THE GOLDEN BIRD by Maya Levine

I will not follow the whims of some mortal. I will not be caught..

In the garden of a much-beloved King, a beautiful golden bird made roost in the highest boughs of the orange tree. She shimmered in the dawn light and glowed in the noontime sun, shining as the moon began to come up and the dusk light turned her wings red. Her song was the sweetest that anyone in the kingdom had ever heard, but she only sang out as she flew round the garden, not close enough to the King’s chambers where he lay, unable to move in his sickness.

‘Ah,’ the King lamented, ‘I must have that Bird sing to me as I sleep.’

Now, the King had married thrice, but each time his wives had died without leaving him a son and heir. At death’s door, only wishing for a few small comforts, the King declared that whatever youth in the castle might catch the bird and bring it to sing for him would receive the kingdom upon his death.

And now the hunters came, though many were forced to give up in the first minutes as the golden Bird circled high above them and darted away from their grasping hands and blunted arrows and myriad traps, merrily whistling a jaunty taunt.

Weeks passed and the King was left without his the Bird. The nights grew warm and balmy and stewards leaned out of the castle windows as the bird slept and tried to get their hands around its throat, but it always awoke in time and flitted away from them like a golden dream. Crows came to nest in the leaves that surrounded the golden Bird, and the Bird shone like the sun against their night sky.

‘Ah,’ the King repeated, ‘now it shall not be long before I see my father again, but all I wish for is the Bird to play my exit.’

The efforts redoubled and the true contenders began to present themselves. The first was a Fowler. He had been raised in the Aviary and could make hunting birds come when he called, but while he was well-versed in the art of control he had never learned to speak the language of the birds. He brought with him a slew of hunting hawks to catch the Bird in their cruel claws without altogether killing her. He released them all with a shrill whistle and the flock took flight, surrounding the Bird and trying to drag her down to earth. But the Bird flew higher and higher and circled around them and sang her tune, calming some of the hawks and evading the others.

‘Bird!’ the Fowler shouted. ‘Warbler! Oriole! Grosbeak! I order you, come down to me! I command your kind, I know your ways—”

But despite his demands, the Fowler could not catch the dazzling creature and returned to the Aviary with no Bird and no kingdom.

The second man was a Trapper, brought up by those that would go far into the woods and bring back game, caught with cages and ropes and sharp metal teeth. He was the most intelligent that the castle had seen in several generations and had even caught the King’s eye a time or two, if only for the King to lament that he had no son such as that, who could bring the woods to heel. The Trapper studied the garden in the burning heat of day and cool humidity of night and learned the Bird’s patterns and favorite places and then began to set his traps.

It was to no avail. If the Trapper was a locked room, then the Bird was air escaping between the door and doorway. Every night the Trapper brushed the gardeners and Spicers out of the way and set the traps anew. Every day, if the Trapper thought he had caught the Bird then really she had disappeared like morning dew.

‘Bird!’ the Trapper furiously cried. ‘I implore you! Fly into my traps, remain there—I have not yet failed, my designs are of the highest quality and I am of the highest regard! Come here, to me! I find your kind, I know your ways—’

The Bird warbled ever louder and circled the turrets of the castle, and so the Trapper was forced to return to his woods with no Bird and no kingdom.

The third was a Poet. His father had been the King’s Bard before the King had retired to his chambers for the last time and had been known for the soft, heartbreaking melodies that he could write.

The Poet had observed the Fowler and Trapper and knew that violent methods and trickery would not work on this dazzling Bird. Instead, he made himself a fixture in the garden. On the burning days he would sleep under the trees or in the herb garden, and as evening shadows began to fall he would alight from the ground and circle the Bird’s favorite tree, listening to her play in the moon and sometimes strumming his lute or singing along. The two of them began to build up a certain camaraderie and even composed new songs together as the stars began to shine. The King could sometimes hear the music from his chambers and was placated for a few hours. It seemed to all that it would not be long before the Bird had been caught and sure enough, the Bird flew lower and lower and sometimes came to light on the Poet’s shoulder.

