The Stone-Bound: A Wing-Feather Fable

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They chose the former cable building because it was already wired for alarms. At first, the sirens howled every night, hours of screeching panic that shattered dreams and made a city of insomniacs. The noise was so hellish, so rending, that hospitals were deluged with fatal heart attacks. Babies born within those months have a peculiar tonal deafness. They are terrible musicians, prone to tics and schizophrenic mood disorders.

The sirens slowed, then stopped, once the executions started. By the time the jails were empty, swept clean and disinfected, the noise was just a bitter memory no one wished to claim. And if the city had completely lost its capacity to dream, no one talked about that either. No one talked about the Portal.

They were expected to forget, but Roslyn Withers did nothing but remember. She worked inside the building, Level One cafeteria staff, mopping floors and swiping tables with a noxious disinfectant. Her mother’s idea, from start to end. There were a lot of children of defectors in the building’s lower ranks, trying, like Roslyn, or her mother, to scrub the tarnish off their names. They all passed each day beneath the Guardians. Roslyn wondered if the others felt those eyes like bullets, aiming for the slightest tremble in the knees.

Did they know she could remember? Worse yet, had everyone else forgotten, truly, the world before the purge? All the history books described a time of chaos, promiscuity and indulgence dressed up in the guise of freedom. Too many choices, too much diversity and variation. The Guardians came and trimmed it all, cut away the random and the fluid, sent the ebb and flow of “freedom” to a place they conjured and contained, the world beyond the Portal.

(Roslyn heard the pulse of it, the steady, throbbing hum of exiled opportunity. It must be in her blood, she thought. After all, her father . . . well, he had failed like all the rest, jailed and hung, bodies swinging from the gates. )

Now, everyone was blessed with an ordered, tidy, metric life. (Pale, she thought, and shriveled.) People understood their place. No more striving, multiplicity, or indecision. No more pesky choices, like bees along the nape.

Roslyn wondered why they didn’t simply close the gate, seal it up with mortar, blast the opening to dust. Why leave the weak, the wounded, open to temptation? But, then again, she was her father’s daughter. Roslyn understood. This was the final, quiet stage of culling, a lure to catch the ones who are unwilling to forget.

Once or twice a year, alarms still split the night. She waits for them to stop completely. She waits for a silence that is definite and smug. In her dreams, she sees the Guardians complacent, unaware that she is coming. In her dreams, she splits the surface of the portal like an overripe and rotten fruit. She is drenched and nearly drowned in everything released. In her dreams, she sees the stone eyes weep.

~ Photo by Brenda Gottsabend; Story by Lisa Ahn

Learn more about Wing-Feather Fables here

Star Dust: A Wing-Feather Fable

Fables-41 Aileen Murphy’s brother was stone-cold sober when he lost his left hand and his faith in the machinery of a fortune cookie plant. The sobriety, if nothing else, was entirely Aileen’s fault. Seamus was an amiable enough drunk, never fought or whored. Deep in pints, he bought his sister roses, knock-off Hermes scarves, and a white mouse in a gilded cage. It was the mouse that forced her hand, red eyes and midnight chitters. Their mother always said that nothing good could come of rodents. Aileen had to act.

Later, she wished she’d never lit those candles at St. Vincent’s, whispering her brother’s name three times into the flames. The miracle came quickly, Seamus off the drink and even wearing ties to work. He’d gotten her the job at Lucky’s, half a life ago, flipping small, soft pancakes from griddle to conveyor, watching as they vanished toward the plates that pressed them into butterflies. Seamus worked the batter vats, lifting, pouring, mixing, the muscles of his arms like seams within a rock.

They were the remnants of a family, sole survivors of a quiet dying-off. Each night, Aileen pressed her ear down to the floorboards and listened to the hollow clink of bottles. Once the miracle occurred, she was gratified by silence. It was hard to not feel smug.

Three weeks sober, then three months, and Seamus started reading brochures from the night school. He was buoyant on the line, and management took notice. Aileen felt their mother smiling down at her from Heaven.

Once, when she was barely out of diapers, her Da had pointed at the stars and described to her a world in constant motion, spinning planets, twirling suns, a vast, incomprehensible ballet. This is what she thinks of on the morning Seamus nearly dies. How many times before he fixed the line with Guinness in his veins.

In her memory, it happens in slow motion, his fingers in the gears, the awful stutter-grind and crack, a weight released, a massive lurch and bellow, fragmented bone, a slick of blood, strings of ligament and muscle.

In reality, the shearing-off was quick, a nearly-instant snap. The sirens keened, red lights swirled in puddles, and the paramedics carted him away like potatoes in a famine.

Seamus lived, but lost the hand that had delivered roses, scarves, a mouse. It was not what she intended, when she bent her knees to pray.

Back inside the shelter of the church, Aileen noticed shadows reaching, fingers splayed into the light. Stained glass glittered like a coded map of truth. Arches rose and crossed. Seamus sat beside her in the pews, quiet, sober, bandaged. There were so many pieces of this world that she didn’t understand — the hollowness of bird bones, the single-mindedness of ants, fortunes cast inside a butterfly of pancake. Miracles and mice. It was all fallout from the stars, she saw, bits of straw and sweepings from the dance floor, small confetti sifting, music, dusted from the skies.

~ Photo by Brenda Gottsabend; Story by Lisa Ahn

Learn more about Wing-Feather Fables here

Girls with Pens (Hippocampus)

“Writing,” by Kim Rempel

“Stories shape belief — about who we are and what we can become, about our history and culture. They are the stitchery of self, the seams that either liberate or bind us. Change the story, change the world.  If our girls grow up on tales of hapless maidens waiting for a knight in armor, then they will never lift the sword themselves.”

Please visit the June issue of Hippocampus for the rest of my essay on Disney princesses, Sheryl Sandburg, and the power of our words.

“Slick” in Quiddity

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Gorgeous, isn’t it? I love this journal, and — squee! — I love that I am IN this journal. My short story, “Slick,” appears in the latest issue of Quiddity, hot off the press.

“Slick” started out with a single and quite singular main character. A frog with attitude. He was joined by a girl who excelled at math, until she decided that fashion magazines were more “feminine” than fractions. In traditional fairy tales, the girl kisses the frog to get the prince. In mine, the frog must help the girl to save herself. Luckily, Slick has spunk, and he’s willing to bend the tale to suit the circumstances.

This was a fun story to write, with its twists and echoes of more familiar legends. It also emerged out of my conviction as a writer, teacher, and mother, that we can do better by our girls when it comes to STEM fields. My eldest daughter thinks in numbers, spins grids into the universe, and spices everyday with new equations. My youngest loves the magnitudes of science and carries an engineering backpack everywhere she goes. May they always do so.

Slick and I have got their backs.

If you’d like to take a listen, the full audio version of “Slick” is here.