Issue 78 March 2020 Flash Fiction Online March 2020

The house is derelict and crumbling now. Its sugar-pane windows stare blindly through the cataracts of cobwebs, and damp patches blossom like liver spots across its gingerbread gables. But Hansel’s hand still trembles as he pushes open the twice-cooked door, which wobbles like a rotten tooth in its warped candy-cane frame.

The last time he saw the house he was glancing back over his shoulder as he and his sister fled into the trees, handfuls of snatched jewels heavy in their pockets, the smell of burning flesh coating their nostrils like black tar. She’s dead. She’s dead. She’s dead, he kept repeating to himself, but he looked back regardless, fearing she’d be there in the doorway, the hag, magically unscathed, hurling curses after them as they escaped. And though there was no hag and no hurled curses, the hungry stare of her milky eyes have dogged him nightly in his dreams, and he wakes drenched in sweat that smells so horribly, horribly sweet.

The door swings shut behind him, and slowly the disturbed motes settle like a sprinkling of powdered sugar. His gorge rises at the smell of stale cinnamon and black treacle–a taste he once loved but can no longer stomach. Fighting down the urge to bolt, he inches forward, half anticipating some ghoulish familiar to jump out at him from behind one of the shadowy pieces of furniture–the looming pewter cupboard, the gnarled rocking chair–and grab him with strong bony fingers and trap him once again in a cage, he who once escaped, he who so foolishly has returned.

But where else could he have gone?

The future he and his sister dreamed of seemed so simple: a place of their own, where they could sell bread made the way their mother made it–pumpernickel, black and dense as blood sausage; sonnenblumenbrot, suffused with toasted sunflower seeds; soft, intricately knotted bretzel. But how quickly that dream had disappeared!–along with their jewels, which had, in the city’s gambling houses, run through their father’s fingers like water, his appetite for chance more ravenous even than the hag’s for young flesh. Everything they’d once had, gone–their father, fled, leaving the two of them with nothing but his debts. And then Gretel, who had survived such horrors with him, taken in an instant by something so absurdly commonplace as a chill, skin ashen, her body racked with coughing, until she lay silent and still and he by her bedside alone, feeling like a helpless boy again.

When the bailiffs finally came to take what they were owed, he knew of only one place where he might avoid the certain madness of being locked in a debtor’s cell.

He steels himself. He has seen the person he loved the most gutter and go cold, snuffed out before his eyes, seen his entire life crumble like a nodule of bread rolled absentmindedly between the fingers of someone pondering more important matters. This house cannot harm him.

He begins to move more easily even though the rooms get darker and darker the farther in he goes. He pauses a moment and allows his eyes to adjust to the gloom, and then it comes at him, like a beast from the shadows–the great brick maw with the iron door: the oven; and there, in the corner, like a grinning skeleton, the cage.

He freezes and then begins to shudder; his vision narrows, and he sees nothing but the bars of that prison, forgetting for a moment on which side of the bars he is. He falls to his knees, frantically searching the floor for the chicken bone, which staved off death each day for so many days, and begins to weep when he cannot lay his hands on it.

A draught, like the tender touch of small fingers across his neck, jolts him to his senses. He is drenched with sweat, and the air in the house is damp and freezing, as chill as Gretel’s cheek on the morning she failed to wake with the dawn.

Be brave, Hansel, he hears her whisper, stroking his hair through the bars of the cage when they were so very close to despair. We’ll get out of this alive. I promise.

Something catches inside him, tugs on his viscera. He cannot–will not!–let her be wrong.

He moves almost without thinking, so that in a moment he has unbolted the oven door and swept the old hag’s ashes to the ground; he has splintered the cage for wood and found tinder and flint in a tin box by the hearth, and before long, a welcome fire warms him.

He sweeps up the remains of the hag in an iron dustpan and takes them to the rear of the house, to a garden choked with weeds, where he casts them to the wind and they scatter into the trees like a flock of ghostly moths.

