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ENCHANTED CONVERSATION ARCHIVE ONLY

noreply@blogger.com (Kate W.) — Sun, 02 Jan 2011 15:27:00 +0000

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Enchanted Conversation: Hansel And Gretel Issue

noreply@blogger.com (Kate W.) — Thu, 23 Dec 2010 00:37:00 +0000

The stories and poems in this "Hansel and Gretel" inspired issue are dark, funny, thought provoking, enigmatic -- well, they are like a fevered dream you might have if you fell asleep in a big old scary forest.

And now, the table of contents!

Hansel and Gretel Inspired Recipes, By Cecelia Myers

Little Hans, By Erika Tracy

A Father's Weakness, By Olivia Arieti

About Roses, By Alexandra Seidel

Two Sides to Every Story, By Janet Bucklew

A Girl's Liberation, By Paula Jones

Broken, By Gerri Leen

Sugarcoated, By Tahlia Merrill

The Blacksmith's Children, By Ben Langhinrichs

Into The Forest and Through the Woods (A Song of Hansel), By Wynne Huddleston

Cooking Children! With Witch Wanda, By Samuel Valentino

Sugared Coated Dreams, By Loralie Hall

The Schwarzwald Incident, By Laura Garrison

The Trouble With Candy Houses, By Heather Talty

Things That Cannot Be Eaten, By Jazz Sexton

The White Bird, By Eric Pazdziora

Contest Winners

Duck, By Amanda C. Davis

Outcast's Tale, By John P. Pazdziora

We Have Our Winners For The Hansel and Gretel Contest!

noreply@blogger.com (Kate W.) — Sun, 19 Dec 2010 19:41:00 +0000

Thanks to all who entered. You'll find a poem by Amanda C. Davis and a story by John Pazdziora below. As usual, the competition was stiff and deciding on winners was tough.

We also have a bonus story -- "Hansel and Gretel" inspired recipes, by Cecelia Myers, our fairy tale food editor!

Hansel and Gretel Recipes -- The Kids Are Not For Dinner! By Cecelia Myers

noreply@blogger.com (Kate W.) — Sun, 19 Dec 2010 19:39:00 +0000

oor Hansel and Gretel. If not for their ingenuity and quick-thinking it may have been them in that oven. This issue's recipes are simple, kid-friendly and tasty to the pickiest palate. Hansel and Gretel need food that's portable and easy. Their useless father certainly isn't going to help get them fed.

Scrumptious Scroggin

Don't be fooled, Hansel and Gretel, this is just trail mix. A bonus is that the peanuts, cashews and marshmallows are light enough they they should double as trail markers whilst traveling through the woods! This could be a healthy trail mix, but since these children are in grave danger of being eaten by a cannibalistic witch, they may as well enjoy some sugar, right?

1 cup peanuts
1 cup cashews
1 cup marshmallows
1 cup raisins
1 cup pretzel rods
1 cup peanut butter-chocolate candies (like Reese's Pieces)
Mix well and enjoy!

Creamy Boar Sandwiches

A favorite in our house. My small dog and husband have not yet tried to push me into an oven after making these easy snacks. Serve with chips or some Scroggin, if you're so inclined.

2 slices rustic-forest-woodcutter's bread (if you don't have this in your neck of the woods, try a bagel)

2 tbs cream cheese

4 slices wild boar sausage (try hard salami at the deli)

Toast the bread and slather with copious amounts of cream cheese. Add boar and go crazy.

Simple, Multi-Use Ginger Cookies

Easiest recipe for Hansel and Gretel to make. Even better, the delicious and tantalizing scent of ginger, cloves and cinnamon should easily cover any lingering smell of burning witch in your house. If you decide to move into the fabled gingerbread house after the witch has vacated, the cookies might also be used as spackling or drywall substitute. Tasty and useful!

1 cup sugar
3/4 cup butter
1 egg
2 tbs molasses
1/2 tsp salt
1 1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp cloves
1/2 tsp ginger
1 tsp cinnamon
2 cups flour

Cream butter and sugar. Add in egg and mix well, then add in molasses and stir. Sift together the dry ingredients and add in to the wet mix. Mix well. Refrigerate for about two hours. Roll in balls the size of walnuts. Roll in granulated sugar. Bake in oven for 12 minutes at 375 degrees. Makes about 3 dozen.

http://cookeatshare.com/recipes/easy-ginger-cookies-4820

Contest Winner: Duck, By Amanda C. Davis

noreply@blogger.com (Kate W.) — Sun, 19 Dec 2010 19:25:00 +0000

quack quack
dis lake sure is nice, ja
oh look, a little fräulein
think I'll schvim on over and
HOLY QUACK
vot she jump on my back for
vell okay
guess I'll just schvim to de other side
she's a skinny thing anyway
bitte schön to you, fräulein
now I got a story for my enkelkinder
quack quack
lotta nice looking fishes over here
oh look
fräulein got a brother
looks like a fine young
GOTT IM HIMMEL DIS BOY IS HEAVY
vot is it, jump on ducks day?
vhy doesn't nobody tell me?
okay, okay
I schvim across
but I'm telling you kid
lay off the braunschweiger
ja, ja, you're very welcome
auf wiedersehen
have a nice day
i got to go schvim over here now
und warn all my friends
today ain't a great day for ducks

Editor's Note about Amanda: Amanda C. Davis is kind to her fine feathered friends. Find her on Twitter at @davisac1 or at http://www.amandacdavis.com. She also reports that she comes from "a very German family." This poem cracked me up, plain and simple.

