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contentsLetter from the editors p3The Ice Baby by Carys Bray p4illustrated by Scott NellisNettie’s Tale by Cathrin Hagey p9illustrated by Daria HlazatovaPhoenix Song by David R Morganillustrated by Julie Vermeillep14Dollface by Alex Woods p17illustrated by Fiona McDonaldRescued by Ruby Ebrahim p21illustrated by Laura CarterThe Giant’s Last Feast p22by Frederick Hilaryillustrated by Laure-Kate ChapmanWater Sprite by Vivien Jones p28illustrated by Evelina SilberlaintVelvet by Tim Mook Sang p33illustrated by Yuki NishimuraThe River of the Fire of Life p36by Francesca Forrestillustrated by Rosie Lauren SmithList of contributors p43Cover illustration by Evelina SilberlaintCreature from the Curiosity Cabinet p47This page ‘Winter’ by Julie Vermeilleby Particle Issue 6 Articlewww.newfairytales.co.uk - 2 -

Letter from the editorsMarina Warner has said metamorphosis defines the fairy taleand in this issue several of our tales and poems centre ontransformation: a baby is carved from ice; a giant sheds hisskin; a girl’s new form enables her to escape oppression. Itis the possibility of transformation, of one thing becominganother, that gives even the darkest fairy tale a spark ofhope.The fairy tale form itself has undergone manytransformations, from oral tales told by the fireside toliterary tales written and rewritten and retold and reinventedin many different ways. As Maria Tatar said recently: ‘theyare always changing’. And we’re about to undergo atransformation here at New Fairy Tales. We will still bepublishing online, but in new and varied ways. Our bi-annualmagazine will be replaced by a series of electronicchapbooks, published on a quarterly basis: some will beopen to submissions, others will be by invitation.There will be no change in our enthusiasm for bringingtogether good writing and beautiful illustrations, but we’rekeen to explore new mediums and innovative ways ofworking. So, whatever changes we bring about, we hopeyou’ll join us in our continuing exploration of the potentialand possibilities of new fairy tales.Claire, Andy, Anna and FayeNovember 2010‘The Procession’ by Nom KinnearkingIssue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 3 -

The Ice Babyby Carys BrayIt was Winter Solstice in the North Country and a day asdark as the inside of an eyelid had imperceptibly stretchedinto night. Jens was supposed to be in the hall with therest of the villagers watching the Mayor light the Yule Log,but he’d slipped away. Liv wouldn’t notice, he decided. Shewas cradling their newest nephew, smiling carefully,determined to make a performance of happiness to anywho might pity the ‘mother and child’ tableau in which shewas caught.Jens’s reindeer skin boots crunched along thepowdery crust of fresh snow that glowed yellow in thewarm light of his clockwork torch. Tree skeletons crowdedeither side of the path until he reached the fjord where aworld of slate-darkness and sparkle opened out in front ofhim. He switched off the torch to enjoy the black of skyand shadow. He looked at the outline of the snow-wrappedmountains piling in the distance and the smudge-light ofthe moon, reflected in the frozen fjord. He could breatheproperly here. He sat down on a hump of snow-coveredrock. The air sliced in and out of him, cauterising histhoughts, making things clearer, cleaner and lesscomplicated. In the spring when the fjord melted, both heand Liv would leave the island and travel to town. Theywould visit the hospital there. At the hospital pieces of bothof them could be mixed up and made into a baby. Lots ofpeople did it. Liv didn’t want to, but he would persuadeher.On the way back to the village hall, Jens’s torchcaught the edge of something slightly off the path and hepaused to stroke light over it. He was familiar with featherice and candle ice, with aufeis sheets and pancake ice.He’d even seen ice discs once as a boy; he’d watched thethin, perfect circles spinning leisurely like compact discs inthe slow moving river. But he’d never seen anything quitelike the piece of ice at the side of the path. It was perfectlyround and slightly larger than a football. It was like agiant, glass hailstone. Jens knelt in the snow and ran hisgloved hands over it. He gave it a tentative push. It washeavy, but manageable. He put the clockwork torch in hisjacket pocket, lifted the ice ball up to his stomach andwalked slowly and carefully along the familiar twists of thepath home.Jens carried the ice ball straight to his workshopwhere he examined it in the fluorescent-bright light. He feltthe familiar squirming of creativity in his stomach, thetwitching in his hands and the casting of his thoughts as heunlatched his tool box. While he’d been carrying the ball hehad wondered how it might feel to finally see Liv expandingwith their child; to see her moving slowly and carefullythrough the snow. And that was when he’d decided. As hewalked around the sphere of ice resting on his workbench,pretending to consider other possibilities, he already knewwhat was inside it, just as he did when he sculpted wood.And he was right. Every chisel was perfect. It seemed thatJens was breaking the baby free rather than making her.When it was time to use the knife, it was as if he wasfollowing existing perforations in the ice. He sculpted finelines and decorative cuts across the baby’s forehead,knuckles and toes with a V-tool. And then she was finishedIssue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 4 -

– the thing he wanted most in the world. She was perfect,the most wonderful creation he had ever crafted: diamondbright and flawless.Liv saw the ribbon of light shining under the workshop doorwhen she returned from the Yule celebrations. It was justlike Jens to retreat into work rather than face up to thediscomfort of another family birth. She was about to knockon the workshop door when she heard a strange sound. Itwas a cry, she could tell that much. But the pitch of it wasextraordinary, like nothing she had heard before. Like theshattering of glass. Like a tinkling, splintering explosion.She opened the door without knocking. Jens was standingby his workbench holding something wrapped in his coat.The table was shiny-speckled with splinters of ice andwater puddles.“What’ve you got there?” Liv asked as the jaggedcrying began again.“Shh,” he said. “Look.” He parted the edges of thecoat bundle and lifted it towards Liv.“What have you done?” Liv stared at the glassy babyas it wriggled and cried.“Made us a baby. Made the thing I want most in theworld.” Jens smiled. “Isn’t she beautiful? I’m calling herAsta: it means love.”Liv took the proffered baby and rocked her gently inthe cradle of Jens’s coat. “She’s like glass,” she said. “It’sas if she’s from an old tale, as if she’s from the world of ice– from Niflheim.”“Isn’t she lovely?”“She’s freezing.” Liv felt the cold of Asta’s backcreeping through the layers of Jens’s coat and her ownjacket sleeve.“Don’t worry about that.” Jens wafted a hand at Livin a return-of-serve gesture. “I can’t believe I made her.Look at her toes! Aren’t they tiny? And look at her ears. Allthe whorly, curly, foldy bits – they’re like little flowers.”The cold was beginning to burn Liv’s arm. She handedAsta back.“What will we do with her, Jens?”He nodded towards the sheet-covered pile in thecorner of the workshop. “Get the baby stuff out,” he said.Liv pulled the sheet away from the carefullyarranged baby items that she and Jens had made over theyears: a crib, highchair, playpen, rocking horse and a boxof expertly fashioned toys, all crafted for a child who hadno existence outside of their imaginations.“The crib, fetch the crib. That’s right.” Jens liftedAsta into the crib. “There.”“Shall we carry the crib into the house?” Liv asked.Jens looked shocked. “Don’t be silly,” he replied.“She’ll get hot in there. You fetch me the sleeping bag andsome blankets and I’ll sleep out here with her.”Jens slept in the workshop with Asta all winter. During theday time he placed her in the playpen on a supermarketfreezer bag. He talked and sang to her while he worked.Liv helped with the less intricate carving. When they had abreak she put on thick gloves and a ski jacket so that shecould pick Asta up.Sometimes Liv looked sad, but Jens was certain shewould get used to being a mother eventually, some womenIssue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 5 -

“Sleeping Beauty,” Liv hit back. “It wouldn’t be fair,Jens.”Spring came early to the North Country that year. By mid-April it was above freezing and Jens was unprepared. Astabegan to melt. Jens retrieved the ice packs from the coolbox, froze them and placed them under Asta in theplaypen. He brought an electric fan down from the loft andarranged it to blow bracing air at her, but she lay limply inthe workshop as the temperature increased.If this was one of Liv’s fairy tales, Jens thought,something would happen. He didn’t know what, but itwould be something. He thought the thoughts that parentsthink as their children are dying. He made the bargainsthat parents make, fought the helplessness that parentsfeel, but Asta continued to melt in the warmth. And as shemelted it seemed to Jens that her glassy face was streakedwith tears.“Look. Look.” He held Asta up so that Liv could see.“It’s spring, Jens.” Liv said. “What did you thinkwould happen?”“Don’t you care at all?”Liv studied Jens carefully. “Yes, of course I do. Icare that you’re upset. But she isn’t a real baby.”“She is to me.”Jens shooed Liv out of the workshop. Asta wasdying, dissolving in his arms. He felt a break at the edgesof his heart. He struggled for breath as the fracturefissured, splitting through him like a fault line. He knewthat he would never feel joy again: it would catch on thecracks – go against the grain of him. Despair ragedthrough his capillaries. Furious tears scorched his cheeks.Anger blistered across his forehead and temples. He wasboiling hot with sorrow: as hot as Muspelheim, he thought.Liv was so used to the tinkle and shatter of Asta’s cry thatthe full-blooded baby-howls frightened her. She dashed outto the workshop and found Jens, sprawled in front of thedoor with a pink, wailing baby tucked into one wilting arm.His lips were blue, his eyes glassy.“What’s happened?” Liv cried. “Whose is this baby?What’s wrong? Get up!”Jens smiled at Liv and directed her attention to thebaby with his watery eyes.“What? What do you want?” Liv put a hand to hishead. He was cold and clammy. “Are you breathing – canyou hear me?” She ran her hands down his arms andacross his chest. He was freezing wet.“I gave her my heart,” he whispered. “Hot and cold –I made a life...”Liv made a furious noise that was somewherebetween a disbelieving laugh and a wail. The baby stoppedcrying and looked at her curiously.“Asta?” Liv lifted the baby out of Jens’s arm. She waswarm and soft and clinging.Jens closed his eyes.At first Liv felt nothing. She pretended Jens was in theworkshop fulfilling a particularly demanding commission.As spring warmed to summer, she fumed. She seethed asshe harvested wild cloudberries, Asta’s warm bulk danglingfrom the baby-carrier. She set herself pointless challenges:if I collect enough cloudberries to make jam, he will comeback; if I just keep going until the first snow, everythingIssue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 7 -