Before he turns to go inside, he thinks to himself how well-suited this garden would be for growing pumpkins and poppies, sunflowers and sesame; and the oven, too, perfect for coaxing even the most stubborn loaves to rise; how this house made of gingerbread could, if he dared, be somewhere he might build himself a new life, a happy life.

He reaches a hand to the eaves and breaks off a small corner of the house, which grows back again, pale and new, the magic mixed with the creamy, white mortar abiding still. He smiles, knowing that he will not go hungry tonight, nor for any night soon.

He puts the piece of gingerbread to his mouth; the warm spices dance on his tongue.

Three weeks after the well ran dry, I fed a man to the hogs.

The kitchen faucet drip had stopped. It had been a metronome companion, marking solitary kitchen chores, mending, morning coffee. I held the empty kettle, twisting both knobs. The tap spat, then nothing. I listened to a faint hiss where there should have been water.

The well was dry.

I’d been alone the whole time Sawyer was away. I’d kept up our place. The animals were healthy. I had sows with piglets to sell. There were no weeds in the garden. I’d done the repairs just like he would’ve if he hadn’t been on the state corrections road crew, saying “yes, sir,” and “no, sir,” to guards who thought he was lower than the dirt on their boots.

A big red X on the Sears calendar marked every day for four years.  January this year, I flipped almost to the back of the new calendar and drew a big red circle around Sawyer’s coming home day. Back then, I counted months until the circle.

The well was dry. Sawyer’s voice told me to call a man out. I could mend fences, unsqueak hinges, put up a season’s worth of canning, but I could not find water on my own. I could not dig a new well.

I called a man out who could find water for cheap, dig a new well. He was passing through on his way west. He was guaranteed to bring back the watery pulse of sound in the kitchen until Sawyer would come home and fill the room with a voice in my ear saying, “I’ve missed you, my girl.” He’d never have to say “yes, sir,” or “no, sir,” again.

For three weeks I waited for the well man. I drove the Ford into town to buy water. I filled the bed with five-gallon jugs, drove home slowly on the rutted dirt roads. I conserved water. I stood in the tub and bathed with a teacup and water heated in the kettle. I told the vegetables to drink slowly, sending them thoughts of soaking deluges after the well man came. I told the hogs to drink slowly, letting them drink their fill. I stroked the dog’s fur, whispering that I would walk into town barefoot and carry water by hand if she wanted more.

When the well man arrived at sunrise, there were only two red Xs left to draw on the Sears calendar. The man had a horse in a dented trailer. I was on the porch with the dog. He led the horse into the dirt of the yard, called out that he spoke to God through the horse. God showed the horse water, and the well man would dig the following day. The dog whined.

The man yelled into the horse’s ear. He slapped her face with a forked branch, an old west divining rod. The horse’s eyes bulged, showing their whites. She didn’t move. “God,” the man bellowed into the horse’s other ear. “God directs you to water!” He slapped her face again, barking, “God shows you water!”

The horse was still until she was not. She stepped away from the man who was brandishing his rod, looking skyward. In a breath, the horse’s back leg struck out. The man fell, exhaling his God in a furious rush of air as he landed in the dirt. Neither moved. The man’s forehead was a deep, crushed crater. The dog and I backed into the house. I inhaled, exhaled, watching the man and the horse through the screen door for an eternity. The man was still.

I couldn’t drop this in Sawyer’s lap. He couldn’t know there was any more trouble than driving into town when the well ran dry. I couldn’t let him come home to a dead drifter, a pack of lawmen sniffing around our property who’d look down on him when he was a free man. Everyone in the county already knew he’d been away. I had secrets on this land, too.

The horse walked toward the house, stopping at the porch. She knickered, tossed her head, blinked at me. I was not afraid. I stepped onto the porch, extended my palm, crooned small noises to say I have a different God, now you do too. She sniffed my palm. I stroked her forehead, whispering, “I will be the one to find the water now.”

I led the horse into the barn, thankful for the empty stall Sawyer always said he’d use one day. I stroked her nose again, didn’t think of the extra water I’d need. The hogs grunted as I passed. I was grateful the well man had arrived before breakfast.