Contest Winner: Outcast's Tale, By John P. Pazdziora

noreply@blogger.com (Kate W.) — Sun, 19 Dec 2010 16:48:00 +0000

Editor's Note: John's tale is complex, and if I am guessing right, mixes a touch of Andersen's "The Ugly Duckling," with the "duck" from "Hansel and Gretel." I liked the community setting of the ducks in the farm -- all the posturing and quibbling. Congrats John!

John Patrick Pazdziora is a freelance writer and editor. His stories have appeared in New Fairy Tales (May 2010) and Cabinet des Fées (January 2011). He is also a doctoral candidate at the School of English, University of St Andrews, researching George MacDonald and Scottish Romanticism. He lives online at mrpond47.wordpress.com. In the real world, he lives in Scotland with his wife and daughter.

The air is cold this morning. I’m afraid. I don’t know why. Something in me trembles at the smallest sound, poised to flee, to escape. I shake my wings, finish preening, biting back the urge to fly. Perhaps I’m being afraid of the cold. It would be the sort of thing I would do.

I wander into the yard. The other ducks are there already, gobbling corn. They are beautiful—fat and sleek and white, the pride of the barnyard. I disgust them.

A young drake notices me and pretends he doesn’t. A few of the girls draw away, feigning unease for a maidenly virtue they’ve never demonstrated before. I stay on the corner, nibbling at grains and grass. If all I must endure this morning is sneers, I’ll be lucky.

I’m not.

“Outcast?” A shrill voice booms across the yard. “Outcast!”

The eldest drake has seen me. I look up from the grass. He looms above me, fluffy chest thrust out, his brooders simpering behind him. I keep my gangly frame crouched and let him loom.

“What are you doing here, Outcast?” he demands.

I tell him I’m eating grass. I know what he will say, whatever I say.

“Eating?” he says disdainfully. “Grass? Eating grass?” He turns to the other ducks. “Do you see, sons and daughters? Do you hear? This duck would eat grass like a—a criminal! Like a goose! Like a—an animal!”

The other ducks laugh.

The eldest drake swells to his theme, turning back to me. “I do not fault you, Outcast. I am, on the whole, a magnanimous bird, and take as best I can the broadest view. We know—we all know that you have no poetry in your soul. No po-etry. In your soul. Tell me what I said, Outcast. Tell me what you haven’t got.”

“I’ve not got poetry in my soul, sir.”

“Speak up! Don’t mumble, quack louder. What’s that you said?”

“I’ve got no poetry in my soul, sir!”

He turns to the other ducks in outrage. “He has the gall to admit it! To bellow it out with pride! The shame of such arrogance!”

The other ducks shake their heads, muttering their disdain.

“I tell you, Outcast,” says the eldest drake, “I take an indulgent view. One must be indulgent to have you about at all—I mean, those gray feathers, the unsuccessful moult. I pity you, Outcast. Gray feathers will do you no good when winter comes. Only white feathers are truly warm. Do you know what winter is, Outcast? Outcast? Ask me what winter is.”

“What is winter, sir?”

“Speak up, don’t mumble! And quack—none of this hissing and muttering!”

“What is winter, sir?”

The eldest drake shakes his head. “Such a sad thing, not to know. Winter, my dear freak, is a time of warmth and plenty. Of sleep and fat. Soon, Outcast, we will go into the barn to nest in the hay, to be fed on the finest of the harvest, to grow whiter and sleeker and fatter. Winter is a good and bountiful time. Winter, ahem, is a time when we have nothing to fear.” He glares round at the other ducks. “Am I not right?”

The ducks seem uneasy. They nod assent, but glance about at each other.

The eldest drake scowls. “Stop this muttering, all of you! Tell me what winter is. Winter is what? Speak up!”

“A time when we have nothing to fear!” chorus the other ducks.

“Tell me,” says the eldest drake, “winter is a time when what?”

“When we have nothing to fear!”

“You see, I thought not.” He turns back to me. “But as for this other—I really can’t say. You see, they kill freaks here, Outcast. You’ve seen it with pigs. Helpless, deformed things get their brains beat out. And you—so gangly and clumsy—you, so gray. Well. Let us be glad, for your sake, that winter is nothing to fear. Come!” He glances round at his brooders. “Let us return to the barn, and prepare, ahem, for the brooding of the spring.”

The other ducks waddle off. I stare at the clump of grass before me. I don’t want to eat it anymore.

One of the ducks lingers behind, watching me. She’s from the same clutch as me, and was the smallest. But she’s grown so beautiful. She’s one of the plumpest ducks, now. The others call her Radiant. She almost smiles at me. She almost smiles at me almost every day.

“I don’t even know what po-hetry is,” she says. “You just need to fatten up, that’s all.”

“I eat grass.”

“Well,” she leans forward, whispers, “I’ve got a stash of corn behind the barn. You can have it, if you like. You need it.”

I stare at her, astonished. She simpers.

“You don’t need to look at me like that,” she says. “Not yet, anyway. Go on—fatten up.” She hesitates, really does smile. “I think long necks are beautiful.” She flusters, scrambles off to the barn.