will be all right again. By the time the snow began to fall inearly October, she was indifferent. She held Asta up to theworkshop window to watch the floating flakes; Asta wasentranced, but Liv stared beyond the snow flurry, into thepast where Jens lived in her memories.Despite Liv’s preoccupation, baby Asta loved hermother with a whole-hearted, unconditional affection.“That little girl is so loving,” people observed.Liv’s reply was always the same: “She has herfather’s heart.”“Oh, what a lovely thing to say,” people replied.As winter thickened, Liv became resigned to lifewithout Jens. Love for Asta filled her chest like a slowlyproving loaf. She grew to love Asta’s hearty cries andwarm gaze, her merry smiles and exploring fingers. Sheheld Asta on the rocking horse and listened to the sway ofher laughter. She sat Asta in the highchair and fed hertoast-fingers, spread with sweet, cloudberry jam. Shewrapped her in snug layers and carried her down to thefjord, where Asta liked to sit and watch the ice-hardwinter-sparkle of the water.It was on the way back from the fjord with Asta oneday that Liv had the idea. Now that her grief was small andhard enough to see past and swallow around, there wasspace for her imagination to operate. When she got homeshe went on the internet and ordered the largest chestfreezer she could find. She also ordered enough insulating,aluminized bubble wrap to make into several pairs oftrousers and shirts.And so, on Winter Solstice, when a day as dark asthe inside of her eyelids had imperceptibly stretched intonight, Liv left Asta in the village hall with her extendedfamily and crunched through the deep snow along the pathto the fjord. Lighting the way with Jens’s clockwork torch,she searched for a ball of ice larger than the one that hehad described, hoping to sculpt it into the thing she wantedmost in the world.illustrated by Scott NellisIssue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 8 -

y Cathrin HageyNettie was a fair girl underneath the grease-slicked soil ofher outer skin. Her hair, if washed, would have shone likethe autumn moon. Her skin, if caressed, would haveglowed like hot coals beneath a blanket of snow. Nettielived with a foul-smelling, toothless man called Uncle.Whether or not he truly was her uncle was not importantbecause he was the only caregiver Nettie had ever known.Uncle sent Nettie out collecting every day. If Nettiereturned with sellable wares she ate a crust of bread or ahard biscuit and was allowed to sleep in peace. If she didnot return with sellable wares Nettie was sent to forageand sleep in the alley, where restless men and beyond-allhopewomen roamed, none of whom appeared to everrequire a good night’s rest.One dreary day, when the sky was smudged out andrain spattered like shrapnel against the road, Nettie set outto collect things for Uncle. She did her best to avoid Nick,the young thief who lived in the next hovel. Nettie hadknown Nick since they were both knee high to a mangydog. Nick loved to torment Nettie; and Nettie, for her part,ran at the sight of him.Nettie walked with her head held low against thestinging needles of rain. She hoped to find a bit of cloth tosew into her tattered dress, a bit of cloth Uncle might allowher to keep for once. It needn’t be fine.At the end of the day when Nettie returned to Uncle’shovel she carried an empty spool, a half penny, two smallbottles, an ancient slipper for the left foot and a crackedchina doll’s head. She carried the wares, except for thehead, which she hoped to keep for herself, within a fold ofher dress which was lifted up to reveal two rough feet andtwo red legs.Nick spat when he spied her coming. “She can’t havemuch there,” he said to no one. “Only her shins areshowing.”Nettie never saw him coming. Nick flew from hishovel, a battering windstorm of a boy.“Go away,” cried Nettie, “or I’ll call Uncle.”“Call him if you like,” said Nick, licking his lips at thesight of the bottles.“I will,” said Nettie, softly.“No you won’t. You’re afraid of him same as everyoneelse.”Nettie wasn’t sure whether Nick meant that she wasafraid of everyone or that everyone was afraid of Uncle.But then she thought, with great sadness, that both weretrue.Nick helped himself to the bottles, the slipper, thespool and the half penny. “Thank you milady.” He bowedIssue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 9 -

low, gave Nettie a shove, and ran off barking with delight.Nettie was afraid to go back to Uncle’s empty handed,but she had nowhere else to go. Uncle’s hovel was a damp,windowless rat hole; but it was her only home. Nettiecrawled through the doorway until Uncle pulled her up bythe hair, growling, “What did you bring me?”Nettie described the things she had found and carriedhome, except for the doll’s head which she kept hiddenbetween her legs. Nettie prayed that Uncle wouldn’t findthe doll’s head.“You’re lying,” said Uncle in a sinister whisper thatbarely escaped his spongy lips.Nettie shook her head back and forth and held herbreath. The blows that followed were half-hearted. EvenUncle was weary of the task. When it was over, Nettie wastossed into the street. She saw Nick one last time beforenightfall, as the sun sank behind a jumble of hovels throwntogether like wooden crates in a rubbish heap.“Beware of the bogeys!” shouted Nick from hiswindow.Nettie settled in between two barrels at the back of adrinking establishment. The doll’s head was warm in itsnest between her legs. She reached under her dress andpulled it out. Two painted blue eyes looked out from a purewhite face. Tiny cracks in the cheeks gave it an impishlook. She cradled the head in her arms and rocked it untilher own head came to rest against her shoulder.As Nettie slept, a black cat wound along the alley,avoiding a rivulet of filthy water that drained along oneside. It saw Nettie and froze. The doll’s head stared outfrom the middle of the child as if it were the face of deathitself. The cat remained frozen until it was convinced thatthe glowing thing wasn’t really alive.Nettie awoke to the feeling of something rubbingagainst her. The alley was dark and she cried out a littlebecause she was frightened, forgetting her cries were morelikely to bring foe than friend.The cat said, “It’s only me. Don’t be afraid.”Issue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 10 -

“Who are you?” whispered Nettie.Before the cat could reply, a man and a womantumbled through a gap in a far wall. The cat hid behind abarrel while Nettie tucked the doll’s head back under herdress. The man caught sight of her as she did so. He said,“What you got litt’l miss?”The woman at his side clucked, “Poor wee thing – notlikely to last the night, is she? Let’s take her with us.”Nettie shuddered but she held her tongue.“Show me wot you got, dammit!” The man’s lipssmacked together like two raw fish.Just then the black cat stepped out from behind thebarrel. In those days many people believed a meeting witha black cat in the dead of night was a bad omen. The manand the woman each had a lifetime of bad luck behindthem. They weren’t inclined to invite more, so they trottedaway down the alley as fast as the woman’s swollen legsallowed.When the man and the woman were gone, the catpurred, “What happened to the rest of your doll?”Nettie brought the precious doll’s head out from underher dress and cradled it as if it were alive and its lifedepended on her. She didn’t say anything, but her actionstold the cat all it needed to know. The girl had found adoll’s head and it was more valuable to her than were ahundred dolls to the Royal Princess.“Poor thing,” said the cat, thinking of Nettie.Nettie heard and thought the cat meant the doll.“Yes,” she agreed, “she needs me.”“Does she?” purred the cat. It rubbed its whiskeryface against Nettie’s cold feet. “You are only a girl, and apoor one at that. Someday you will drop the doll’s head, orlose it.”“I won’t,” cried Nettie.“You won’t mean to,” said the cat, “but it will happen,unless ...”Nettie had been staring into the doll’s twinkling eyes,but she looked up. Her own eyes were very sore and sheblinked away the pain as best she could. “Unless what?”she asked.“If you give the doll’s head to me, I will take it to myfriend. My friend is an expert in taking care of doll’s heads,among other things.”“Oh no!” cried Nettie. “She’s mine. She needs me.”“Could you be so heartless as to keep her for yourselfwhen she would be better off somewhere else?” The catwound around the barrels, around Nettie’s legs, and thencame to a stop directly in front of her. Nettie didn’t answer,but she kissed her doll tenderly on its china cheek.“If you allow me to take the doll’s head to my friend, Iwill bring you something in return,” said the cat. Then itlicked the edges of a sore place on its skin.Nettie was far from heartless. She stroked and kissedand bathed the doll with her farewell tears, but she did notput up a fuss – something the cat took note of. And afterhanding her precious doll over to the cat, Nettie curled upand cried herself to sleep.When morning came, a fact that could be told fromthe movement of people in the alley more than thedawning of light in that dark place, Nettie sat up. Her eyeswere glued shut with muck and she used her dress as atowel, rubbing and scraping at herself until she could openthem.An unexpected bobble of light made Nettie look downIssue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 11 -

as soon as she could see again. A gleaming mirror lay onthe cobbles at her feet. It was a hand mirror with smoothglass like a silver pool in the road. Nettie looked around tosee if anyone was watching, and then she picked up themirror and aimed it at a patch of sky. The patch of sky hada brownish hue, but the mirror version was a twinklinggreen jewel. Nettie gasped.A vain girl might have admired herself in that mirror,but Nettie did not. Her first thought was to show the prizeto Uncle who, if he was pleased with her find, might giveher a little more than a mere crust of bread to break herfast. She picked up the gift and shuffled back to Uncle’shovel. Alas, dear Nettie was not to arrive thereunmolested. Nick, the young thief, ambushed her and torethe mirror from her hand.“What’s this?” He doffed his cap and danced a jig.When he looked into the mirror, Nick's eyes widened withfright.“What do you see?” asked Nettie.The ruffian fled, dropping the mirror. Nettie did notmove but watched the mirror float like an autumn leaf,until it hit the ground with a splash. Nettie stared at themirror. Its silver green eye was fixed on the sky.She had heard a splash. Nettie was certain she had.But how could a mirror make such a sound? And why did itnot have even one crack in it after such a fall?Nettie tiptoed toward the mirror. She picked it up andpolished it with her patchwork dress, which became dampfrom the effort. Nettie did not look into the mirror, butwent straight to Uncle’s hovel and offered him her prize.“What the –” Uncle stopped abruptly when he spottedthe gleaming object in the girl’s outstretched hand. “Well,you’ve finally done something worthwhile.” He slapped herhard on the back with one hand while snatching the mirrorin the other. “I think you’ve earned a proper bite to eatthis time.”Nettie thought she saw the cat slink past the opendoorway as she took a bite of biscuit and a sip of tea,though she couldn’t be certain. She moistened the drymorsel in the hot tea and delighted in the smell of it, andthen the taste of it. Nettie smiled. The hovel was, for themoment, a place of peace.The moment didn’t last.“What’s this?” cried Uncle. He gazed at his ownreflection in the mirror. “Is this one of your tricks, girl?”Nettie coughed down the last of her tea. She wasafraid to come to Uncle, and so the great brute of a mancame to her.“Look at this,” he demanded, flailing the mirror beforeNettie’s face.She closed her eyes.“I told you to look!” Uncle pulled Nettie close to himand forced her to open her eyes. She saw at once a mirrorimage of him, looking even more brutish than the flesh andblood version. And while the flesh and blood Uncle wasstanding in his hovel, the mirror image of Uncle was abloated head floating in the sea.“It’s a trick.” Uncle stared, wild eyed, at Nettie. “It’switching.”Nettie looked from the mirror, to Uncle, and backagain. She shook her head.“You’re a witch. I should have seen it before with allthe skulking about you do. You tricked me into sharing myroof and my food.”Issue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 12 -