I’d kept Sawyer’s ax sharpened, kept the woodstove going for four winters by myself. I’d gotten good at cutting pieces to fit the stove. The hogs would be like the hungry woodstove that disappears my labors into smoke, heat, ash.

I took my dress off. There wasn’t enough water to wash this away until I went to town again. I could burn my underthings when I was done. The ax was light in my hand, fierce and focused. I did not stop. I had Sawyer’s coming home day to think about.

I was splattered, half-naked, sweating with the exertion reserved for filling woodstoves or bellies. The hogs will not be hungry for dinner. I will give them extra water tonight, and I will not tell them to drink slowly. Now, I would walk barefoot into town and carry water by hand if they wanted more.

I drove the well man’s truck into the barn. He was only passing through. I will know what to do with it before Sawyer comes home. The animals do not have the language to say the well man was here. The well man and I will keep this one a secret.

Originally published in Barren Magazine, February 2019. Reprinted here by permission of the author.

When Grandmother disappears from the nursing home, Marika is the only one who understands what’s happened. The family and staff, they wonder how and why a 96-year-old woman could walk out of her room unnoticed and disappear in the middle of the night. They whisper about dementia and Alzheimer’s. They make phone calls to the police and hospitals.

Marika looks at the window left ajar and shivers in the cold spring air.

She’s already seen the deep paw prints in the flowerbeds outside, the muddy tracks leading across the nursing home’s parking lot towards the greenbelt by the creek. She knows that Grandmother is not missing but gone. Taken.

Grandmother told her the stories. About the woods where she grew up and lived most of her life. About the fog that wraps itself around the branches of the pines in the moonlight. About the shadows that lurk beneath the spruce when your feet stray off the path. About the creatures that breathe their hunger into mist, crooning your name beneath the trees.

There was always a wolf and always a girl in those stories; always the safe path through the woods to the shelter of the house, always the beast lurking if you strayed. Everyone else called it a fairy tale, but Marika knew it was more than that; she knew the stories had the ring of truth and memory, not fiction.

She follows the paw prints to the creek. On the other side, beyond the tangled birches and grey sallow, is the highway. Standing there, smelling the damp earth and budding leaves, she thinks about the last time she visited Grandmother; how quiet she was, gazing out the window with those rheumy blue eyes, staring at the darkness crouched outside the glass; her bent, arthritic fingers tangled in the red yarn in her lap, gripping those knitting needles tight.

“It’s still there,” Grandmother said, voice paper-thin like a secret, singsong like a story. “It’s still waiting for me.”

“You’re safe, Grandma,” Marika reassured her, not knowing what else to say.

Grandmother cocked her head and looked up, unsmiling. “I have never been safe,” she said and went back to her knitting.

* * *

Marika gets in her car. She knows where to go, knows where those paw prints will lead her in the end, so she drives north, following the straight path of blacktop and reflective paint.

In the car, she thinks about the house beneath the eaves of spruce and pine where Grandmother lived once upon a time. First, with Grandpa until he died, leaving only his huntsman’s rifle hanging on the wall and garbage bags full of empty vodka bottles. Then, she lived alone until everyone decided she was too old to manage.

Marika thinks about the closet in that house, how it smelled of lavender and sundried linen; how she hid there when she was four or five, playing with her cousins; how she found–hidden behind the woolen coats and polyester dresses–a red cloak, worn and faded, its hem torn and stained.

* * *

Marika drives until there’s nothing but forest and the gleam of furtive, yellow eyes on either side of the road. She drives until asphalt turns to gravel, and all the way, she feels that something is following her. It stays out of sight, just beyond the reach of the headlights–a gangly shadow, loping between the boles, untiring.