Dazed, I wander off, scratching round the foundation thoughtfully until I find the hidden corn. It’s cold and stale, but I eat it. I even eat some of the grass that was hiding it. Now I want to be fat and sleek for spring.

I’m hearing a strange noise as I eat. The farmer is about—I can smell him. He’s back in the shed, not far from where I’m sitting. I hear the noise again—methodical, rhythmic, something scraping. It’s a cheerful sound, drifting my mind back to the warm days of autumn, yellow leaves and golden corn, ripe and fresh.

The farmer must be whetting his scythe. Perhaps winter is a good and bountiful time after all.

Now that I’ve eaten, I’m tired. I huddle in the grass beside the barn, beside the memory of Radiant’s gift. I preen myself more carefully than usual. And I sleep again.

I awake in mid-afternoon with dull terror. Ancient senses in my chest are screaming in fear, telling me to fly, to escape. The world has become a single peril. There is a predator nearby.

This is foolish. The eldest duck always tells me how safe the farm is, except when he tries to frighten me. I must fight back my silliness and get my exercise, same as usual.

I run a few shambling paces, beat my wings, and fly. The senses in my chest nearly drive me straight into the sunset, to hide in fire and fear, but I force myself to fly at a brisk pace round the barn. Exercise is good for me, the eldest duck says. He’s right. As I fly my fears recede and I become sensible again.

Until I circle round the barn. The terror rushes at me, knocks me off course. Flee, flee, or it will find you, it will take you. Fly, fly, or you will be torn, you will bleed, you will be dead.

I force myself to land, shaking, gasping for breath. I must not be foolish and think such things. I must go back to the other side of the barn. The other ducks are feeding; I can hear the farmer whistling for them. But I linger, fascinated and appalled. For now I realize that this fear wafts off the shed.

The terror becomes a single smell, sharp against my mind. The smell becomes a single sight. Blood has pooled in the dirt beside the shed, dark and rank. Blood drips from under the door, running along the wood to join the darker stain. Blood fills the air and my mind and the earth and the ground is screaming and the blood is flecked with white feathers and I am flying—flying in panic around the barn.

I land among the other ducks, panting and trembling. The eldest duck pecks me sharply. “None of that! Keep away from respectable birds!”

I look around; the fear will not leave me. “Where’s Radiant?”

The ducks fall silent, staring at the ground, the sky—anywhere but me, anywhere but the direction of the shed.

“Where’s Radiant?” I shout.

The eldest duck ruffles his wings. “Tell me!” he shouts. “Winter is a time when what?”

“When we have nothing to fear!” shout the other ducks.

He glares at me. “There, you see? There are to be no questions. Nothing remarkable has happened or will happen. Winter is a time when what?”

“When we have nothing to fear!” shout the other ducks.

“So push off and stop staring.”

The eldest duck pecks me until I slink away. I lay my head against the side of the barn. I am the freak and she was beautiful, but it is not my blood beneath the door. If I knew how, I would weep.

A sudden rush of wings overhead startles me. I look up. Perhaps I was wrong—perhaps Radiant was just out flying. But the bird overhead is not Radiant. It’s a stranger.

The stranger lands in the yard with a rush of wings and a wink for the girls. They flutter away, quacking and affronted, glancing to see if he’ll follow. He ignores them and tucks into the corn like a starving hare.

He is not like the other ducks, not sleek and fat and white. His feathers are gray, black, brown, all speckled together. His head flashes purple and green when he moves. There is an air about him of strangeness, like one who has travelled far and seen farther. I watch, fascinated. I’ve never seen a bird like him before.

I creep up beside him, pecking at the corn. He grins at me, eats faster. I know how unlovely I must look to him. It’s some time before I speak.

“What are you?” I ask.

“What are you, hideous?” he says, but not unkindly.

I try to smile. He can’t have known how much those words hurt. “I’m called Outcast. I’m a duck.”

“You a duck?” he says. “Fluffy and domestic? You’re just chickens that quack, you lot. Me, I’m a duck.”

“You’re not a proper duck. Ducks are fat and sleek and white and you’re—”

“A proper duck. That’s Mallard with a capital M.” He looks at me curiously. “You don’t get out much, do you?”

“I get out to the yard every day. I eat lots of corn because I’m so skinny, and fly around the barn for exercise.”

“You don’t get out much,” he says. “Can see why, too. First rate scoff you chickens get here, eh? Fattening you up for winter.”

“Winter is bad.” I can’t help saying it. I know it’s true. “There’s blood under the door.”

“The old choppy-chop, eh? That’s the trouble with going domestic. But winter’s not bad. Not if you know where you’re going. Me, I hang around till the river freezes. You get to see snow that way, and ice. You never lived till you seen the river in winter, mac. The reeds are full of frost so they catch the sunrise, and when you’re under them they gleam and shine till you’re in a bed of light. The fish are sluggish, the air is clear, and the water is cold—cold, cold.” He ruffles his feathers. “And then you fly south with the wind of winter over your wings.”

“What’s south?”

The stranger stops eating, stares blankly. “You gotta get out more, kid. South is downriver. South is green fields and warm water all seasons long—air so wet you can swim in it. Try flying south for the winter, mac. Better than hanging about waiting for the old choppy-chop.”

The other ducks are waddling back, pretending to eat but batting their eyes. The stranger ignores them, stands up and beats his wings. “Me, I’m off. See you down south, Outcast.”