Nettie ducked under the blow that followed and sawher own reflection in the mirror. In the mirror Nettie hadclean, flowing hair, glowing skin and the sickle tail of afish.Then the image was gone and Nettie was forced,headfirst, into a sack, tied in, thrown over a shoulder andmarched into the street. No one stopped to listen toNettie’s muffled cries. No one begged Uncle to reconsiderduring his breathy, unsteady march to the dock.Nettie couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t see. She knew,in her ignorant way, that the end was coming – the end ofher. She cried a little, but her eyes sealed up and shestopped.Uncle said nothing when he reached the dock andtossed Nettie, and then the mirror, into the foam. Hewatched Nettie and the mirror sink beneath the surface.And then he thought he saw the sickle tail of a large fishflip him farewell.It has been heard tell that a half-girl, half-fish lives in theThames and its myriad tributaries. She isn't exactly amermaid as can be found in other parts, but more of afishy girl, or a girly fish. She has been seen, on rareoccasions, holding a brilliant mirror, which reveals, oddlyenough, along with her own reflection, the heads of amonstrous man and a greedy boy floating endlessly andforever in a deep green sea.illustrated by Daria HlazatovaIssue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 13 -

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Phoenix Songby David R MorganFor the child has hiddenthe bird in the cupboardand all the childrenhear its songand all the childrenhear the musicand eight and eight in theirturn off they goand four and four in theirturn and two and twofade awayand one and one makeneither one nor twobut one and one off they goand the lyre bird singsand the child singsand the teacher shoutsDo the test, do the testyou must do the testbut all the childrenare listening to the musicand the walls of the classroomquietly crumblethe window panes turnonce more to sandthe ink is seathe paper treesand the featherin the ancient quillon displaya bird again soaring skywardIssue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 15 -

illustrated by Julie VermeilleIssue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 16 -

Dollfaceby Alex WoodsConsciousness came to me kind of slowly, like lying on abeach in a lazy tide. But eventually I was all washed up. Iwas awake. On the first day I flexed my little cloth fingers,of which I had two, one on the end of each arm. I had twolittle thumbs as well, nearly as long as the deformedfingers, but fatter and without the delicate bend to them. Iwas permanently giving my world two thumbs up. Theonly other thing I did on that first day was to flex mybrain. I knew some things. I had been something beforeand I am something different now. I knew about life; thatwe, people, lived in houses and I knew the names for allmy little bits and pieces. Of which there was one noticeablylacking. Although I couldn’t yet see, I could feel.On my second day alive I woke in the morning. Thiswas my first morning. Or maybe it was my second-firstmorning. The sun burnt my eyes and I turned over,pushing my oddly sized face into my pillow. I sat upsharply. Burning my eyes? Eyes. The centres of my buttonsswivelled around and around in my head. At first it washard to make anything out. I was aware of a room with aclosed white door at one end, and of a window to my left. Ilooked at my patterned sheets and then focused on myhands until they became clear.Nothing happened for about three days, exceptrestless sleep and waking dreams. I picked uselessly at thestitching up my left arm: it was thin, yellowed twine; uglyand old. My hands had a little more movement to themand I began to wonder if my legs worked yet. My littleIssue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 17 -

cotton suit trousers crinkled upas I bent my legs under my chinand swung over the side of mybed. I stood up. I wasunsteady for a while, my legswobbling beneath me, nearlypitching me over. Straighteningmyself up, I stretched my armsand legs and shook them out,like an Olympic athletepreparing for a forever-longsteeplechase. I walked out ofmy bedroom door.I don’t know what I wasexpecting; a nursing home? Ahospital? A family? I don’tknow, but what I got was ahallway, red carpets, blue/whitewalls and a smooth roof.Opening the door closest to me I stepped through thethreshold with a jerk and fell on my soft face. Walking hasa learning curve. I was scrambling around on the carpettrying to sit up when, with a sudden gush of selfconsciousness,I realized I wasn’t alone.“Hello,” I rasped to the other. She sat, staring blanklyinto the wall. I struggled on. There was nobody else in thewhole house: four bedrooms; two bathrooms, which I hadcome to realise I didn’t need; and a kitchen on the bottomfloor with plastic pans and two plastic steaks.Then She strode into my universe like a whirlwind.She tore the wall off my home and the accompanying gustof wind nearly washed me to the floor. My mouth fell open,not with a dropped jaw but with a peeling back in alldirections, like a flower. I bloomed in total awe of thesuddenly rising sun. She was big and bright and beautifuland clomped along in black hush puppies with little flowerclasps. She hauled me into the air.She was so warm, my brain popped. There was a rushof wool to my head and I was spinning. As the coloursstarted to blur into the back of my cotton skull, my brownbutton eyes closed tightly and I was caught in an unrealburst of excitement, or fear. This is how it feels to belong,This is real. . .I watched Her face in the centre of our vortex, ourcalm eye of the blistering storm. She was not looking back.Then it was over as quickly as it started; laid flat on theplastic bed I saw stars for maybe a year. Am I out ofbreath? I must have lungs now.I knew enough about people to know she was a littlegirl and that she was ‘people’. Which meant I was notpeople. My universe was suddenly placed into perspective.She was a little Girl but so, so big. And so I was small. Thisall came to me as I was standing looking out my plasticbedroom window, staring more at my own reflection thanwhat I later knew to be some sort of playroom. It strikesme that this realisation came over me not like my slowawakening and not like my dawning second-first morning,but like a heart-stopping (I had a heart?) cold-stonedropping (did I have a stomach now?) knee-wobblingcrush.I burned to walk out of the room. I wanted to walk onstreets and crossroads. I wanted to heat my face againstthe pure sun. I wanted to wet real hair under summer rain.I wanted to watch pink blossoms fall prematurely in aIssue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 18 -

quick, cold wind. I wanted a steak, I think. I wanted tochange my surroundings and force an effect on something.Anything. I wanted to be.I collapsed stiffly at the window and turned my faceaway, the brain-dead one staring back at me from wherethe little Girl left her, lying in my bed. She just sat therewith that smile on her face.“You don’t care how long the days are, do you?”She smiled back.The next time the Girl came to play with us I tried toreason with Her. I appealed to Her good nature but Shegiggled and chewed my leg. I tried to bribe Her but I hadnothing She wanted. I tried to chastise Her like a parentbut She ignored my rage and put me in my pretend bed.My deaf-dumb friend was sat on top of Ugly-Dog’s pile ofbricks. The Girl picked her up and brought her over to me.I was sat cross-legged, with my head in my hands whenShe started bumping the girl doll against me.“Stop that.” I said into my palms.She grinned at me; She was missing her two frontteeth. I didn’t know how old she was exactly, but She wasold enough to think the doll and I were husband and wife.What exactly that meant to her I don’t know, but She wasin the habit of leaving us in the same bed and She wasgetting quite upset whenever I kicked Mummy-Doll out ofthe bed, or when I sulked in the other room with the thincotton sheets pulled over my head.It’s just that sleeping next to that corpse washorrifying. I’d come to the conclusion that we were a pair;her yellow twine mirrored mine and we were roughly thesame size. It’s not like talking to a brick wall; nobody everthought a brick wall could talk back. But her, she was justlike me. She looked just like me. This was torture. Thiswas paralysing.I stayed up shouting in her face one night. Shakingher and crying into her lap, pulling her woollen hair andbegging her. Daring her to open her mouth. She smiledback, politely.The next time the Girl came to play with us I begged;“Please. Please listen to me; I’m not a doll. I’m not yourdoll. I’m a man.”For a moment, for a blissful and graceful moment, Ithought She was listening. She paused, holding me in theair. Frozen like a plane, caught in the hands of God. Shepetulantly or playfully splashed me down, head first into aglass of warm milk. As I began to float I kept my eyesopen, staring out into thethick, bubble-less depth. Icould’t hear a thing. Whatwas worse was that Icouldn’t taste a thing. Icouldn’t remember whatanything tasted like. Orsmelled like. Was that allthere was? An endless,blank, flavourless forever? Ibumped against the glass.My skin soaked through andI sank like a brick.Drying out on thewindowsill took an age. Iwondered if size and timewere relative. Was a day aslong to me now, as it was toIssue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 19 -

the Girl? For me, the sun rolled slowly. I don’t know if thiswas because, for me, that distance was so huge it couldonly take a long time to pass. It might be that one-sidedconversations take forever. Taking a deep breath I thoughtabout my lungs: were they made of cloth? Were theyformed from pieces of my soft, woollen insides? I began tothink that perhaps it was just habit; people breathed so Ibreathed. Like the child shuffling in its mother’s shoes orscrawled in stolen red lipstick. A bizarre echo of what Iwas. Or a sad parody of what I couldn’t be. A little,stinging reminder. Every-day.Another dawn, another day. Another dusk, anothernight. Watching shadows grow and shrink around thepretend room was all the fun I had. I’d given up asking andgiven up begging. Given up shouting and given upreasoning. I may as well have prayed to Ugly Dog.There came, one day, a burst in my fabric. Iwatched for any sign of blood. Squeezing my palm andshaking my hand. “Come on gravity; tell me I’m real.Come on blood; if I can bleed I can die.”It had been more than one thousand sunrises and Iwas not dead. Nor did I believe I was alive. The Girl hadgrown and the room was stale; the air was still. Dustcovered everything and my universe was closed and tiredand old. I had given up long before. The sun sloped acrossthe sky, the flowers rose from the soil. The moon chasedthe sun, the flowers hid away, ashamed of their pride inthe cold of the night. Nearly two thousand days ofloneliness. Nearly two thousand nights of dust and rust. Iwas the king of silence. I was the prince of pin-drops. Ireigned over my own, endless unhappiness, and ruledsupreme in my own court of dry tears and sleep andbottomless days.I skirted the room; it took over an hour. I lifted somered blocks and put them back where they belonged. I don’tknow how long it took, but I had done it a hundred timesor more. The sun dipped below the houses. The snow litsilver and diamonds across the road and strung out,cascading up and over treetops like little, glinting pearlstrings.The handful of houses I could see, I could eversee, had lights twinkling to and fro. All patterns and chaos.It was while I was counting the lights that she turned tome.“Toy.” She said. “Toy.”I blinked.“Toy look at me.”I turned around, dumbstruck.“Toy,” she said, almost sympathetically. “Just let itgo.”I stared at her cotton lips; all these years in silenceand solitude. I could have killed for conversation, but all Icould do was stare.“Just let it go Toy, you are what you are.”I dropped to my knees.“If you let it go, the days just wash over you.” Sheturned her face away from me and never spoke again.illustrated by Fiona McDonaldIssue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 20 -