* * *

It’s dusk when she arrives at the old house. A lace-thin breath of snow covers everything, and the last bit of road is so rutted and narrow that she has to walk through brush, into the gloom beneath the pines. Along the path, Grandmother’s old flowerbeds are thick with couch grass and dandelions. Stands of nettle huddle near the porch, and beneath the windows, the rosebushes Grandma tended even though Grandpa always told her it was a waste of time to grow them this far north, poke through the scant snow. The door is locked, the house empty, but Marika knocks anyway.

“Grandma?”

No answer.

Marika turns and the wolf is there, standing between her and the forest. It’s tall and lean and older than she imagined, its breath a ragged mist of hunger wreathed about its snout, the curve of its back a jagged edge of bone beneath its shaggy hide. It stalks closer until Marika sees her own reflection in the clouded pupils of its eyes. Then it stops and looks back across the faded garden.

Grandmother is standing at the forest’s edge. She is barefoot in the cold, wearing nothing but her washed-out, pale-blue nightgown and the red shawl she was knitting when Marika saw her last, wispy hair spread over her shoulders like spun silver.

Afterwards, Marika will wonder why she didn’t run away from the wolf, why she didn’t scream, why she didn’t call out for Grandmother, but in the moment as it happens, she knows why. She knows the wolf isn’t there for her, and neither is Grandmother.

Standing on the porch, watching the wolf pace toward the trees, watching Grandmother put her hand between its ears, watching the wolf bend its head at her touch, Marika sees the old stories, and Grandma’s life, unravel and knit together into a new pattern.

She wonders if Grandmother always wanted the story to end like this, if the woods always beckoned to her, if she regretted following the path rather than straying beyond it, if she spent her life yearning for the one who knew her scent and silhouette in the moonlight, who crooned her name beneath the trees.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket. It’s Mom; her voice worn and distant.

“They found her in the creek. Marika. Your grandma, she… they couldn’t revive her.” Marika looks at the paw prints leading from the house to the eaves of the forest. “She’s in a better place now,” Mom says, fading.

“I know,” Marika says, watching as a slip of red and a gleam of silver fade into shadows beneath spruce and pine.

Who doesn’t know the formula for a fairy tale? It’s so deeply ingrained in our cultural lexicon that we naturally begin and end our modern stories with those familiar words:

Once upon a time…

And they all lived happily ever after.

No matter the format, we love fairy tales. Fractured, retold, spiced up, or sanitized, we can’t seem to get enough of them. But why? They’re not particularly novel. Damsels are usually in distress. Women of a certain age are bound to be as evil as they are wrinkled. Never trust talking animals. But whether we realize it or not, flawed as fairy tales might be, they attempt to explain how to navigate a world caught between the forces of good and evil.  

I’m not going to claim to be a fairy tale expert. But I was a nerdy bookworm of a child. I’d hide away for hours on end with Snow White, Cinderella, The Twelve Dancing Princesses, Thumbelina, and any other fairy tales I could get my hands on. 

And I have to say that I learned a thing or two. 

1. Appearances are deceiving. 

It’s a given that anyone who looks too kind to hurt a fly is a cold-blooded killer in disguise. Random animals in tailcoats, top hats, or brandishing any object that should require opposable thumbs are definitely cursed royalty. And anyone dressed like a scullery maid, peasant, pauper, or otherwise decked out in dirt, tatters, or animal skins is also one makeover show away from being the love of your life.* 

Oh, and never trust anyone who comes bearing snacks. They’re usually a harbinger of death or Death himself. Especially don’t eat fairy food. Or piss off fairies. Politely say, “No, thank you.”

*To all the fairy tale heroes and heroines whose crushes were outwardly a swan, frog, donkey, cat, or another type of not-approved-for-consensual-relationships critters? That’s hella awkward. 

2. Don’t get greedy.

Put down the gold. Back away slowly. Yes, I know you could really use the extra cash. Maybe drop a side hustle or two and still have some coinage leftover for a new pair of shoes. And speaking of shoes, fairy tales have taught me that my shoe addiction is as old as time—also problematic. I totally relate to Karen in The Red Shoes, Cinderella and a sparkly glass kitten heel (because girl was not running in a glass stiletto), and all those princesses dancing right through their bespoke slippers. 