I watch him fly away, his wings whistling in the cold air.

It’s nearly dark now. The other ducks ignore me, waddling back to the barn together, tittering about the stranger. I stay by the fence. The river is a long shadow across the pasture. Beyond lies the wild wood—further still, if the stranger spoke true, lies the wide world.

South.

I back up from the fence, run forward, stumbling over my own webbings. I stretch my wings, let them catch the cold air, feel the lift of the wind about me, and I’m over the fence, over the pasture, flying low along the river. I hear the panicked quacking of the other ducks, but I don’t care. Not anymore. I fly downriver toward the south, away from the blood and the barn, into the shadow of the wild wood.

It’s dark among the trees. Around me are only shadows, strange ghost shapes. I hear rustlings and whisperings, the crack of ice on branches and the slow shiver of frost on leaves. I turn with the river, the winter wind behind me.

A light appears on the water below me, dark shadows sweeping across it, shifting, changing. I see myself upon it as a shadow, a dark winged thing blotting it, batting it out. I look up, away—and I see. The moon has broken through the clouds, half-full, its face scored and shattered with the twisted, changing branches of the wild wood. I catch sight of my wings. By its light, they are sleek and white, and I am beautiful.

The river widens. I’ve come to a lake in the middle of the wood, an island of pale trees at its centre. I arc my wings and run along the water. It is cold, crackling as I touch it. I clamber ashore, panting, push my way through the reeds. I settle among them, fluffing my feathers against the frost.

“South.” I say the word drowsily, tucking my head under my wing. “I’m going to the south like a real duck. I’m flying south with the wind of winter. We could have gone together, Radiant.”

I don’t know when I fall asleep. But I wake into a shimmering splendour of light.

Everywhere, the shadows of the woods are covered in light. The moon has vanished. The watery winter sun shines instead—from every leaf and every branch, dazzling in a thousand fragments.

I push off to the water, scrabble on a hard surface, and stare, bewildered. The glittering whiteness is wet and cold about my legs. I try to run but the hard surface is sleek. I slip and stumble, and fall heavily. The surface cracks, and cold water rushes over my feathers.

Not gone, then. I gain my balance in the water, beat my wings, and hit the broken edge heavily with my chest. The woods boom with the sound. Water washes around me. I fling back my head and laugh despite my grief—laugh for the joy of the morning and the absurdity of winter, laugh for water under stone and the light of winter on my wings. I heave, strike the ice again.

“It’s frozen. We can’t get across!”

“Yes, we can.”

“No—don’t!”

The woods echo with breaking ice. Two voices scream. I rear, looking about. On the far bank, a human girl is hauling a human boy away from the water’s edge. Her face is deathly pale, and she is screaming at the other child.

“You stupid idiot, you never listen! You could have drowned!”

“I thought it was thicker.” His voice is nearly as high as hers. “I couldn’t see it because of the snow!” He grabs his ankle, shaking the water off his boot.

The girl crouches beside him. Their voices sound weirdly close to me in the cold air. “I don’t know what to do.”

“We’ll—we’ll—neither do I. Can’t we just sleep?”

“I can’t sleep.”

“We could try.”

“I can’t sleep! Every time I close my eyes I see—”

“Don’t. Just don’t. All right, don’t sleep.”

“Besides, you die if you sleep in snow.”

“I don’t care. I want to die.”

“Don’t say that! Don’t you say that! That’s sin.”

“I want to die. I want to die, Gretel! Where do we go from here? How do we get across the river? How do we know she—it—hasn’t followed us?”

“She couldn’t. You—you heard her.”

“I saw you. I watched you.”

“I—I know. What else could I do?”

“Was it sin, Gretel? Was it sin?”

“I don’t know.”

The boy sits on the snow, hiding his face on his knees. “I want to die.”

They are not like other children I’ve seen. They are pale and gaunt, dressed in rags that can give no warmth, tattered coats, dirty faces, untidy hair. There is something awful in their faces—a fixed horror, a dread that has nothing to do with sunlight or morning. Even when they shout at each other, they cling to each other, as if too frightened to draw away.

They are alone in the wild wood. They are different. They are afraid. They are outcasts.

I rear, break the ice again.

The girl looks up at me, blue eyes wide and terrified. “Look, Hansel, look. There’s a duck.”

“I don’t care. Leave me alone.”

“It’s breaking the ice. It’s trying to swim.”

I don’t care!”

“Do you think it can take us across?” She’s shaking now, crying. “Do you think it can help us?”

“I don’t know.”

The girl stands at the water’s edge, watching me as I beat a path through the ice. She speaks strangely, her voice swaying in a singsong. “Little duck, little duck, can you see? Brother and sister are crying for thee. We have no home, no help in sight; carry us, please, on your back so white.”

They are like me, these children. The gawky ones, the strange ones, ignored and forgotten. What horror have they left behind? What unspeakable thing beneath the door? The whetting of an axe, the drip of blood. These children, they are outcasts.

I break the ice again. I’m nearly at the girl’s feet now, a track of open water behind me, cold and clear and shining with morning sun.

“Look.” She’s crying, shaking. “Look, Hansel, it heard me. It’s come to help us.”

The boy stands up. “It can’t.”

The girl kneels in the snow. “Look—Hansel! It’s not a duck. It’s a little swan. Can we ride on you, little swan?”