Rescuedby Ruby EbrahimIt wasn’t so bad, you know, up in that tower.We had some lovely conversations.Wrapped up in the scales and always afire to keep us warm.Almost a pity to get rescued.He cried at the wedding. Of course hewas invited. With a special request to notget slain. I missed him later.We still write letters. Charming doesn’tknow. Naturally. I take them out sometimesand touch their charred edges whilsthe’s away jousting with his friends.Write back promising to visit the tower.I never have. My prince wouldn’t like it.His princess in love with the dragon.He’ll have to wait.illustrated by Laura CarterIssue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 21 -

The Giant’s Last Feastby Frederick HilaryThe giant took the key from his pocket and unlocked hisgarden gate. The rusty old lock hadn’t been opened for anage, and the key wasn’t much better: it had once beenbronze but had since become a kind of dull green. Evenafter the key had been turned, the gate would not pushopen. The ground beneath had grown up, and grass andweeds entangled the gate’s bars, and he had to give it apush with all his giant strength to make it budge. Heave! Itopened a crack, just enough for a small human child tosqueeze through (relish the thought!). Heave! Enough for aslim, much younger giant, but not for an old one with alarge paunch. A last heave. He was out, and there was theold cracked path, sprouting crab grass, leading to thehuman world beyond.The giant had lived alone for time out of mind, in adark old house surrounded by a high wall. He had seennone of his own kind in this time, and for the past fewyears he had seen no humans either. This meant he’d hadto subsist on old rotten turnips and withered fruit from hispantry. What he liked best, of course, were children,human children, but he’d had none of those for so long hethought he might go mad. A child’s flesh is more tender,more aromatic and sweet than anything else to a giant.Though his gate had been locked to keep away questingknights or bands of villagers, he had long counted onchildren slipping through the cracks in his wall to retrievekites or in response to a dare by their playmates. And thatwas when he'd come stomping towards them and pluckedthem up like fresh daisies from the overgrown grass of hisgarden. But this did not happen anymore. For some reasonno children passed beyond the wall.One day the thought came to him to go out, to goseeking meat in human lands, and to risk being followed oreven slain. In the distant past giants had done this, untilthey realised that such behaviour would spell their doomsooner rather than later. But now, having gone so longwithout flesh, having been kept up every night with thememory of its sweetness, he resolved to go out and takesome for himself. He would risk the pikes and pitchforks ofvillagers. He would risk even death if it meant he couldchew on the bones of a child one last time.He set off on the old path that wound away from hishome. He knew vaguely where the nearest humandwellings lay, though he didn't know how he knew. Itwasn’t long, in fact, before he came upon a small hamlet.Little brick houses nestled along a narrow, clear stream.Although the sun had just risen, no people were up. Thiswas odd, really, because in such a place there were alwaysfarmers and shepherds who take their sheep out at firstsign of daybreak. As he drew nearer, overcoming his fearof being spotted, he saw no livestock, and no signs of anypeople. He stomped over to one of the little houses –hardly higher than his knees. The wattle roof had a hole init. He recognised what had happened. A giant’s hand hadreached in and plucked the people from inside.So I am not the last one after all, he thought. There isanother like me, one who has come out to get his fill ofIssue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 22 -

human flesh, and especially of child’s flesh. Another whohas had enough of rotten turnips and mouldy apples.He went on over the next hill, and the next, lookingfor another village, and soon enough found one. It was amuch larger settlement, and this time not deserted. Whatthe giant saw, however, wasn’t people, not even a singlehuman, but another giant. This must be the giant who hadeaten the people from the first hamlet. He was sitting onone of the stone houses, or what was left of it, for thebricks had fallen inwards to make a kind of rounded heapof stone and timber, and this the stranger giant was usingas a chair.“Good day, brother,” the giant said to the strangergiant.The other nodded his head as he glanced up. He waschewing on something.The giant couldn’t contain his curiosity. “What’s thatyou’ve got there? Child, is it? Little boy or little girl,plucked in their tender years, just as every giant likesbest?”The stranger giant nodded as he chewed and his eyesgazed far away. “Aye, like a newborn lamb, only sweeter.All that innocence, all those sweet dreams and innocenttears. It all goes into the flavour. One of the best I’ve evertasted.”“Do you have any to spare? I haven’t eaten a child inso long.”“Oh, no, sorry. I can’t give you any of this. Not even alimb. It’s too good. It would be a shame to let even a littlebit go to waste in another giant’s belly.”The giant looked at the stranger. He wasn’t that big.A younger sort for sure, and likely green in giant ways.Wouldn’t it be easier, instead of going off in search ofanother village, to force this youngster to give up hismeal? There was no honour amongst giants – no giant wasever blamed by his own kind if he killed another giant. Nogiant liked the taste of giant flesh, but it had been quitecommon, in the old days, for giants to fight amongstthemselves for the pick of the human food.He watched the stranger giant chewing his meal, andhis mouth watered and his belly ached. The stranger giant,for his part, seemed to be enjoying the envy.“It’s all there, in the taste of the meat. A child’s joyfulspringing through summer meadows. His first tears for alost pet. His frolics in the little river, splashing amongst theminnows. The bedtime stories that make his eyes mistover and go to sleep.”“Don’t tell any more,” said the giant. “I can’t take it.I've tasted all those things myself. I've eaten the wildabandon of play. I've swallowed fledgling dreams. I'vemunched and chewed on school holidays filled withadventures and carefree wanderings. I've tasted meat thatis wholly local, that has known only the grass of one happyspot, and never been beyond the farthest-sighted hills; themeat of a child who thinks his father a giant like ourselves,and his mother the kindest being on earth.”“Enough, enough!” shouted the stranger giant. He gotup from his sitting place, and took the food from his mouthand tossed it onto the ground.It was a piece of rancid-looking turnip.“What’s that?” boomed the giant. “Turnip! Whathappened to the child meat?”The stranger giant stared at him as if he was mad.“Child meat? Don’t you try to imagine everything tastesIssue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 23 -

like child meat? Though it never does. I thought you knew.I thought you were just playing along. But what you saidjust then – all that stuff about play and youthful dreamsand the rest – it was just too much! It made me sorry foreverything.”The stranger giant turned his back and lurched offtowards the nearest hills without another word. The giantwas left more baffled than ever. He took a look round thevillage, saw that there wasn't a human in sight, and set offagain, going in the opposite direction to the stranger giant.He headed for the distant horizon where the sun wasslowly rising. The land was gentler there and he had thevague feeling or memory that it sloped down towards acoastal plain, though he didn't know how he knew. It wasaway from the hills and therefore, his logic told him, orwhatever passes for logic in giant kind, that the humandwellings would be more numerous, for the stony hillshoused giants and bogeys.He came at last, after tramping for many miles, to thewalls of a great city. They were so tall he couldn’t see overthem. This was indeed a great human settlement, builtperhaps with the intention of keeping giants out. Hefollowed the wall till he came to a gate, and was surprisedand heartened to find that it lay open, with a wide tunnelleading to the city beyond.As he entered the tunnel, he fancied he could smellhuman flesh, and even child’s flesh, mingled amongst allthe familiar smells of a city. He heard the rumble of a cartcome up behind him, but he didn't turn his head for hisattention was immediately caught by the sight before him.Here was a city aright: a city of enormous dwellingsbuilt with great slabs of hewn stone. Its countlessinhabitants thronged the streets and marketplaces, theirvoices crying out to barter and sell. There was every kindof colour and flavour of life imaginable, as is true of allgreat cities where different tribes and creeds mingle. Everykind except one. Not one person amongst all that greatthrong was human. They were all giants, whether youngeror older, hill-dwelling or from the plain. All like himself.The cart that had entered the city behind him nowturned about and he caught sight of what the carter – whoelse but a giant – had brought. It was a cart full of rottenturnips and mouldy apples, of withered tree roots andrancid potatoes. The smell that had enticed him inside –the smell of human flesh and especially child’s flesh – hadbeen nothing but a memory. He looked from left to right,at the milling giants who didn't even notice anotherstrange giant in their midst, and felt his old worn legsbegin to buckle under him. Were there nothing but giantsnow, anywhere in the world?He addressed the carter. “Tell me, giant friend. Whyhave you brought all that stuff into the city?”The giant carter frowned, as if the question were anirritation, “Isn’t it obvious? How else are we supposed toeat?”“Are there no people anymore? No children?”The giant carter looked at him as if he were mad, andturned his face away.The giant took a last look at the city, and went backthrough the gate and outside.He walked for many days. He went over hill andthrough dale, and found nothing in the world but giants.Every village was abandoned, and every little hamletstripped of its people and even livestock. So of courseIssue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 24 -

there were no children. He felt the ache in his belly as thedays went by, and considered digging up some turnips, butthe thought of eating them left him more bitter than ever.At last he came to the shores of the sea and lookedout on the choppy grey waters. There was nowhere else togo, so he turned back and sat down near the sea shore, ina little meadow next to a stream that widened into a riveras it flowed out towards the ocean. Here he went to sleepfor most of the morning. When it was afternoon, and thesun was tickling his thick, stubby giant nose, he opened hiseyes. What he saw made him sit up in shock.There was a child playing in the river. He had noshoes on, and the water flowed past his bare feet. He wasa little boy, about five or six years old, with fine freckledcheeks and soft golden hair like spun wool. He was singinga childish song and seemed not to have noticed the giantat all.The giant rose up and moved his great, stiff limbs. Hefelt the appetite rising from his belly to his mouth as helooked on the child. He could already smell the scent ofinnocence, a lamblike innocence, the scent of all joy andhappiness when one is truly free and the day seems tostretch out eternally. Was this, then, the last child? Had hefound the last child that hadn’t been consumed by giants,the last meadow still trodden by a child’s feet rather than agiant’s?He stepped, as quietly as he could, toward the river.The boy wasn't looking towards him. He was looking downinto the water, his head bowed, singing his sweet child’ssong.The giant reached the bank. He put one foot into thewater, then the other, and despite his great size thereIssue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 25 -