‘Bird,’ the Poet sighed, ‘beauty, siren, enchantress, will you not come with me into the castle? We are friends, you have known me and now love me—I speak your language, I know your ways—’

‘Ah, Poet,’ the Bird spoke for the first time, ‘if you knew my ways you would know that truly, I cannot go.’

‘My friend, this cannot be!’

‘You, who call yourself my friend—if you knew my ways, you would know that I will not follow the whims of some mortal. I will not be caught.’

And so the Poet was forced to return to the scullery with no Bird and no kingdom.

Now the King began to despair. He could feel death’s shadow looming over him and only wished for a bit of comfort. The castle and kingdom rocked with discomfort, unsure of who was to inherit when the King finally passed. ‘Who?’ the whispers came, ‘who can do it? Who can possibly do it?’

The Spicer had been watching these affairs for quite some time from her place in the garden, and finally she decided to try her hand. She saved her crusts of bread to attract the Bird to herself. The Bird was proud and would not be wooed by these pathetic things, so the Spicer mixed up her sweetest herbs in the concoctions that the old aunts had once taught her and hummed some feeble melodies into the sweet-smelling summer air. On nights like these the mixtures were most potent and the Bird could not help but come to their call.

‘Will you not come?’ the Spicer asked. ‘It is all the King desires, and he has been a good man and ruler. We all love him. Will you not come? It would give him a last bit of happiness.’

The Bird let out her cruel, lovely laugh.

‘Ah, Spicer, I cannot go. I will not let myself be trapped, or sing at the beck and call of these tiresome humans, who hunt and trap and put out honey that is vinegar in disguise. The King’s happiness? What of my desire? It is all I want, just a bit of freedom.’

And the Spicer began to understand. She stroked the miraculous Bird for a few moments, tugged at the feathers, and then threw her potion into the night outside, letting the Bird go free.

The next night the Spicer went to the King’s chambers. ‘I have caught the Bird!’ she declared.
The chambers went into an uproar that a lowly Spicer had dared to say such a thing. They demanded that she show the Bird to them and that the Spicer bade her to sing.

The Spicer shook her head, heart beating fast but refusing to show her fear. ‘I have caught her, yes, but let her go.’

‘Let her go?’ a Steward cried. ‘Foolish maid, you have lost the King his hope!’

‘Liar!’ another called.

‘Insolent!’

‘Traitor!’

The Spicer pulled from her apron the golden feather she had tugged from the Bird’s coat the previous night. She thrust it towards them and it gleamed in the dull candlelight and in the moonlight pouring in from the window. The King’s attendants balked at it and the Spicer marched through them and to the King’s bedside.

‘A gift for you,’ she murmured.

Bones cracking, the King began to sit up and reach out a wizened hand. ‘A gift, my child?’

‘Come, my King. To the window.’

And slowly, slowly, the young Spicer helped the old King from his deathbed and brought him to the window, where the golden Bird flew down from the top of the orange tree, alighted on the windowsill, and began to sing a song of such longing and joy that no one in the room could help but to cry.

Cry the King did, but laugh he did also, at having his last wish fulfilled. He declared the Spicer the heir to the kingdom and ordered his Stewards to bring him a simple chair.

‘This cannot be,” they said, “she has not caught the bird. What ruler will she be if she is too soft-hearted to bring a bird to heel?’

‘What kind of ruler is one that ignores the pleas for freedom?’ the Spicer scornfully asked. ‘I shall listen, and I shall judge fairly. I will not let the whims of the high-born govern all lives in the kingdom. Neither I nor the King need a throne. All that we need is a wooden chair, from which we can watch all inhabitants live peacefully and happily.’

‘This Spicer speaks the truth,’ the King said, and demanded the chair once again. It was brought to him and he sat on it for the rest of the night, listening to the Bird, until the morning came, the King finally passed, and the Bird flew away to Who-Knows-Where.

Maya Levine lives in Palo Alto, California, and is from Chicago, Illinois. She has published two stories in the Leyla Beban Short Story Contest, and will have work featured in MoonPark Review and the Eating Disorders Project this fall.

Cover Art: "Zar Ptitsa" by Georg Oskarovich,1922, Wikimedia Commons
Layout: Amanda Bergloff

THE OFFENSE OF SHADOWS by Alexander Zalben

It was that halfway point when the fairies had just begun to wake up 
that it was easiest to catch them...