I begin to shudder, but not from cold. What does she mean, this girl with the fearful eyes and pleading face? I am the hideous one, the outcast—I am no swan! I look down in the water, see myself looking back—gray and mottled, haggard with worry and fear, a horror in my eyes that is not from the morning. I look down and I see my hideousness and my grief, my fear and my exhaustion—the face of Outcast.

And I am not a duck.

I spread my wings, offer her my back. I feel her climb on, her hands cold in my feathers, gripping me tightly with her knees. The boy climbs on behind her, holding her about the waist. They are so light—as light as cygnets, as if no bigger. Or perhaps I’ve been given strength. I beat my wings, feel the wind of winter rushing round. The grove of trees shimmers pale before me.

The girl’s voice is close in my ear. “Will you carry us, little swan?”

I will carry you, children. I will help you. Come with me away from this place, away from the shadows behind us—the fire that crackles in the hearth, the blood that runs beneath the door. Before us lies the south, the land beyond winter’s realm. Winter’s wind will carry us there, freezing the wings of fear behind us and giving us safe to the warmth of the sun. Nestle in the warmth of my down, children, hide beneath my wings. The river leads us south. The wild wood is behind us now, the wide world is ours. Fly with me, my children. As the world turns round us, we will find home together.
For I am like you. I am Outcast.

And then they went homeward with one star awake,

As the swan in the evening moves over the lake.

Don't Forget, We Have A Writing Contest Going On!

noreply@blogger.com (Kate W.) — Fri, 03 Dec 2010 14:16:00 +0000

Here are the details for the current contest: Prizes of $25 Amazon gift certificates will be awarded to two writers or poets -- so either kind of work is welcome. Two prizes total will be awarded. Only one entry per person, you must be 18 and over. The submissions must be made between 12 a.m. December 13 and 11:59 p.m. December 15, EST. For the contest, write a story or poem from the point of view of the duck Hansel and Gretel ride on near the end of the story. All submissions should go to EnchantedConversation@gmail.com. All questions should be directed there as well.

The image by John Batten may help to inspire you.

The White Bird, By Eric Pazdziora

noreply@blogger.com (Kate W.) — Sun, 07 Nov 2010 16:46:00 +0000

Nobody saw when the white bird first came to the cottage by the forest. The father heard it first as it sat by the chimney like a ray of sun and sang with words he couldn’t quite understand. “Ch-witt, ch-witt, ch-witt,” it called, mournful as a lost child.

The little boy—they called him Lucky—fell in love with it at once and sat watching it for hours, feeding it scraps of bread. Margaret, the eldest though not by much, was sensible and thought no more of it than of any other pigeon on the roof. The mother hated it and tried to kill it with stones, but she never hit it.

The family was poor. They never seemed to have enough food however hard the father worked. One night as the white bird nestled by the chimney, it heard the mother and father talking.

“What do you mean, stop them eating?” said the father. “Lord knows we’re short of food, but talk sense, woman.”

“Then we’ll all starve,” said the mother. “Always eating and eating like pigs, they are. You’re too soft on them and you’re making yourself weak.”

“I can’t help it if they’re hungry, can I? I’m doing all I can.”

“You’re killing them, that’s what you’re doing. Without food, they’re good as dead anyway. It would be better for everyone if we took them out in the woods and let them fend for themselves. I know a nice little place by a river—”

“Are you out of your mind, woman? They’re your children!”

“Do you want to watch your children starve? Do you want to watch the meat fade off their bones? Do you want to see their little eyes looking up at you and saying ‘Daddy, why—’”

“Stop! For God’s sake, stop!… All right. Do it. God forgive you. But don’t you ever talk to me again.”

The white bird closed its eyes and sang. “Ch-witt, ch-witt, ch-witt.”

The next morning, the mother led Margaret and Lucky into the forest to look for berries. Lucky looked back every few feet to throw a crumb from his piece of bread on the path for the white bird.

“Don’t waste that bread, you,” said the mother. “Or you’ll be hungry later.”

“Birdie’s hungry,” said Lucky. “And he’s so sad.”

“Birds can’t be sad, silly,” said Margaret. “They don’t have feelings.”

“Nor should children,” said their mother. “Now come along and I’ll give you a lovely surprise.”

They walked deep into the forest. As the children hunted for berries, their mother left them.

There is no word for the fear of a child lost, hungry, and alone in a dark forest. There are only tears, bitter tears, and the children clung to each other and wept and called for their mother and father. The forest was silent.

Then from a tree came the song of a bird. “Ch-witt, ch-witt, ch-witt!”

“It’s Birdie!” said Lucky. “He followed my crumbs.”

“Birdie?” said Margaret. “Do you know where our mother is?”

“Ch-witt,” sang the white bird. It hopped from one branch to another, fluttering its wings.

“That way?” said Lucky.

“Ch-witt!” called the bird again, fluttering even more frantically. The children ran down the path where it curved downhill into a sudden clearing.

There, to the children’s wonder, was a hut made of food, all the nicest bread they had ever had at home but that had been so scarce lately, all the sweets they had been promised but had never seen. Down the hill the children ran, even as the white bird cried, “Ch-witt-ch-witt-ch-witt-ch-witt-ch-wittch!”

No sooner had the children fallen upon the hut of food, tearing off handfuls and devouring, than the door creaked open and a high, wild voice sang as if from a great distance, yet strangely familiar.

