around the shop, just in case.”

  

“And, what about you?” Ariadne prompted, her voice tinged with concern. “You know how…unreasonable people can be, especially against other humans. The whole ‘cavorting with the enemy’ nonsense.”

  

“I’m a tough girl, I can handle myself.” The barista smiled wryly and flexed a muscle. 

Contemplating how to spin an offer of an emergency amulet into a date without being too obvious – her race did have a reputation to uphold after all – Ariadne was pulled out of her musings when the door crashed open.

A woman rushed into the shop, struggling with a baby carrier and cursing as a flurry of snow surged around her. Frowning, the faery snapped her fingers and the shop door closed gently behind the new customer while the accumulating blanket of snow on the ground evaporated.

  

The woman immediately looked up, her eyes roving across the mostly empty coffeeshop until her eyes caught sight of Ariadne – specifically her pointed tip ears.  A myriad of emotions flowed across her face: relief, determination and hard-bellied desperation that made the faery’s face twist in aversion.

  

The barista coughed and Ariadne quickly schooled her face into something a little less hostile. It wouldn’t do to scare the human and risk her lodging a complaint with the Supernatural Regulation department – they wouldn’t hesitate to bring her in for ‘questioning’. 

Hurrying over, the woman plopped the baby carrier on the bar roughly and the infant inside immediately began to squall, a waterfall of tears streaming down its plump cheeks.

  

“All you do is cry,” The woman, presumably the baby’s mother, snarled. “just shut up for once!”

  

Hackles rising, Ariadne’s amber eyes flashed gold until the barista all but shoved a newly refilled mug of coffee into her hands. Nodding her thanks, she took a long swig, ignoring the woman’s blatant staring and the indiscreet clearing of her throat. 

“Can I help you?” Ariadne finally asked, utter loathing spilling out of her voice.

  

“I need to make a wish.” The woman practically spat the words, ignoring her whimpering child that the barista was soothing. “I heard you’re the person to come to. That you’re quick and discreet.”

  

Ariadne’s eyes roved across the woman; her clothes were slightly worn but of middling quality, the type found in generic department stores. Her blonde hair was a veritable rat’s nest, dark circles bloomed under her eyes and a formula milk stain stood out on the collar of the woman’s shirt.

  

Against her better judgment, something like sympathy slowly unfurled in the faery’s breast for the visibly exhausted mother – until she glared at her child, eyes simmering with anger and resentment. 

Ariadne’s face hardened. “What is it that you desire then, human?”

  

“My name is Ra-” She snapped her mouth shut with a clang of her teeth and Ariadne chuckled darkly. 

The laws could say whatever they wanted but it was still a bad idea to offer your name to a faery, hence why Ariadne still didn’t know the barista’s name even after six months of regularly patronizing the coffeeshop.

  

“I want to be famous.” The woman began instead, her voice growing in excitement. “I want my name in lights, across billboards and movie screens. I don’t want to live in this boring small town anymore, I want everyone in the world to know who I am.”

  

How mundane.

  

Ariadne smiled at her, a slow cruel thing and the barista looked up from the giggling baby in alarm.

  

“Very well, I can do that for you. But, what are you going to offer me in return?”

  

The woman reached inside her coat and pulled out a checkbook. Ariadne snorted and even the barista covered up her laugh with a cough.

  

“If you’ve come all this way to make a deal, you should know my kind doesn’t dabble with those kinds of payments.”

  

The woman flushed a mottled red, fingers twitching from the reprimand. Her baby let out loud giggle as the barista tickled its side and the woman’s face dawned in awareness. Snatching the carrier away from the startled barista, she shoved it towards Ariadne, her face alit with triumph.

  

“I don’t want the brat with me where I’m going. You can have her in exchange for my wish.”

  

The barista made a noise of protest, but Ariadne patted her hand and gave her a reassuring smile.

  

A twist of her wrist and a silver athame appeared in the faery’s hand, the ceremonial blade glistening brightly in spite of the dim lights. Ariadne cut her hand shallowly before offering the blade to the woman. She didn’t hesitate, snatching the athame and slashing her hand open. 

“We have a deal then. The babe in exchange for fame, effective immediately.”

  

The two of them shook, a flash of white light erupting from their joined hands to seal the contract. Moments later, the woman walked out the coffeeshop with a skip in her step and Ariadne sighed, looking at her gurgling new charge.

  

“I can’t believe she gave up her child for fame, of all things. She didn’t even notice that you were intentionally vague in your wording.” The barista scoffed, shaking her head.

  

“That’s what happens when you get too desperate.” Ariadne shrugged. “I get the kid, and she’ll become famous overnight. After getting pulled over with bags of money that just so happen to be missing from the local bank. There’ll be dozens of movie re-enactments and shows with experts trying to decipher how she did it while she sits in jail.”

As if on cue, police sirens sped past the building, rattling the windows. The barista and the faery looked at one another and burst out laughing.

All too soon, it was time to close up the coffeeshop for the evening and Ariadne waited patiently on the stoop, chuckling at the infant’s nonsensical babbling while the barista locked the door behind them.

“Well, that’s it then.” The barista breathed heavily, gazing at the faery with soft expectations. Rubbing her head sheepishly, Ariadne held out a circular disk.

  

“It’s an emergency amulet. You never know when one of those might come in handy.”

  

“What’s in it for you? A faery never does anything for free.” The barista teased. Ariadne’s cheeks flushed red.

  

The barista giggled and took the amulet, ducking down to deliver a quick kiss on Ariadne’s cheek. “I think a date is a fair enough trade. My shift ends tomorrow at three. Say hi to the gremlins for me.”

  

The faery watched bemusedly as the barista pulled off in her car before looking down at her new daughter nestled cozily in the carrier.

  

“Come along now, time to meet your fellow monsters.”

  

Taking a side-step, the two of them re-materialized in front of their home. It was oddly shaped like the letter L, with a sprawling ground level running horizontally while the connected circular tower jutted up several stories towards the sky on the side of the structure. Painted brown to blend in with the forest, it looked remarkably like a giant shoe.

  

“Gremlins, I know you’re still up! Come out and meet your new sibling!”

  

As if on cue, the front door at the “heel” of the shoe-like house opened and a stream of children ran out, their hands and mouths sticky from a late-night snack. They crowded around the newest member of their family, spitting out dozens of questions.

  

“I hope it’s a girl.” The eldest, Moira sniffed, looking every bit of sixteen going on thirty. “You haven’t brought one home in a while, and there’s too much testosterone in the house.” Glaring at the seven boys that outnumbered the three girls. 

“Let’s get her settled first and then I’ll answer your questions.” The girls cheered, glad for reinforcements while the boys groaned. Despite herself, Ariadne grinned as she herded her brood towards the house.

It’d be a pain to get up at the crack of dawn tomorrow to register her newest kid before the Supernatural Regulation department got into a snit and accused her of spiriting away children – again – but the faery wasn’t too concerned.

She had adopted yet another gremlin and gotten herself a date for tomorrow. Not bad for a day’s worth of work.

A native of Rochester, New York, Jade is currently earning an M.S. in User Experience and Interaction Design at Thomas Jefferson University. In between studying like a good student, she devours fairytales and composes fantasy stories. Follow her on Twitter @_JadeWrites

Cover: Amanda Bergloff @AmandaBergloff