“The best time for catching fairies is dawn, but right after sunset is a good second option.”

Carlos saw his son smile, and he smiled back. It was late for the five-year-old to be awake, but it was summer and he had no school the next day. Plus, it was a perfect night: warm, but not clammy; the breeze cool, but not too strong.

They entered the large park at the center of town by its main entrance, and Carlos squeezed his son’s hand. Carlos’ own father had taken him fairy-catching as a child, but this was his first time taking Sebastian. It felt like a special moment, a memory he wanted to hold onto for a long time.

The moon was full and shining, illuminating the leaves of the trees in the park with a crisp silver, the shadows playing delicately on the ground. On the horizon, the sun had just set, and the edge of the world glowed a deep purple. It was that halfway point when the fairies had just begun to wake up, still sluggish from their slumber, that it was easiest to catch them.

Carlos stopped at a bench, and picked up Sebastian, carefully plopping him down on the slats. Then he took off his backpack, zipped it open and pulled out two jars. He handed one to his son, and took the other for himself.

“The trick is to let them go into the jar, rather than chasing after them. You don’t want to scare them off.”

Taking Sebastian’s hand again, they walked a few feet away from the bench, and then stood, still and silent.

They waited like that for a minute, until Carlos saw the first fairy.

“Over there,” he whispered. He pointed to a bush off the main path. At first, there was nothing. Then the leaves glowed, a bright tinkling blue. Another light, purple this time. Then pink, and red, until the entire bush was lit up brighter than a Christmas tree.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Carlos asked, and immediately flashed back to long nights spent chasing fairies with his father. When Carlos was young, his father was never there, always working or going out with friends, leaving him alone for quiet, angry dinners at home. Yet somehow, when the weather became warm and the days long, he would always find time to take Carlos to the park.

Now Carlos was sharing this with his own son, and his heart filled with joy.

Beckoning Sebastian to follow, they creeped through the wet grass towards the glowing bush. Carlos could feel the tops of the blades tickling his legs just above his socks.

When they had drawn close enough to the bush that they could almost reach out and touch the leaves, Carlos slowly, quietly screwed open the top of the jar. They could see the fairies clearly now. Underneath the glow, they were about an inch tall, completely smooth and naked. They flew on wings that reminded Carlos of a dragonfly. Their miniscule hands ended in fingers so tiny they almost didn’t exist, and feet with toes the same.

Gently, Carlos edged his body closer to one, its blue glow illuminating his hands. He held the lid of the jar ready in one hand, the jar in the other.

Then, in one quick movement, he scooped the surprised fairy up in the jar, and shut the lid.

The rest of the fairies scattered at the noise, flying away through the park. Carlos held the jar to eye level to make sure he had, in fact, caught the fairy. He could see the nervous creature flitting around inside, and turned to show his son.

“Look, Seb, the first fairy of the summer!”

Sebastian was gone.

That couldn’t be right, of course. Sebastian had been right behind him, and they were in the middle of a park with no real places to hide. There was no way the boy could have disappeared so quickly.

“Sebastian!” Carlos called. Panic rose in his gullet, pictures of the boy lying dead, or worse. “Sebastian!”

“He’s with us now,” a tiny voice whispered, so small it was barely even there.

Carlos looked down at the jar and was surprised to see the fairy looking up at him, the tips of its lips curled up in an approximation of a smile. He brought the jar up to eye level, and looked, disbelieving, at the fairy.

“He’s safe,” the fairy said with a voice like a pinprick. “Happy, even. With us.”

“Give him back,” Carlos said, choking back a wail of terror.

“No.”

The fairy sat down on the bottom of the jar, its wings fluttering idly.

“Give him back,” Carlos repeated, anger now bubbling through his veins. “Or I’ll smash you on the ground.”

“What do you think we would do to him, then?”

The fairy’s laugh sounded like breaking glass.

“I’ll let you go,” Carlos said, now almost in tears.

“What’s done is done,” the fairy whispered.

“Why?” Carlos asked. “Why take my son?”

“Why do you step on shadows?” the fairy asked.