“Someone’s eating at my house again,” it said. “If it’s that little mouse again, I’ll catch it and make it a big fur cap. If it’s that little bird again, I’ll wring its neck and make it a blackbird pie. And if it’s little children again, I’ll make them some lovely hot food, won’t I?”

“Please,” said Margaret, “we’ve lost our father and mother and we’re alone in the woods and it’s dark and we’re hungry and…”

Her voice trailed off as a face appeared in the door. Its unbrushed hair stuck out around its head like a thistle, its face was red and smudged with ash, and its puffy eyes were so dark they looked almost like empty holes.

“Children!” said the high, distant voice. “I thought you’d never come. Poor old Mother here all alone with no one to eat my food. Look at you, all skin and bones. Why don’t you come inside and Mother Machandel will fatten you up.”

For all her wild hair and frightful clothing, there was something familiar and homely about the strange woman. Margaret and Lucky went into the hut of bread and sweets, and Mother Machandel served them a hot meal of cakes and biscuits and a meat pie and ladyfingers. More full than they had ever been, Margaret and Lucky fell asleep at the table.

When Lucky awoke, he was in a cage, no bigger than a dog kennel. His screams woke Margaret, who ran to him, only to be pulled up short by a chain around her ankle.

“So sorry about that, love,” said Mother Machandel, watching from the table with a smile, “but we wouldn’t want you to be naughty and run away like you left your poor father, would we? No, no. They must be good little children now and their father will be so pleased to see them once I’ve fattened them up as they should be.”

“What are you going to do to us?” said Margaret.

“Well, you be good obedient little children,” said Mother Machandel, “and I’ll make you a rich black pudding and a savory, savory stew. And I’ll take you back to your father and he’ll never be hungry again, once he’s had his own good son and daughter to eat.”

Margaret turned away so the woman would not see her trembling. “You,” she said. “You witch.”

“Temper, temper!” scolded Mother Machandel. “You mustn’t call people such terrible names. It isn’t kind.”

The next while might have been days or weeks or a month. There was no way to count time. The bread hut had no light but a fire-pit in the floor. The old woman set Margaret to grinding flour with a millstone and plied them both with fine food. Lucky ate his fill, but Margaret touched as little as she could.

Every so often the woman took Lucky by the wrist—“I’ll have none of your tricks with skinny fingers,” she said—to see how fat he had become. Then she pleaded with him to be a good boy and eat, not like his cruel, ungrateful sister. Margaret said nothing and found she could not cry even if she wanted to.

After who knew how long, when Lucky was sleeping, Mother Machandel said, “Today is baking day! Such a lot of flour you’ve made. We’ll knead the dough and roll it out together, and then we can chop the meat for the stew. Won’t that be lovely?”

Margaret held the millstone close. “You’re a witch,” she said.

Mother Machandel’s voice had no emotion. “You know I don’t like it when you say that word.”

“Witch.”

“Such a wicked, rebellious girl. You should be ashamed.”

“Witch.”

“Put some wood on the fire, Margaret.”

“How did you know my name?” said Margaret. “I never told you my name.”

“Why wouldn’t I know your name? I’ve always known your name. Put some wood on the fire so we can make our Lucky stew.”

“Witch!” shouted Margaret.

The woman leapt forward to grab her. Margaret dodged and fell as the chain pulled her ankle. She lost her grip on the millstone and it flew through the air, crashing a hole into the gingerbread roof. Bright light poured in—for a moment Margaret thought it was the sun, then she heard the flutter of wings and the piercing call, “Ch-witt! Ch-witt! Ch-witt!”

The white bird snatched the millstone in midair and dropped it on Mother Machandel’s neck. The old woman staggered and choked. Margaret swung the chain, tripped her. Mother Machandel toppled into the fire-pit.

Margaret buried her face in her hands, but she could not drown the howls and screams as the witch, her neck trapped and broken under the millstone, burned alive.

Finally the screams died to a soft sobbing. Margaret peeked through her fingers. The witch was not quite dead, but, blinded by the light from the fire and from the white bird, Margaret could only hear her voice.

“Margaret?” said the witch. “Hans? I love you when—”

There was no more.

Then Margaret knew where she had heard the witch’s voice before. It was her mother.

Too dazed to feel, Margaret hugged her knees to herself and rested her head. Lucky whimpered softly in his cage, a trembling bundle in the corner. She'd have to get him out. It might take time, but she’d do it. But then—she’d have to tell him about—and then—

She felt the white bird alight on her shoulder. The bird chirped softly, and Margaret found with wonder that she could understand the words of its song.

“My mother, she killed me,

My father, he ate me,

My little sister Marilee

Buried me under the juniper tree.

Ch-witt, ch-witt!

What a beautiful bird I am now.”

“You too, Birdie?” said Margaret, her eyes filling with tears. “You too?”

“Ch-witt,” said the white bird.

--------------------------------------

Eric M. Pazdziora is a composer, a pianist, an editor, and an author for a wide variety of publications and venues. He lives in Chicago with his wife Carrie and their spoiled cat Eloise, where he works as a copy editor and a freelance musician. Information on Eric's writing and music can be found at http://www.ericpazdziora.com.

