If you live on the East Coast, you’re probably snowed in right now. You’ve burned through 3 1/2 seasons of Dexter and are on the verge on re-enacting The Shining. Well, future serial-killers-in-waiting, we’ve got some good news for you. Mud Luscious Press has kindly volunteered to sponsor a contest for your cold winter days.
In her beautifully haunting We Take Me Apart, Molly Gaudry evokes the essence of fairy tales and the traveling from childhood to womanhood, all in sad, poetic whispers.
We want you to tell us a new fairy tale in under 75 words. The winner can choose from We Take Me Apart or First Year: An MLP Anthology. Place your tales in the comment section below. The contest ends in one week, Tuesday 16 February. Spread the word!
On the morning of the first day, there was nothing there to greet the sun when he rose. The sun wondered why he had bothered to get up and greet creation when there was nothing to greet. After several long millennia the sun noticed that there was some dust gathering around him. The sun decided that dust was the creation he had been waiting for, and decided to greet it as best as he could.
There were some turtledoves hanging on the morning’s air, the meadows passed quickly along the borders. Trips were not my cup of tea and nor the far things had power on me who preferred quiet hours spent to observe trees and words, without worrying about suitcases and flights to take. There was a lovely court made of bricks and glasses framed by a turquoise iron behind the curved roads of the hill. I stood staring.
my god is a fairy-tale of once upon a time, a dark energy, atomic glitters, flashes of light in colors, swirling in patterns esoteric, fading in mists and smokey puffs, dandelion fluffs moved by breathing and coalescing in all directions, all dimensions of tidal energies, dark and light and in between the shadows and the colors;
one being, another being, a bridge two cross, a permeable membrane, a whirled being – here – there – now here again – now where? never created, never not created – the fairy tale god.
Goose wrote three biographies: A big, medium and small one.
Goose gave the big one to a publisher. They responded, THIS IS TOO HOT. It contained his sexual conquests with three swans & oral with a pinecone.
He sent the small one to a publisher. They responded, THIS IS TOO ORDINARY. It explained his collection of 248 Subway Gift-cards.
The medium manuscript was published. It explained hydration is technicolor. The world was never the same.
“MOURNING DOVE”
Every evening,
Crow searches for the dying,
and calls to spirits, crying
for them join him in his flight:
One black feather seat
for each spirit rider.
He flies
into the dimming light
and releases his passengers to the night
one by one
and one by one
his feathers turn white -
A Dove now
from mourning.
The Kettle Bell lass stormed the night, every hair astray in fright. She’d seen not ghost, beast or ghoul. Only the man that made her the fool. Three magic rings adorn her bed. The first on his finger, shining of gold, the second his mouth agape and cold. The final ring strung of rope. From rafters he hung extinguishing hope. Kettle Bell Lass found rings in her bed; by morning her heart turned into lead.
Man was created, his only innate abilities to move and think. He watched the animals and thought nothing of them. Saw other men and gave them no regard. He thought little of his place in the world, or the universe as a whole. He lacked the desire to make any good lasting thing. He was unable to feel or love, unable to understand any of it, really. Then, God created Death.
We got this dirty, brown cave somewhere on some island no one cares about, and in this cave is two computers. They’re plugged straight into the dirty cave wall and they each have their purpose: one’s for the ocean and space, seein’ as how they’re pretty much the same, and the other’s for the stuff in between. They look the exact same and operate the same and smell like humans. They’re warm as eyes.
Vice
Alexandria, scant girl of lowliest mien took small steps to disguise her limp.
Jarom rode by her daily, annoyed to see such a hapless creature alone on the road. Weeks passed and he noticed her hobbling little steps. Taking pity, he dismounted his horse and held out his hand. With downcast eyes, knowing smile, she took it.
Once in his embrace, she gazed down into his eyes.
Only then did he recognize what she was.
There was a little boy, and he was alone in a great, dark forest, and we was afraid, and he looked up at the moon, the only piece of brightness that he could see, and he asked the moon, Why am I alone in this great big forest? Why is there no one to take care of me? The moon was silent, and soon went away.
“SOUVENIRS”
Loira Wraithwaite’s valentine curse, Brichford’s decaying seaside called it: “The Summer of Heartbreak.”
Luring native sons and tourists with her siren charm.
Hijacking their lust, scarring herself on their nostalgia.
Naïve hearts as fragile playthings.
Autumn, with her invisible treasures of haunting grief, she vanished.
Left the pier a floating gallows.
Empty beaches and arcade graveyards.
Sour, unsold gift shop rock.
Winter through Spring, Brichford feared she might return.
Summer, fresh tourists hoped she would.
You receive the future in the form of a book.
It is bound in red leather and printed on fine white paper.
You are tempted to skip to the end, but don’t want to be on some Oedipus-fleeing-to-Thebes shit.
You need to know how you’ll get there.
The book begins at the same time you do.
It reveals yourself to you.
You realize too late how long you’ve been reading it.