Carlos flashed to the park, his father’s tall shadow looming ahead of him in the moonlight. He would jump on the head of the shadow, and his father would laugh, a deep, booming sound that filled Carlos’ young heart.

“I don’t understand,” Carlos said, but he thought perhaps he did.

They sat in silence for a moment, and then the fairy stood up, fluttering its wings.

“There is something else to trade.”

“Anything,” Carlos said desperately.

“We keep your son...”

The fairy paused as if it was thinking, but Carlos was sure it had already planned this in advance.

“...And in exchange, we’ll let you see your father.”

Carlos couldn’t comprehend what they were offering. His son, for his father? Would they bring him back from the dead? What did it even mean?

“I have my memories of my father, that’s enough,” Carlos said bitterly.

“Your absent father who ignored and hated you? The one who resented you for ruining his life? You have no memories. No good ones, at least.”

“I remember summer nights with him. I remember him putting his work away, and running through the park. I remember him laughing and throwing me in the air, then lying on our backs and counting stars. I remember all of that.”

“Do you?” the fairy asked with a twinkle in its eye.

Carlos thought about his father, the time they had spent together. But the harder he thought, the further the pictures in his mind got, until he felt like he was grasping at gossamer threads.

He remembered now, far more clearly: sneaking out at night after his father fell asleep, usually on his desk with the lamp still on, the scent of alcohol deep on his breath; taking one of the jars of moonshine his father liked to brew, dumping it out, going to the park on his own. He remembered seeing a bush filled, with fairies, and—

“I made a deal with you,” Carlos said, wonder and horror filling his voice. “I caught one of you. It was you. I... Caught you.”

The fairy said nothing.

Carlos had caught that very same fairy, and it had promised him, not nights with his father, because they couldn’t give him that. But memories of those nights, sweet and warm and full of joy. In exchange, he promised them something in return.

“I didn’t know,” Carlos cried. “I was a boy myself! How could I know?”

“A promise is a promise,” the fairy whispered. “But perhaps we can make another deal in return?”

“Give me back my son,” Carlos wailed, falling to his knees.

“We can give you something else,” the fairy said. “Free me and I will send you back.”

“I just want my son,” Carlos whispered.

“If I send you back,” the fairy said, “you’ll never have a son to begin with. You won’t remember. But you will have your father.”

“It’s all a lie.”

“It’s not a lie if you don’t know,” the fairy said, and Carlos knew it was too late, the decision had been made for him.

He unscrewed the top of the jar, and the fairy stretched its tiny arms, then flew out the top of the jar and hovered even with Carlos’ face.

“I have to,” Carlos wheezed, “I have to choose this.”

The fairy smiled once more, then tossed bright, blue dust in Carlos’ face. “You always do,” it said.

Carlos blinked once, and when his eyes opened he saw he was standing next to a park bench. The night was warm, and sweat pitted on his upper lip. A large hand held a jar towards him. He took it.

“The best time for catching fairies is dawn,” his father said, and took his hand as they began to walk into the park. “But right after sunset is a good second option.”

Alexander Zalben is the author of multiple comic books for Marvel, including the all-ages series "Thor and the Warriors Four." For the past decade he's hosted the live show and podcast Comic Book Club, which has been profiled in the New York Times. He currently works as Managing Editor at Decider.com, with previous bylines on TV Guide, MTV News and more.

Cover: Amanda Bergloff

TAKING LEAVE by Connor Sassmannshausen

You will not keep me from my home, my throne, or my husband...

Persephone walks through the forest on the warm summer evening, a basket on her hip. Her mother has done beautifully this summer, with the flourishing fruit trees and the blooms along the forest floor. She stops at a low hanging branch, plucking a few apples from its foliage. It's unfortunate that her mother will go into mourning come dawn.

She continues on into the forest until she finds a picnic set out before her. Her husband waits for her, and he stands when he sees her. She smiles as she looks him over.

Hades is dressed as always, in the dark robes of his position as King of the Underworld. He sweeps her into an embrace, towering over her. She wraps her free arm around him, chuckling into his shoulder. She pushes back, looking up at him. He cradles her face in his hands, kissing her softly.