But just like an adjustable-rate mortgage or that no-interest for twelve months credit card offer, there’s always a catch. 

Folks (magical and otherwise) will show up with offers of fulfilling your wildest dreams. They only need one thing from you in advance—a teensy tiny promise (usually a firstborn… no matter how broke and desperate you are, hold onto those babies). Basically, be careful of the promises you make. Better yet, don’t make any promises at all. 

3. Third time’s the charm.

Don’t even get me started on try/fail cycles and how important that third one is. (Actually, if you would like to get me started on those pesky try/fail cycles and other writerly techniques, head on over to patreon.com and become a Patron of FFO.)

But that whole “if at first, you don’t succeed, try, try again” thing? True. Don’t believe me? Just ask Goldilocks. Or Snow White’s evil assassin-queen. Or that poor courtier in Cinderella sent to try on shoes. 

4. Stay on the path (unless you’re ready to get woke.) 

Look, I get it. You’ve been on that path for what seems like forever, and it feels like the same-old, same-old, am I right? Maybe it’s cooler under that creepy looking tree just over there. Or perhaps your bladder is angry at that last flagon of ale you tossed back and you’d prefer to take care of that with a modicum of privacy. Or you’re late for a very important date and what could it hurt just to cut a corner?

But this is like Fairy Tale Survival 101: Get off that path, and you will get lost. And don’t say that no one warned you. Everyone warned you—more than once. But there you went, not listening again.

Except…

It’s only when you’re good and truly lost that you can see what you’re made of. Bad things always happen. What matters is how you respond. So if you keep your wits about you? 

You might just find yourself. 

5. The most powerful magics lie within.

In fairy tales, even the small, the weak, and the downtrodden overcome seemingly insurmountable odds. Anyone can be royalty no matter how impoverished their background. Families will break your heart (and sometimes attempt to murder you) but they’ll also be there, shoring you up, when you need to shove a witch into an oven. 

Even in the darkest moments, trust that you have what it takes. Sure, the shadows are full of creatures with fangs and claws who’d like to have you for lunch. But you needn’t be afraid to question authority—to look in the locked room, open the chest, kiss the frog. Save the day. Save the ones you love. Save yourself.

• • •

The stories in this month’s issue are (if you hadn’t guessed already) fairy tales.

In “Silver and Shadow, Spruce and Pine,” FFO alumnus Maria Haskins weaves a classic fairy tale anew. From fellow FFO alumnus Dafydd McKimm, “Gingerbread” follows a devastated Hansel as he attempts to make peace with his past and reclaim his future. And from Audrey R. Hollis, “Lipstick for Villains” because what evil queen would be complete without her ruby red lipstick? Finally, in “The Well Man” by T.J. Butler, a woman must look inside herself to find the power necessary to save the family farm.  

And that’s not all! A writing advice column from Jason S. Ridler with in-the-trenches advice for every struggling writer. 

Speaking of writing advice, if you’re a writer and looking for your people, I’d like to suggest you join our community of Patrons at Patreon.com. From manuscript critiques and personal coaching for writers to craft tutorials and early issues of the magazine, our Patreon community is intended to help you along your writing journey. 

Not a writer? We’d still love to have you become a Patron. Receive early issues of the magazine, copies of our anthologies, and a behind the scenes look at the infamous slush pile. 

You can also purchase individual issues in a convenient e-reader format at Amazon.com and WeightlessBooks.com.

Thanks for reading, and we hope you enjoy this month’s issue!

Anna Yeatts

Publisher, Flash Fiction Online

It takes a witch to make a queen’s lipstick. Hogfat, crushed ants, frozen embers, lead. Good lipsticks should burn. I, who had mixed oil and beetles and chilis into pastes and powders, had seen good people incinerated by those ocher smiles. The Queen of Algae and Urchin had asked that I squash rebellion with face powder, which would mark forever those who desired another ruler–or to rule themselves. Upon receiving this request, I fled to the Queen of Geodes and Mica, who received me with open arms. She kept me busy with lipsticks and eyeshadows and kohl until the day she requested that I create a face paint for children that would dispose of those heirs without a drop of her blood. Upon my refusal, she threatened prison, her dogs, my death, and I locked myself away in my workshop to think.