seemed hardly a ripple in the smooth flowing surface. Hecame up to the child from the side, well within the boy'sfield of vision, and still the child did not startle. He put outboth his great hands, and reached out to snatch the childfrom the water, and as he did so he felt a piercing jolt ofhunger from the depths of his belly.And then he felt himself thrown down into the water.He was pushed headfirst under the surface and lost allfooting right away. It was a giant’s hand, surely, that didit. It could not have been the child, for even given all hisstrength a child could hardly make a giant budge an inch.But this hand had all the strength of mountains in it, all thestrength of the old stony hills he’d come from, so what elsebut a giant could have managed it? A stronger giant thanhe had ever been, for with the ease of a child beingplucked up from his play the giant had been thrust into thewater, and emerged spluttering and splashing andbewildered.He looked around for the giant who had pushed himunder and saw no one but the child just a few yards away,his song uninterrupted. The giant stood there sopping wet,startled and confused, and at last could think of nothingbetter than to address the child. The boy had obviouslyheard the splash of him going under and any thought ofsurprise was lost.“Who did that? Who put me under the water?” Itsounded ridiculous, of course, because they were quitealone.“Who else is here?” said the child. "It was me, ofcourse."It was an absurd answer, but a troubling one;something about this child made him feel afraid.Suddenly the child stared at him. The boy’s blue eyeswere filled with innocence incarnate, “You, being a giant,will probably want to chew on my bones and swallow myflesh, and drink my blood.”The giant's look gave all the answer the boy needed.“If you are to be given this feast, there is somethingyou must do for me first.”“Anything,” said the giant, for the hunger inside himwas maddening, despite the vague sense of dread the boyinspired.“Let me swallow you up, and spit you out whole,” saidthe boy.“What? You eat me? I’m a giant, and you a child. It isagainst the law of things. Giants eat children.”“Very well. But if I can do it, will you consent?”The giant laughed nervously. Beyond all giant logic,he was actually afraid of this strange boy.“If you can do it, then go ahead,” said the giant. “Iwill even lie down for you, by the bank there, to beswallowed up and spat out, as you say.”The giant did as he’d said. He lay his great bulk outon the soft grass by the water’s edge, and closed his eyeswith an awkward chuckle.There was no sound as the boy emerged from thewater. The giant heard only his own breathing. Suddenlyhe felt a searing pain, a pain that flooded his whole body.It was as if great talons had ripped through his flesh, orfire engulfed him, but the pain only lasted a few briefseconds before it was gone.The giant opened his eyes. He rose up, feelingsuddenly lighter, and saw on the nearby bank somethingthat looked like an old heap of clothes. As he steppedIssue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 26 -

closer, he realised that it was not clothes but old leatheryskin, like the skin some reptiles leave behind. At one endof it was a face, horribly like a mask made of wax or a facecarved on tree. It was a giant’s face.The child – for he was giant no more – looked downupon his small hands and at his bare feet. In his reflectionin the river he saw his blue eyes and soft golden hair likelamb's wool, and laughed. He spun his gaze around. Hesaw summer meadows, looked towards the farthestsightedhills and felt all kindness radiating from the earth.There was only this one bright, happy spot, and the land ofgiants was no more. He had been one once, but wouldnever go back that way. He went laughing and playingthen through the meadows, and though he saw no sign ofthe child who had transformed him he thought he caughtthe scent of innocence on the air, and the flavour ofchildness, and so he danced off that way and did not lookback.illustrated by Laura-Kate ChapmanIssue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 27 -

Water Spriteby Vivien JonesThe worst thing was that the stream was muddy. She, whohad been born into a cold bubbling torrent, now felt herway through channels of silted water. Even at high tideswhen the salt estuary waters crept high up the stream andclimbed the alder trunks, the murk only became thinner.Once or twice she had moved downstream to the shore butthe salt stung her eyes and left crusts on her skin. Hercompanions, the ducks and herons and small fish, gave hera wide berth. She was neither fish, fowl nor human so theyclosed their eyes to her. But she was safe.She saw the man every day. He walked with openeyes drinking in the woodland as he went. Sometimes hetouched the tree trunks, bent to smell the woodbine,smiled at the summer butterfly clouds above his head; butalways he stared into the stream as if searching forsomething. She knew it might be dangerous but shewanted to speak to him, to ask him what he was lookingfor. As well as being afraid she was lonely.She knew she couldn’t be seen unless she showedherself. Her bank brown and reed green skin and hair cuther body to invisible fragments and she could move in thewater without ripples. So she watched the man withimpunity, liking the way he picked his way through theundergrowth without stamping plants down. He could notbe one of those who sought her. There was no urgency inhis tread.One day, after heavy rain, when she was lying in thedownstream current loving its rush and bubbles, she heardhis slow approach. He was walking amongst the grassesclose to the bank trailing his fingers up the grass stalksand spraying the seed-heads behind him. The sun blazedover the rim of a cloud and outlined her in vapour. Hegasped and from his widening eyes she knew that he hadseen her, but instead of sliding away and leaving him witha notion of delusion she let the sun stay on her body. Hetook a step back but his eyes never left her.“Why do you look into the stream?” Her voice was anew thing, unused. It trickled from her mouth.He cleared his throat.“Why do you look into the stream?” she repeated.“I…I have sometimes seen movement in the water. Ithought it might be a large fish. Or an otter perhaps.” Hisvoice was calm. A slight tremor of incredulity rimmed hiswords.She laughed, another new thing. “There are no ottershere and the fish are small.” She told him. “Do you want tocome in the water?”He looked puzzled but it was a clear invitation.“It’s not very deep, even with the rain,” she assuredhim.He didn’t wait to take his boots and socks off, he sliddown the bank until he was under the water to the waist,sitting opposite her. He shuddered and he saw somethingflicker across her face.“It’s the cold water,” he explained.“Not me?” she asked, moving a little away.Issue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 28 -

“You’re beautiful,” he said. He looked at the rise ofher streaked belly, “And pregnant.”“That’s my business,” she said sharply, but she wasnot afraid of him. His eyes were all over her, she could seehe was committing her to his memory, her colours andtextures, her voice and her otherness. Perhaps he was asinger. Her people were singers.“Do you have a name?” he asked.“Yes.”He waited.“I don’t tell it to strangers.”He laughed awkwardly.“I am David.”“I am Meriel.”If people in the village wondered why he came back fromhis daily walks wet to the waist, they never asked. He wasnot a gregarious man. As the summer weeks went by andshe grew rounder, she spent longer each day floating inthe shallows to take the weight off her back and he went toher and talked with her about his world and all the thingsstrange to her in it. She offered nothing of her world tohim but he saw she was afraid of something upstream, thesea seeming merely unpleasant. She was particularlynervous at flood times when she would watch the rushingwater very carefully from the cover of the reeds.Then one day, at the end of the summer, he went tomeet her and found her half sleeping with three soft waterformswrithing around her body under the water. He wastouched that she would let him see her when so vulnerableand trust him to be unshocked at the sight of her offspring.Their semi-transparent bodies moved with a motionnear to swimming but their orbit stayed close to herresting body. Their limbs lay close to their bodies as theywove around her and she trailed her fingertips across theirbacks as they passed by her hands. Apart from the motionnothing about them suggested fish, but little suggestedhuman being either other than the tendrils that flowedfrom their heads.“Are you well?” he asked shyly, thinking he shouldbe bearing flowers. She raised her head from the water.She smiled.“Fine now.” Her voice became reedy, urgent.“David, is there clear water near here? I need… weneed clear water if they are to thrive. Could you find aclean stream for us?”His mind, already full of unasked questions, filledwith concern for her. How had she come here? What wasshe afraid of? He had never touched her but he reached forher hand now. She flinched but did not withdraw herfingers from his grip. He said nothing for a while but heldher fingers gently thinking that she would leave him soonto a resumption of the emptiness that was his life beforeher.“How would you get there?” was all he asked.“I can swim in the sea for a short while if you find anestuary. They can ride on my back out of the salt water.But you must walk the river first, see there are no otherslike me. I have shown you how to see.”Thinking of his own state he asked, “But do you notlong for others like you?”“They will kill me.” Her voice was grim.He dropped her hand.Issue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 29 -

“And my children.” She seemed resigned.“No. That mustn’t happen. How could that happen?”She stared into the laburnum branches above them.Some small rebellion underlaid her voice. “I mated with thedominant male. It is not allowed.”“But that’s animal! No, sorry…no, I didn’t meanthat.”“Yes you did. We are not animal but that’s how welive. It’s how we survive.”“Do you mean you can never go back?”“Yes.”“And you cannot stay here?”“It dries up too often. It’s silted up. They need clearwater. I could manage here but they might not.”“Well then, we must find you some clear water…”“Thank you, I thought you would.”Imperceptibly he felt her squeeze his hand.His heart was beating hard as he turned away from her,knowing he would find her a clear safe stream, somewhereinland perhaps. He would pour over his maps, find not onlya possible place but a good place, a beautiful place. In hismind a whirlpool of possibilities swirled. Some nights hewoke up through the night sweating with dreams ofdisaster, other nights trembling with joy at the taskaccomplished, always with the cut of losing sight of heraching through his body. Then he remembered a gardenhe had visited on its Open Day, wandering amongstpuzzled gardeners and open-mouthed tourists, enjoying itshumour and playfulness with space. What he rememberedmost sharply were the canals that cut through from thenearby river, diverted to play for a while before returningto the river and the serious business of making for the sea.It could be perfect.When he told her she looked at him with such trust he feltafraid, doubtful of his capabilities. He waited until aftermidnight when the last house lights in the village were offthen he drove the pick-up slowly to the silent bridge abovethe stream. In the back was wedged a child’s swimmingpool, brimming with cold water. He tramped upstream towhere the water was close to the path and waited. Verysoon she flowed up out of the water, her children’s bodieswaving in the water behind her.Issue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 30 -