"I've missed you," he murmurs against her lips.

"And I you, my love," she replies.

He takes her hand and leads her over to the blanket he's set out for them. She takes a seat, as he pours each of them a glass of Dionysus' best wine. When he sits, she shifts to recline against his chest. They sit quietly for a while, watching the sun sink below the horizon.

"Do you know what today marks?" Persephone asks Hades.

"Two hundred years since our marriage," he replies with a smile.

"And two hundred and one since I snuck into the Underworld."

Hades chuckles. "Darling, you didn't make it past Cerberus."

"Fault a girl for getting distracted by a puppy."

He laughs at that, and she smiles. Cerberus was far from a puppy, even back then, towering three times the height of a man, with three heads. When he'd tried to attack her, she'd hit one face right on the nose, and it had startled him so badly they had all backed off.

When he had the courage to come toward her again, she began to pet him. When Hades had come to check on his guard dog, the beast was on his back, with Persephone sitting on his chest, giving him a belly rub. He had invited her inside, and she'd stayed with him for a while until her mother almost caused a war to get her back. And because of that, she could only spend half the year with her husband, reigning the Underworld by his side.

As the night rolls in, they pack up their picnic and make their way to the cave that would take them home. Before they reach it, they find their path blocked by Demeter and a number of guards.

"Daughter," the goddess says. "I will not allow this to continue any longer."

Hades steps forward, but Persephone takes his arm, pulling him back. She steps forward instead. "It's my time to return to the Underworld, Mother, as was decided long ago."

"He stole you and tricked you into staying with him."

"I have told you many times before, he did no such thing. I went to the Underworld myself and chose to stay. There was no trickery, no coercion. He is my husband, and the only reason I stay away from him so long is because of Zeus's order. Now, let us pass."

Persephone takes her husband's hand, leading him forward, only to have Demeter tear her away. Hades extends his arms, summoning his two-pronged bident. The guards around Demeter draw swords to protect their charge. With a howl, three hellhounds burst from the cave, and some of the guards turn to defend against them.

"Enough!" Persephone shouts, and the hounds' ears perk up at her voice, tails wagging slightly. She pulls her arm free of Demeter's grasp. "Do not lay a hand on me again, Mother." Power she rarely uses outside the Underworld thunders around her.

The guards are in such a state of shock, the three hellhounds slip passed them to stand around Persephone's feet. Demeter takes a step back, as the hounds push her away from their mistress.

"I am the Queen of the Underworld," Persephone says. "You will not keep me from my home, my throne, or my husband. My time away has ended. I will return as always in six months' time. If you ever try to stop me again, I will take the slight to Zeus."

She tosses her hair over her shoulder, stepping toward the cave to the Underworld. The guards part, and Demeter doesn't protest. One guard reaches out to take Persephone's arm, but one of the hellhounds snaps its mighty jaw at his hand and he jerks back. Persephone glances back at her husband, seeing a grin on his face, as he follows after her.

He steps up beside her, snaking an arm around her waist, as he presses a kiss to her temple. "I love when you don't hide who you are," he says into her hair. "I hate it when you put on the innocent face for her."

"Maybe when next I leave, I'll simply show her who I am, now," Persephone tells him.

The back of the cave falls away, opening into the entrance to her beloved home. Charon waits for them with his ferry along the river Styx to take them home. He bows his head, placing his hand across his chest. "Welcome home, my Queen."

She takes the hand he offers, stepping onto the ferry. The boat takes them inside, pausing to greet Cerberus with a belly rub. When they arrive at the steps of the palace, the Fates, the Furies, the goddess Styx, and many of her other friends are awaiting her.

Styx rushes up to her, embracing her. "Welcome home, Persephone."

Persephone looks around, with a smile on her face. "It's good to be home."

Connor Sassmannshausen is an American author based in Australia. When not writing stories of all types, she enjoys traveling and taking things apart (but not necessarily putting them back together). Her dream is to have a pet dragon, but seeing as that's unlikely, she'll go with seeing the world.

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/csassmannshausen/

Twitter: @sass_connor

Instagram: @sass.connor

Cover Art: Thomas Francis Dicksee, 1895, Wikimedia Commons

Layout: Amanda Bergloff

THE SOUND SEEKER by Heather Newton

He began to untwist the sound, gently so its strands wouldn't break...