Little Hans, By Erika Tracy

noreply@blogger.com (Kate W.) — Sun, 07 Nov 2010 16:46:00 +0000

y the time Little Hans came along, Greta’s mother was “just about babied out.” Greta wasn’t. She was perfectly happy to be the big sister for a change, and liked being the ninth of ten much better than the ninth of nine. Hans came along on her tenth birthday, and she thought he was the best birthday present ever.

But her parents really were about babied out. Even though Greta giving bottles and changing diapers helped with the work, they weren’t sure how to pay for yet another child around the place. “We’ll just have to give him up for adoption,” Mother said.

Greta had just changed her little brother and was blotting pee from her hair at the time, but she tiptoed to the door of the baby’s room to listen with Hans against her shoulder for safekeeping. “Greta won’t stand for it,” her father said, and she felt a surge of relief.
“Maybe someone would want them both,” her mother said. “She’s a big help, after all.”

Greta hugged Little Hans. “Don’t worry,” she told him. “You aren’t going anywhere without me.” He didn’t seem terribly worried. He grabbed a handful of her hair and gurgled.

The next afternoon, her parents told her to pack for her aunt Brunhilde’s house. She’d never heard of Aunt Brunhilde before, but they were packing for Little Hans, so she put her clothes in a suitcase and wrapped her toothbrush in a paper towel. Car rides are always furthest when you don’t know where you’re going. Greta paid careful attention to all the turns and streets until they pulled up to a Victorian-style house and her mother chirped, “Here we are!”

There they were, and before she knew it, she and Little Hans were alone with Aunt Brunhilde, who looked like no relation to either of them on any side of the family. She was too old for an aunt, for a start, and nobody else in the family had such a startlingly hooked nose or such snaggly teeth. Still, when she tickled Little Hans he giggled, and that was a start as far as Greta was concerned.

“What a plump little duckling!” Aunt Brunhilde chuckled. “Almost good enough to eat!”

Little Hans giggled some more, waving his arms and legs happily. When Aunt Brunhilde made munching noises against the baby’s tummy, he whooped. Greta wasn’t as happy as he was. She’d never understood when grownups made jokes about eating up Little Hans.

At dinner, Little Hans was introduced to rice mush and took to it immediately. He liked the taste. He liked how it felt on his cheeks and chin and nose. He liked grabbing the shiny spoon Aunt Brunhilde used to feed him. Greta found herself well-stuffed with pepperoni pizza. Their aunt ate lightly and seemed to enjoy watching them. Then she showed them upstairs to Greta’s new room and Hans’s new nursery.

The changing table had a curved pad on top. Hans rolled over on it, chuckled, drooled, and rolled some more. “Look at you!” his aunt said. “Rolling like a little sausage on a warmer.”

He rolled onto his back and peed a great fountain. Greta reached for the roll of paper towels beside the wipes. “He likes to do that when he’s naked,” she explained.

“You may be in charge of changing him,” Aunt Brunhilde told her, blotting gray hairs with another towel.

“I usually am,” Greta admitted.

They settled in. Little Hans took to oatmeal, fruits, and pureed meat mush with enthusiasm. Greta discovered that she actually could get tired of hamburgers and pizza. Aunt Brunhilde bought them new clothes and dressed Hans herself, tickling him and buzzing her lips on his belly. He whooped with glee. “What a plump little lamb!” she said. “Almost good enough to eat!”

Greta thought of the cookbooks in the kitchen, bound in leather and shelved out of reach of even a nimble girl. Something about the joke was striking her as just a little scary. Too, she wondered what would happen when summer ended and she had to go back to school. She took care of Hans more than Aunt Brunhilde did.

Hans enjoyed mashing a baked sweet potato into goo as he sat at his high chair. Between squishes, Greta would catch his attention and spoon a little more baby food in, then try to pour in a little formula to wash it down. She usually ended up with orange mess up her arm from her little brother’s grabs, but he had a good time, so she did too. Aunt Brunhilde would just laugh and hand her a towel.

And then Aunt Brunhilde went out to the back yard and began to clean out the barbecue pit. Greta thought something cooked over an open fire would be a nice change from the endless parade of pizzas, fried chicken, and hamburgers; she felt fat. Maybe, she thought hopefully, they would roast some corn on the cob.

Aunt Brunhilde came in covered with ashes and soot. She washed her hands, then pinched Little Hans’s cheek. “Plump little piglet,” she told him. “Good enough to eat.”

Greta tried to decide if that could possibly mean what it sounded like it meant.

“Give him a good bath,” ordered Aunt Brunhilde. “Don’t bother dressing him again.”

Greta tended to do as she was told, but her worries made her drip anxious tears into the bath water no matter how much she told herself she was being silly. Hans splashed enough that those tears would never show on her cheeks. She didn’t think anyone would really eat her little brother, but at the same time, she thought maybe Aunt Brunhilde meant to.

When she brought Hans down to the kitchen, Aunt Brunhilde was making a barbecue sauce. There was nothing else on the counter. “What’s for supper?” Greta asked, trying to sound innocent and hoping the answer was something ordinary.

Aunt Brunhilde gave Hans another little pinch on his cheek. He wriggled away and fussed. “You haven’t figured it out? I thought you were such a bright little thing.”

Greta swallowed hard around a huge lump in her throat. “And are you going to eat me tonight, too?”

“Don’t be silly, a big girl like you!” Aunt Brunhilde laughed. “I’m saving you for company.”