“I shall have to carry you,” he said. “Will they befrightened?”“I will carry them and you will carry me,” she spokefirmly but there was a tremor in her voice.She lay under the water and gathered her childreninto her arms, nuzzling them into a single tessellated formon her breast. He thought she sang softly to them untilthey seemed mesmerised and calm. She nodded to him.He got into the water and slipped his arms beneath herand lifted her clear in one quick sweep. It was twentypaces to the pick-up and though he knew he should bequick he didn’t want to jerk the children from their trance,or relinquish the feeling of her small damp weight in hisarms, so he walked slowly. She was breathing fast. Thesight of the pick-up alarmed her and he found himselfsinging softly to her as he lifted her into the water. Shecurled round her children in the centre of the pool, tryingto avoid contact with the plastic sides. He wished he couldhave sat with her. She was shivering, not with cold.“I’ll drive slowly. Think of the clear water.”He pulled the tarpaulin across the pool.He drove so slowly he feared being stopped by thepolice but the road was only lit as he crossed the townboundaries. Twice he stopped to check his passengers butafter the second time she was so distressed there wasfurther to go that he decided to finish the journey as soonas he could. He cut the engine where the drive left theroad and allowed the slope to carry them silently past theestate buildings. Nothing stirred. The pick-up stopped ongravel. He threw the tarpaulin back joyfully.“We are here,” he announced.She uncurled slowly, still soothing the children.“Water.” She sniffed the air.He gathered her up and walked towards the bridgethat curved over the stream. He knelt on the grass and slidher into the water where she rolled, tipping the childreninto clean wetness and wakefulness, before immersingherself. He watched her swim upstream shadowed bywatery forms, rising half out of the water to examine thebank sides, her head turning from side to side. Then sheswam back.“It is strange,” she said.“But safe? Does it feel safe?”“I don’t think there will be others here.”“And clear. Is it clear enough?”“Yes. But there are no plants, no stones, and it doesnot wander.”“It is a made place.”“If I stay here, can you come to talk to me still?”His heart churned. “No – well, once a year perhapsbut there will be other people, many other people.”“I don’t show myself to other people.”She turned without saying more and swam stronglyaway upstream. He sat on the bank in the quiet of thesmall hours and listened to the rustling of hedgehogs andsmall creatures and the cry of a hunting owl. He wasthinking he would not see her again when there was asplash nearby and she surged towards him with a smile onher face.“There is a river further on, a real river, with stonesand plants. I smelt others but not my group, they will letus live there. Come, walk behind me.”He followed her undulating body past bridges,walkways, and circles of trees until he found himselfIssue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 31 -

crossing a fence onto the river bank where the wide watersof the river moved swiftly under old willows and alders. Hecould scarcely keep her in view amongst the foam andtumble of the flow, but he sensed her excitement andcould see now that she had her children close to her andthey were all rolling and circling round her body. There wasno moon, so he could not be sure, but now and then hethought he caught the gleam of other bodies in the watermoving in the same ecstatic way. He smiled. He couldleave her here.illustrated by Evelina SilberlaintIssue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 32 -

she lives the maiden in her bedroom the top of a tower sleeps & eats there hearsrain outside and counts the drops her parents own her say she cannot leave andshe cannot leave her parents who love her she says combing her hair soft likevelvet blonde like moonlight that stays soft in towers out of weatheriiishe waits for me in her bedroom behind a shut door her father owns her says shecannot leave and she cannot leave the burly father who needs her she says lockedin the room wrapped in blankets as soft as her skin but I slip under the door likepaper she is scared has never seen me before covers herself in blankets on her bedshe stands in water buckets and pales water to her ankles her mother owns hersays she cannot leave and she cannot leave her mother who shows her the futurein vanity mirrors she says standing in buckets eels swimming infinity around herankles she boards up her bedroom window plywood over glass sheets from herbed she wraps around her torso I am not allowed to enter this room and watersways against her anklesshe hears me outside her bedroom window boarded up inside she sees onlyshadows on the ground I am throwing stones from a cairn to her window a bed oflilies grows for her to sleep her parents say she does not listen but she hears thestones clacking against her windowiiiivby Tim Mook SangIssue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 33 -

she climbs through the smallest slit the size of a sliver in the plywood coveringher window and crosses the bed of lilies lit by moon & garden lanterns she joinsme in the night I take her through hollow hills to yellow birds in public houses sheloves to hear them sing someday my prince will come she says like market girlswhile sonatas play over her questions I cannot hear her stones on my windowshe waits for me stands in water buckets and pales behind a shut door in a room Iam not allowed to enter but I slip under doors like paper see her wrapped inblankets sweating from her legs & from her torso both emit the scent attractsnakes & worms & not spiders legs flick flicking her fingers as she waits but Icome take her away with me all the things that she attractsvviviishe stays in my bedroom one ear pressed firm to the door I told her not to listenbut she has to hear her mother yells she owns her that she cannot leave her littlesister who hates her that I am the evil prince the thief who slipped under her doorlike paper that I will steal everything and I doshe weaves for gold makes more coins than I do busking on cobblestone streetsduring days I am not home not with her craned over her loom weaving silk softlike her skin I never see her work but only once when she could not see methrough the puddle of feathers & bloodviiiixshe draws pictures when alone she shows them to me & everybody sees thepictures are always the same she says they are of someone she knows the picturesof a sunlit steady goat who lives in seashells and wears shoes of lead that clap onconcrete like pacing horses in the background hangs a new moon moving waterthose pictures do not look soft she says they are of someone else yet the face isalways hersIssue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 34 -

she waits for me in my bedroom behind a shut door holding her scratched face hersister made sent after her by her mother to bring her home they own her they say& take her clothes and parade in them before her some with blood from her facethey are the wicked mother & jealous sister I say and I open the door to bring inice & towels & tinctures to rest in blankets of my skinxxishe stands outside I let her by herself told her it is alright that blades of grass coolthe bottoms of her feet that I am watching from afar with bow & arrow shootingbirds I can walk on knives she says I tell her they are leaves of grass and bloodfrom her feet soaks into the dirt unnoticedxiishe goes to see her sister alone her sister still wearing clothes once a maidensstained with blood her sister asks for help asks the maiden to take her places onlymaidens can go to be fair they are sisters but the gatekeepers say the clothes areoverly soiled but they are hers her sister says with the maiden there as landscapeher mother watches from afar wanting to be the queen clapping her witheredhandsxiiishe goes to meet her father I go with her outdoors and we drink the wine herfather makes red & white the blanket striped on the grass she attracts spiders frommy skin crawl on her skin soft like wine stained glasses stale in our bedroom thatspiders climb inside & die in the trap lit by burning candles one after anotherafter another still she waits for me to come to her shut in a room naked wrappedin blankets I shred & cut until she falls all around me soft like velvet and thenleaves againxivillustrated by Yuki NishimuraIssue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 35 -

The River of the Fire of Lifeby Francesca Forrest“Aren’t you ready to get up yet?”Bright-as-the-moon shook the boy, who hadn’tstirred from the hollow in the snow where he had decided,some while ago, to rest after playing so sportingly for solong.His eyes were closed, and that dangerous warmbreath of his was barely. . . was it coming out of him atall?Fast-falling-sleet and Seven Stars and Whirlwindcame over to take a look. Fast-falling-sleet put a hand onthe boy’s forehead.“Cold. Safe to touch now.” He looked over at Brightas-the-moon.“But it means we can’t play with himanymore. When warm things get cold and stop moving,they’re finished. Broken – like when too many of us sat onthat birch tree, remember?”Whirlwind and Seven Stars nodded and returned tospinning round and round the beaver pond on skates theyhad created from snow, in imitation of the ones the boyand his friends had had.“Can’t we fix him?” Bright-as-the-moon asked. Theboy was as still as the leaves at the bottom of the beaverpond. Could he even be the same creature who had flashedover the ice on those metal-bladed shoes, laughing andteasing all present?Fast-falling-sleet shook his head.“No. Warm things like him all have a tiny fire insidethem. It’s what makes them be alive, like water and coldand wind make us alive. Once it goes out, that’s the end.”He glanced over at the others, who were chasing eachother across the ice. “Coming?”Issue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 36 -

Bright-as-the-moon didn’t answer. “Wake up. Wakeup and play,” she whispered to the sleeping boy. Herbreath made leaves and feathers of hoarfrost appear on hischeek. She brushed them off.Fast-falling-sleet laid a hand on her shoulder.“Leave him. We’ll find others to play with, next timewe come here.”“But this one was the best!” said Bright-as-the-moon.“He showed us snap-the-whip. He jumped clear over thebeaver dam, like a knight in the snow host leaping a river!He stayed and played even when his friends got allhunched and shivery and said they had to go home.”“He was pretty good,” conceded Fast-falling-sleet.“It’s too bad his fire went out, but sitting there won’t fixhim, and our chance to play is nearly gone. The snow hostis on its way. Listen. . . Hear it?”Bright-as-the-moon did hear it, the whirl and gallopof its wild frosty rampage; a blizzard whitenessapproaching from the west, where the sun was sinking.“You know we’ll be stuck running in the eddies, onceit gets here,” Fast-falling-sleet said. “Let’s play some moresnap-the-whip while we still can.”Bright-as-the-moon twisted out from under Fastfalling-sleet’shand. “You go ahead.”Fast-falling-sleet sighed and Bright-as-the-moonheard the light swish of his feet in the snow as he walkedaway, then the shrieks of delight when he and the smallertwo started up again with snap-the-whip. Bright-as-themoonstayed by the boy. Midnight-stubborn, she was.“Hey. Hey. Snow girl.”It was another of the warm creatures, a bird, abright red one with a black mask, hopping from branch tobranch in one of the arrowwood bushes by the beaverpond.“If you want to fix him, there’s a way to do it,” thebird said.“Fast-falling-sleet said –”“That his fire had gone out. I know. But if you put anew spark in him while his body is still fresh, he’ll perkIssue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 37 -