There was once a Sound Seeker who could find lost sounds: the burble of a long-dry spring, the trill of spring peepers to cheer a winter’s day, the splash of a stone skipped six-times on childhood water. If he walked, and was quiet, the sounds would come to him like birds, sometimes in minutes, sometimes in days. Once, it took a year to find a boy’s sweet soprano, lost after his voice changed. When the Sound Seeker found it, the voice was tired and hungry but excited with stories to tell. The client, the boy’s mother, wept with happiness.

The Sound Seeker could find any sound, but words--lost, misheard or forgotten--were his mainstay. Promises mouthed across a crowded train platform as the train blew its whistle, endearments murmured at waking when the ears weren’t primed to understand, wisdom spoken in a visitation dream then lost when the sleeper rolled over on the pillow. “It’s the change of position,” he cautioned. “The slosh of brainal fluids washes the dream away. Lie still and remember before you move.”

His clients sought lyrics to songs, that one ingredient to a secret family recipe, directions to treasure they had buried, but mostly these words: “I love you.”

“Those three little syllables seem to get misplaced more than any others,” he would say. “They are quite my bread and butter.”

It was those three words which led a woman to the Sound Seeker’s shop on a sultry summer afternoon. The heat had caused her to remember a night long ago, when she and her lover made love in the park across from her mother’s house, she on his lap, her striped dress pulled up above her thighs, streetlamps illuminating the park’s fountain but allowing her and her friend the cover of shadow.

Walking back, her lover took her hands and danced her along the middle of the road.  He said something to her in Spanish, a language he knew from his travels. She didn’t catch it and asked him to repeat it but he wouldn’t. If he had, she might have understood. She knew the word amor and could have listened for it on second repetition. But he wouldn’t speak, perhaps already regretting the utterance, if what he said was in fact “I love you.”

She had forgotten that night, and that lover, but as today’s humidity tugged her hair into curls, she felt a searing longing for both.

The bell over the door tinkled when she entered the Sound Seeker’s shop. He was speaking to another customer, a bereft young man. “I cannot help you if your father never spoke the words.” The young man ducked past the woman and out the door, in tears.

The woman told the Sound Seeker what she wanted.

“Since the words were spoken in another tongue, I will have to unbend them when I find them, in order for you to understand,” he said. “There will be a small additional charge.”

She readily agreed, and the Sound Seeker set off in search of her lover’s words. He found them easily, in a tree near the park where they were first spoken. He coaxed them down and sent a message to the woman to come for them.

When she arrived at the shop, the Sound Seeker was holding her lover’s words. “Are you sure you want to hear them?” he asked. “I cannot be responsible if he was asking you to pass the milk.”

The woman held still for a moment, considering her choice.

When her lover left that night for a three-month voyage, she was important to him. When he returned, she wasn’t. She met his ship thinking she would have him to herself. The smell of tropical travel was strong on his body. He had her drive the carriage to a homecoming party for his traveling companions. At the party was the ship captain’s young daughter, whom he had comforted on their travels when a local man overstepped his bounds and frightened her. The woman’s lover had saved the girl and she worshiped him. He liked being worshiped.

The woman’s lover had spoken his words to her in summer and they dissipated on a humid breeze. If he had uttered them in winter, maybe they would have frozen in the air, long enough for her to hear him say he loved her.

She nodded to the Sound Seeker and he began to untwist the sound, gently so its strands wouldn’t break with their bending back.

The woman leaned close, cupping her ears. This time, she would not miss the words.

Heather Newton’s novel, Under The Mercy Trees, (HarperCollins 2011) won the Thomas Wolfe Memorial Literary Award, was chosen by the Women’s National Book Association as a Great Group Reads Selection and named an “Okra Pick” by the Southern Independent Booksellers Alliance. She teaches creative writing for UNC-Asheville’s Great Smokies Writing Program and is Program Manager for the Flatiron Writers Room literary center in Asheville, NC.  www.heathernewton.net
https://www.flatironwritersroom.com

Cover: Amanda Bergloff