Having no other skills and a newly-acquired distaste for the destructive whims of the most powerful, I stole away in the night, to a kingdom far away. There I set up shop not as a witch, but as a woman, talented in powders and pigments. A woman who wished only to sell beautiful things.

I turned with joy to a simpler life after so many years in palaces. The shop was mine alone, with solid cedar floors and walls that kept out the wind. A little hideaway in a kingdom where a new queen had come to power, one I had never met, one who I hoped would never know my name.

But my new queen’s messengers arrived two days after I had rented the shop, when I was still sweeping the floor and rubbing oils into the corners where the dark comes in. I thought I’d disguised myself well enough. When I saw the messengers’ shadows on my threshold, I knew that I had failed.

I was brought to her lady’s maid, who asked me for an eyeshadow, one that would see through lies. I refused, of course, claiming retirement, claiming my magic had fled, claiming the tired bones and shaky hands of an old woman. Just one last powder, the maid requested, a tax for my entry into the kingdom.

“Deliver the powder by tomorrow,” she said, her eyes dark with fear, “and then she will leave you to your peaceful retirement.”

I toiled all day and night. Belladonna, hemlock, owl feathers, carrots, mercury, and other things of which I cannot speak. In the morning, I handed the woman a small vial. One drop daily. The lady’s maid shook with relief. I wished I could advise her, too, to leave the service of queens. But I was not yet free, not yet a heartening example for anyone.

Upon applying it, my queen canceled her trade agreements with the Queen of Salt and Fire, having seen too much or perhaps too little.

A month later, the messengers arrived in the middle of the night. They took me into the canals beneath the city. Under the palace lay a great underground lake, which my queen used in lieu of dungeons. Our boats met by torchlight. My queen was beautiful in the way that power creates a certain magnificence in the wielder.

She asked for a powder, one which would conceal that which she wished hidden. I asked, of course, about my retirement, about our agreement. She claimed the lady’s maid hadn’t told her; that this, at long last, would be my final work of art; that she needed, in these trying times, just one more small favor. The reward for my small act of service, she promised, would be great.

The water lapped at our boats, rocking them, and there were monsters in the depths. I knew that, should I refuse, I would never see the land. Shaken and furious, I agreed.

Chalk, flour, rue, the scales of snakes, and the last lie in an old man’s life. When the messengers came, I had one pouch of powder for them, but only one. It seemed the best way to remain alive.

The next day, one of her counselors disappeared. A tragedy. The man was never found.

A queen born into power, after all, will never rest content with the kingdom she possesses. Every queen wants more. Power gives no satisfaction, only an insatiable hunger. My queen, like all queens, wanted the world. I could not believe she would leave me be. I didn’t know where else to flee. I spent many nights looking at the ceiling above my bed, not sleeping, just waiting.

Barely a fortnight later, she summoned me to her chamber. Tapestries covered the walls and light coated every surface. She said I could have all these riches and more if I could complete one final task. A lipstick, she said, one that carries my words from ear to ear. Make it impossible for anyone to say no to me.

Lipsticks require gemstones and mulberries and blood that never rots. My hands shook over the potion. I was so tired of the whims of queens. It was clear that, as long as she ruled, I would have no respite. It was clear that, if I could not live safely, I must try for something else, for justice.

This time the messengers took me to her throne room. I held the bottle of crimson liquid in my hand. I could not keep from quaking. She had mistaken me for a woman who loved wealth over all else. I had not bound the lipstick to her; anyone who painted their lips with that molten ocher could use it to command.

Faster than she or her guards could interfere, I scooped my finger into that pool of scarlet and smeared the whole of it on my lips.

“Down with the queen,” I said.

And the word spread. And the people obeyed.