ack up. You need to go to the realm of the SalamanderKing. The River of the Fire of Life flows right through it.”The bird preened its chest feathers. “My kind are favoritesof the Salamander King; that’s why we wear his colors.Here, this should get you in.”A red feather fluttered in the frosty air. Bright-asthe-mooncaught it.“How do I get there?” she asked.“Follow the crimson path,” the bird said. “But hurry;it’s only visible while the sun’s setting.”From the distance there came a lonely cascade ofmusical notes. “Oh – the wife’s calling,” the bird said.“Gotta fly. Good luck!” He spread his wings and rose upfrom the arrowwood bush.The long rays of the setting sun glinted on the ice ofthe stream on the other side of the beaver dam. A path offrozen fire: crimson, but cold. Not like the river of the fireof life, thought Bright-as-the-moon. That river will be hot.How will I carry a spark back with me?She recalled how the boy, amazed at the snow-spunskates she and the other snowchildren had made, hadtaken off his mittens to touch one. The warmth of his handhad melted the toe of the skate.“I’m sorry!” he had said.“It’s all right,” Bright-as-the-moon had replied,gathering more snow into her hands and blowing on it,then kneading it back into the ice skate. “Just don’t touchme with those dangerous hands of yours.”“Never!” he had promised, putting his mittens backon. With mittens on he could take her hand, orWhirlwind’s, or Seven Stars’, or Fast-falling-sleet’s. Thefour snowchildren and the three human children had madea powerful whip, hands joined.I need mittens. Not snow mittens; his mittens. Theyprotect hot things from the cold and cold things from theheat. Bright-as-the-moon carefully slipped the boy’smittens off his hands and put them on her own.And his coat. She might need that, too, to shield herbody of snow from the heat of the River of the Fire of Life.The mittens on her hands made her clumsy, but she stillmanaged to slide the boy’s arms out of his coat and herown arms into it.What about his hat and scarf, and his boots? He hadworn them to protect against the cold, so shouldn’t shewear them to protect against the heat? Carefully sheremoved these items too, and put them on.The boy looked smaller and even more still andbroken without their protection. Bright-as-the-moonhesitated – but now the wind was rising again, gatheringthe fallen snow and driving it in gusts and billows. Thesnow host was coming. She mustn’t waver; if she lingeredhere and the snow host arrived, she’d be swept up in itstrain and the boy would never be fixed. Hastily she pusheda blanket of snow up around him, right up to his chin, andhurried off down the sunset-ruby path of the ice, followingit and following it until the stream disappeared into theground.Time to use the key. Just as the sun was sinkingfrom the sky and the ice was turning from red to black,Bright-as-the-moon touched the feather to it and –– found herself in a new place, killingly hot.The frozen stream had been replaced by somethingbright and bubbling, a vein of liquid fire that hurt her eyesIssue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 38 -

to look at. Instead of wide air all around, there wereglittering crystal and mica walls that flashed and shone inthe glow of the fiery river. A film of water ran down thesides of the walls and along the ground, turning to steamas it entered the river.Each breath Bright-as-the-moon drew in this newplace hurt. She stared at the bright river. How could sheeven get near it?“Hello,” said a cheerful voice accompanied by asplash, as the speaker popped his head and shoulders upfrom the molten flow. Bright-as-the-moon jumped back.It was a red-gold boy, sparks and embers drippingfrom his ears and hair.“Hello,” said Bright-as-the-moon, keeping herdistance. “Is that river you’re swimming in the River of theFire of Life?”“Yes it is!” he replied, sounding pleased. “For somethings, anyway.” He cocked his head and looked Bright-asthe-moonover, hat to boots. “I don’t think it would do youmuch good. You’re made of cold, aren’t you? I can feel itfrom here. I’ve never met anyone made of cold before.Cold things don’t usually come here.” The boy hoistedhimself out of the fire river, peeled a sheet of mica fromthe nearest wall, and wrapped it round himself. It meltedin soft folds against him. Bright-as-the-moon flinched asdroplets of water from the wall landed on her nose andcheek, but they turned harmlessly to snow, then meltedagain in the heat and rolled down into her scarf.“What’s that? What just happened to the water?”asked the boy, staring. “Do it again!”“You mean like this?”Bright-as-the-moon blew on the damp surface of thewall and it whitened briefly, a bloom of frost and ice,before it faded back into water.“Yes! Wonderful! Do it again!” He came to standbeside her, and she could feel the powerful heat of himthrough his mica cloak. She backed away and sat down ona crystal outcropping. It was exhausting to stand up in thisplace.“I can’t right now. I’m here on a quest. I need to geta spark from that fire river. I need to ask the SalamanderKing for it . . . do you think he’ll let me take a spark out ofhere?”The boy frowned. “Why would you want somethingthat would hurt you?”“It’s not for me, it’s for a human boy. His life firewent out while he was playing with my snowmates andme, and I want to fix him.”The boy’s frown deepened. “You got to play with ahuman? I never have. I’ve never even seen one. You’relucky.”“Well, this one is pretty adventurous. If I can fixhim, he might find you one day. I need to hurry, though.”While his body is still fresh, the bird had said. But how wasit possible to hurry here? How could the fire boy moveabout so freely? Bright-as-the-moon’s limbs felt like stone.She leaned back against the wall.“Your face looks shiny now,” the fire boy said.Bright-as-the-moon put a mittened hand to the bridge ofher nose. It came away damp.“I have to get out of here,” she whispered. “Howabout that spark? Do you think I can have one?”Issue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 39 -

“You’re melting,” the fire boy said, still staring atBright-as-the-moon’s face. “I wonder if anyone would everrisk melting for me.”Bright-as-the-moon couldn’t think of a goodresponse. It was hard to think at all. She closed her eyes.The heat seemed to grow fiercer on her nose, on hereyelids.“Don’t go to sleep here!” the fire boy said. Sheopened her eyes and saw he was leaning right over her.“I’ll give you a spark,” he said.Bright-as-the-moon blinked and struggled to herfeet.“The Salamander King . . .”“Oh, he won’t mind. He’s my father. But you’ll needsomething to put it in.”“I thought I’d carry it in these mittens. Theyprotected the human boy’s hands from the cold and they’reprotecting my hands from the heat.”The fire boy laughed and shook his head. “A sparkfrom the river of the fire of life would burn them right up.Let’s see . . . maybe this.” He reached down and broke apiece of crystal from the outcropping Bright-as-the-moonhad been sitting on. Then he pushed his thumb into it theway Bright-as-the-moon might push her thumb into snow.“This’ll do,” he said. “Stand back a minute.”Bright-as-the-moon stood back. The fire boy wipedhis brow with his hand and sparks came flying off andlanded, hissing and sputtering, on the ground. One fellright into the depression he had made in the crystal.“Here.” He handed it to Bright-as-the-moon.“Thank you.”“But – Can I have something from you . . . toremember you by?”“I don’t think anything of me can last long in here,”said Bright-as-the-moon. She pulled out a couple ofstrands of her hair and set them on the crystaloutcropping, and within moments they became water.“See?”The fire boy broke off another piece of crystal andhollowed it out the way he had the first.“Can I have one of your mittens?” he asked. “Canyou put it in here, so I don’t burn it?”Issue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 40 -

Bright-as-the-moon thought fuzzily that there was areason why she should turn down this request. But the fireboy had given her a spark of the fire of life. Wasn’t it onlyfair to give him something in return? With effort, shepulled off one mitten and dropped it into the fire boy’scrystal cup.He grinned.“Thank you! Now quick, your key.”Bright-as-the-moon held her own crystal and itsprecious contents in her mittened hand and lifted the redfeather up with her exposed hand. But which wall to touch?“That one,” said the fire boy, pointing. As his handcame close to hers, Bright-as-the-moon felt a sharp anddizzying pain.“Ow!”Both Bright-as-the-moon and the fire boy jerkedtheir hands back. The fire boy looked horrified. His lipsparted to speak, but Bright-as-the-moon had alreadytouched the feather to the wall, and –– now suddenly here she stood, in the wonderfulcold, with the moon overhead and the frozen streambeside her.Back along the stream she went, taking long, deepbreaths of the reviving air until she reached the beaverpond and the soft bed of snow where the human boy lay.Bright-as-the-moon knelt beside him and brushed thesnow away from him. As she did, she saw what the fire boymust have seen as she was leaving the hall of theSalamander King: her bare hand, which he had nearlytouched – the hand that still ached from that sharp pain –was missing its last two fingers. They had melted cleanaway.“But I’m not broken. I’m not broken,” she repeatedto herself. “I still have my wind and cold and water withinme.” She slipped an arm around the human boy’sshoulders and brought him closer to her. All the sharpparts of his face – his nose and the ridge of bone below hiseyes – seemed to shine unnaturally in the moonlight.The way mine did, by the River of the Fire of Life,when I was melting. But he’s not melting, he’s freezing. Heneeds to melt, and I can help him, she thought.Bright-as-the-moon brought the crystal cup up to hislips and let the spark from the river of the fire of life fallonto them. It didn’t burn them. Instead, it slipped rightbetween them and disappeared into the boy. A shudderrippled through his body, and slowly, as if they were greatweights he was lifting, he opened his eyes. Bright-as-themoonsmiled.Another shudder shook the boy; now his whole bodywas shaking.“I’m so cold,” he whispered.“I had to borrow your coat,” said Bright-as-themoon.“Here, you can have it back now.” She slipped it offand helped the boy get his arms into its sleeves.“My right hand’s not working right. I can’t feel myfingers,” the boy said, pushing himself to a sitting positionand turning his hand first palm up, then palm down, afrown on his face. The fingers didn’t move.“I had to borrow your mittens, too, and I had to giveone away to get a spark to wake you up,” Bright-as-themoonconfessed. “But if you put this mitten on one handand keep your other one tucked up in your sleeve, maybeyour fingers will begin to work again. At least they won’tmelt away.” She held up her own damaged hand.Issue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 41 -

“You lost fingers because of me?” The boy was stillshivering violently. “Does it hurt?”“A little.” Bright-as-the-moon rubbed her threefingeredhand with her five-fingered one. “But I’m notbroken. And you’re not anymore, either. Here, you shouldtake your hat and boots, and your scarf too.”Just then, from across the snow-covered meadow,there came the sound of voices accompanied by bobbinglights.“– at the beaver pond,” one said, a man.“Just let him be all right, just let him be all right . . .and let us find him quickly. If we can just find him quickly.. .” A woman’s voice.“Buster’s got a scent; Buster’s tugging!” A girl’svoice.“It’s my family!” said the boy, looking out in thedirection of the voices. A dog was barking, the soundnearing with each bark. Bright-as-the-moon stepped awayfrom the boy and retreated to beaver pond.The dog burst through the arrowwood bushes andjumped onto the boy, covering his face with sloppy kisses.A girl followed close behind.“He’s here! Andy’s here!” she called. “He’s sitting inthe snow without his hat or boots on, but I think he’sawake – you awake, Andy?”Bright-as-the-moon retreated further onto thebeaver pond as Andy’s parents appeared in a flurry of hugsand exclamations.“Good bye, snow girl – and thank you. Thank you forsaving me.” Though they were only whispered, Andy’swords slipped past the noises of joy and relief and reachedBright-as-the-moon’s ears. She smiled but didn’t answer.Instead, she bent her head low to catch the echo that theground still held of the snow host’s passing. As Andy’sfather lifted Andy into his arms and his mother wrapped ablanket around him, Bright-as-the-moon set off in thesnow host’s wake, heading for the snowlands.illustrated by Rosie Lauren SmithIssue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 42 -

WritersCarys Bray completed an MA inCreative Writing earlier this year. Sherecently won the MA categoryof the Edge Hill Short Story Prize andhas been shortlisted for the StrictlyWriting Award. She lives in Southportwith her husband and four children andblogs athttp://postnatalconfession.blogspot.comCathrin Hagey lives in Saskatoon,Saskatchewan with her husband, threechildren and an assortment of guineapigs. She holds degrees in mathematicsand education but currently pursues herfirst love: children's and mythic fiction.More of her writing can be found atwww.cathrinhagey.com andwww.cahootsmagazine.com.David R Morgan teaches at CardinalNewman School in Luton, and lives inBedfordshire with his family. He hasbeen an arts worker, literature officer,organiser of book festivals and writer-inresidencefor education authorities,Littlehay Prison and Fairfield PsychiatricHospital (which was the subject of aChannel 4 film, Out of Our Minds). Hehas had two plays screened on ITV. Hisbooks include: The strange Case ofWilliam Whipper-Snapper, BloomingCats, a Horrible Histories biography:Spilling The Beans On Boudicca, TheBroken Picture Book, The Windmill andthe Grains and Buzz Off. His poetrycollection Walrus On A Rocking Chair,illustrated by John Welding, is publishedby Claire Publications and his adultpoetry Ticket For The Peepshow ispublished by art’icle.Alex Woods is a twenty-three year oldstudent in creative writing fromLiverpool, currently studying for an MAat Edge Hill University in Ormskirk,Lancashire. He is a writer of short fictionthat deals with fundamental elements ofhuman emotion and psychology.Ruby Ebrahim: I am 23 and currentlyliving in Sunderland. Although I enjoywriting prose I am more comfortablewith poetry and have been particularlyinfluenced by the writings of Carol AnnDuffy and e. e. cummings. I have beenwriting ever since I can remember andadapting fairy tales or creating new oneshas always been a passion of mine so tobe included in this magazine is veryexciting for me, especially since fairytales are such an important part of worldculture. To borrow the words of G. K.Chesterton; ‘Fairy tales are more thantrue; not because they tell us thatdragons exist, but because they tell usthat dragons can be beaten.’Frederick Hilary studied medievalliterature at Lampeter University, wherehe won a scholarship. He has read fairystories and fantasy since childhood andconsiders himself a student of C.S. Lewisand George MacDonald. He currentlylives and teaches in Greece, near theport where Agamemnon's ships departedfor Troy. Despite this, he has yet to readthe Illiad.Vivien Jones lives on the north Solwayshore in Scotland. She is a semiprofessionalearly musician along withher husband, Richard. Her short storiesand poetry have been widely publishedand broadcast on BBC Radio 4 andRadio Scotland – her first themedcollection of short stories, Perfect 10,was published in September 2009 byPewter Rose Press. Her first poetrycollection – About Time,Too – waspublished in August 2010 by IndigoDreams Publishing. In August 2010 shewon the Poetry London Prize. She hasbeen awarded a Writer’s Bursary fromCreative Scotland for her next project onthe theme of women amongst warriors.www.vivienjones.infoIssue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 43 -

Tim Mook Sang: I studied at theUniversity of Northern British Columbiaand the University of Ottawa, graduatingfrom UNBC in 2007 with a BA, and fromOttawa University in 2010 with a BEd. Ihave previously had poetry published byCanadian Literature and Crow ToesQuarterly, and blog athttp://eatingandeffing.tumblr.comFrancesca Forrest listens to woodthrushes in the summer and tests the icein the winter. She likes to forage for wildfoods, but copyediting keeps the familyfed more reliably. You can find othershort stories and poems of hers online ifyou search diligently.IllustratorsEvelina Silberlaint: Every time anothercharacter together with their belongingsand surroundings departs on a journeyfrom my mind into the dimension visibleby others of our kind, would it be a sheetof matte paper or a screen, I try to findthe best travelling option for themdepending on their own unique essence,but most of the time their new welcometo-our-worldexperience starts off with apencil drawing on a sheet of white papertransformed into an inky liner pendrawing and ends up alive, breathingand blinking on a digital screen. My workis inspired and influenced by variousmatters including personal experiences,beauty and uniqueness of humanrelationships, shimmering shadow deitiesfrom the dark side of folk tales,conversations with human beings andprecious and magical silence of nighthours.www.ghostlymiss.comJulie Vermeille studied a BTECFoundation Diploma in Art and Design atthe London College of Printing andgraduated in 2004 from a BA (hons) inIllustration in Camberwell College ofArts. She has been part of the CraftCentral Designer network since 2007 andas well as having produced her ownhand bound books, she has beenworking for Creaturemag and has beenpublished in a Fil Rouge Press book. Shehas been involved in variouscollaborative work including exhibitingwith Chocolate Rain and doing someworkshops with the House of Fairy Tales.Julie's work is based on ink drawings.She likes the fluidity of the medium, thesurprises that come from the shapes laidon the paper; she likes the feeling ofthings happening a little by chance.Julie uses patterned fabric, vintage laceand buttons…. Textures, colours andhistory in those objects fascinate andinspire her.www.julievermeille.comNom Kinnearking: From a shed in theNorfolk countryside I paint portraits offemale characters. They spring fromobjects found, sleepy notions, songsheard and books read. Dressed forperformance, with hearts on sleeve andthoughts on heads that hint their tales.The trail of artists I’ve fallen for andbeen inspired by span from Frieda Khaloand Marc Chagall to the current workingsof Shaun Tan and Joe Sorren. 'TheProcession' (oil on board) uses myfathers Concertina as prop for the sceneof serenading the town into a trancewhilst they sleep.www.nomchomski.comScott Nellis lives with his pens by thesea in Brighton. He graduated with a BAin illustration and loves to createfiendishly detailed drawings. Scott looksforward to exhibiting more of his ownpersonal work along with producingcommissioned pieces within theillustration and arts industry. Please seemore at www.scottnellis.com and feelfree to contact him with any enquiries.Issue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 44 -

Daria Hlazatova: I'm a Ukraine-basedillustrator with particular love fordrawing and making collages. I drink alot of tea and dream of having a huskydog. I love travelling which is a greatinspirational force for me. My work isvery often inhabited by animals, ladiesand bowler-headed gentlemen who comeout at night. All my drawings arebrought to life by pens and pencils andlargely inspired by literature and theatre.Some of my illustrations have beenpublished in several art magazines andexhibited in the UK and the USA. I'mcurrently working on my first zine whichwill feature a collection of my drawings.I'm delighted to provide illustrations forNew Fairy Tales!www.dariasgallery.blogspot.comFiona McDonald studied painting anddrawing at the Julian Ashton Art Schoolin Sydney in the late 1980’s. After artschool she began developing her life sizefigurative soft sculpture for which shehas become well known. Fiona hascontinued to make two dimensional artwork as well as her sculpture, puppetsand dolls. 2010 saw the publication ofFiona’s first two knitting books: Babes inthe Wool and Knitted Aliens bothpublished by Search Press UK. KnittedFairies and Knitted Vampires are bothforthcoming. Fiona’s first non-fiction titleTextiles: A History will be published byPen&Sword in June 2011. She hasexhibited widely throughout Australia,Britain, China and the US. Visit Fiona’swebsite: www.fionamcdonald.com.auand her bloghttp://fionamcdonald.blogspot.comLaura Carter is an English illustratorcurrently living in the Netherlands. Herlatest crush is on her boyfriend’s Wacomtablet, and she shall be putting hernewest creations onwww.lauracarter.co.uk. On most daysshe cycles to school to learn Dutch,because she finds that words cansometimes be as useful as pictures. Shefeels a bit uncomfortable writing aboutherself in the third person.Laura-Kate Chapman: I’m anillustrator currently living in Liverpool. Igraduated from Liverpool John MooresUniversity in 2008 with a first classdegree in Graphic Arts. I would describemy illustrative style as lovinglymeticulous. I like to weave intricatepatterns into my work as I feel that it isattention to the little details that can bemost captivating. More than anythingI’m trying to create a visual world thatgives the mundane a more magical feeland above all else I want my illustrationsto make people smile.www.laura-katedraws.co.ukYuki Nishimura, a surrealism lover, is aJapanese freelance illustrator andanimator based in UK. She landed inLondon in 2008 to finish MA Illustrationcourse at University of the Arts London.It gave her a chance to explore thenonsensical illustration referring toBritish nursery rhymes which developedher own aesthetic and rules of how tovisualize the words. Her interests inmountains and nature (as drawingmotifs and also as travel destinations)also gives her strong inspiration. As wellas the surrealism, the spirit of natureworship she learnt in Japan forms thebasis of her work.www.yukinishimura.comRosie Lauren Smith (better known asAutumn Alchemy) is a mostly self taughtillustrator of all things magical. Heavilyinspired by the golden age illustrators,she uses traditional mediums for herwork, mostly watercolours, inks andpencils, occasionally touched up withacrylics, gold leaf and pastels. Otherinspiration comes from nature and theBritish countryside, illuminatedmanuscripts, the smell of burning wood,damp leaves and moss and gloomyweather. More recently she has taken upneedle felting to bring her creations tolife. Visit her blog athttp://autumnalchemy.blogspot.comIssue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 45 -

This wonderful book is by our very own Art Director Faye Durston.It’s available now in all good bookshops and via amazon: www.amazon.co.uk/Wychwood-Fairies-Faye-Durston/dp/023071496XAnd you can see just how magical the book is here: www.youtube.com/watch?v=lXYQ4NYKDboIssue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 46 -

New Fairy Tales is a not-for-profit onlinemagazine run on a voluntary basis. If you’veenjoyed this issue please show yourappreciation by helping us to raise money forDerian House Children’s Hospice. After thisissue we will be raising money for anothercharity, so if you’ve never donated to DerianHouse before please do take a minute to doso now (the minimum donation is £2).Thank you.http://www.justgiving.com/newfairytalesISSN 2042-7999Editor: Claire MasseyAssociate Editor for Fiction: Andy HedgecockAssociate Editor for Poetry: Anna McKerrowArt Director: Faye DurstonDesign: Claire MasseyIllustration on this page by artists AmyNightingale and Claire Benson, also known asParticle Article: www.particlearticle.co.ukCopyright Notice:Copyright of all the work contained in this magazineremains with the individual writers and illustrators. Themagazine is intended for personal and educational useonly. Please respect copyright; all enquiries about thework contained in the magazine should be directed toeditor@newfairytales.co.uk. We will pass your enquiry onto the relevant writer or illustrator.Issue 6 www.newfairytales.co.uk - 47 -