Greta clutched Hans close in his bath towel. “I won’t let you cook my brother!”

Brunhilde bared her snaggly teeth. “And how do you plan to stop me? Taste this sauce. I think it’s a little sweet, myself.”

Greta found her mouth opening as the spoon approached. The sauce coated her tongue, and her arms released custody of her wiggling brother. She wasn’t just in the habit of obedience, she discovered; somehow she could do nothing but exactly what she was doing. “It’s good,” she said, although that wasn’t at all what she wanted to say.

Brunhilde went back to the yard, Greta following in dutiful, numb terror. The old woman put Hans on the picnic table and strapped him to a pole. “The coals look just right,” she remarked.

They did, if they had been for ribs or for steaks or for roasted marshmallows. Hans giggled as barbecue sauce was brushed lightly over his bare body. He giggled as the spit was hefted over the fire. Brunhilde flipped a switch somewhere, and the spit began to turn.

Hans liked the heat. He liked the rolling. He liked being naked. He chortled and squealed.

And he peed a great and mighty fountain all over the coals.

Steam billowed. Brunhilde swore, and Greta discovered suddenly that she was free of her curse of obedience. She grabbed Hans away, spit and all. The old woman she’d called aunt made a lunge for her. Greta felt something snag her heel, and a thud, and a scream. She put Hans on the picnic table and did something she’d been told to never, ever do. She grabbed up the lighter fluid and sprayed it onto what was left of the fire, aunt and all. Then, without looking or listening, she grabbed Hans up again and ran.

Remarkably, a little girl rushing down the sidewalk with a naked baby tied to a spit could find a policeman right away. Greta told him there’d been a horrible accident, and she’d panicked, and she wanted to go home. Hans let the world know that he’d had enough of being bare and drying barbecue sauce chafed. Lights flashed and sirens wailed. Almost before either of them knew what was happening, they were back home.

As Greta lay in her own bed that night, cuddling her well-washed little brother to sleep as though she’d never let go, she heard a lot of odd words drifting up from the living room below. “Insurance policy,” she heard, and “Good thing we insisted that Hans and Greta were named in her will as a term of the adoption.” She didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded like everything would be all right.

Biography: Erika Tracy is a longtime dog owner and new mother. Her first novella, "Half-Sick of Shadows," has been released by Shadowfire Press.

A Father's Weakness, By Olivia Arieti

noreply@blogger.com (Kate W.) — Sun, 07 Nov 2010 16:46:00 +0000

Perhaps, the woodcutter belonged to a fairy tale, but his actions were selfishly human. As a matter of fact, he was desperate and full of remorse for he had purposely led his children, Hansel and Gretel, in the depth of the woods and abandoned them. He did it because he was weak. Even if he was a woodcutter with such strong arms to chop the trunks of the highest trees, he was afraid of his wife. He was scared to face her hassle, her threats. The woman, besides being greedy and selfish, was terribly jealous of the children. She was their stepmother and wanted the woodcutter’s heart all for herself. When food started to become scarce, she found the right excuse to send the children away. The man acquiesced. Henceforth he woke up every night and saw his first wife’s face crying and exhorting him to go and look for Hansel and Gretel. He would get up, also annoyed by his second wife’s snoring, open the window and look out at the starry night. But the stars weren’t shining for him any longer. They were displeased with him. A sharp pain would seize his heart and tears fall down his hardened face. Full of shame, the woodcutter began hating himself and the woman lying in his bed.

In the meantime, the children were wandering through the hostile woods. They were wounded, deeply hurt by their father’s behaviour. “How could he?” they both went on asking without finding a reasonable answer. Gretel kept crying, Hansel tried to comfort her. Even if they had heard the cruel woman threaten the poor woodcutter and shut the bedroom door, they still could not understand why their father had been so weak. He had done what no father should ever do. The dangers were many, loneliness and a feeling of abandonment were the greatest. Besides, the forest was full of hungry wolves that at night came out, looking for food. They both felt very sorry for themselves and thought of their mother, so caring and beautiful. Unfortunately, she had left them too early.

With all these thoughts, Hansel and Gretel ended up on a bright green glade where a little gingerbread cottage appeared. It looked so pretty and warm and they were so exhausted that they wondered if they had reached Paradise, where their beloved mommy was living now. She must have found out of her husband’s misbehaviour and somehow had called for them. That was certainly her home. Perhaps, they were entering a dream that was going to last forever in that little house, far from the cruelty of life, where only their mother’s love dwelt. It was the last drop of innocence that in children amazingly goes on existing, even in the hardest and most frightening circumstances. They were a bit surprised that no birds, squirrels or rabbits gathered around the cottage: all was still and quiet. Nothing could stop them, however. Brother and sister were only eager for their mother’s big big hug. They had to enter the dream.

Sadly, all expectations faded: an ugly witch was waiting for them, who the children immediately recognised as their cruel stepmother! As a matter of fact, the woman, tired of her husband’s moans and tears, of his sleepless nights, one day when he was out in the woods, went to the nearby pond and caught as many toads and water snakes as necessary to prepare a magic potion that would turn her into a horrible witch. Her plan was to kill Hansel and Gretel. Only then she would be the sole keeper of the woodcutter’s heart. Nothing could have made her happier than seeing her little prey enter the gingerbread cottage.

For quite a few days the old hag had been eating nothing but snakes, rats and toads as all witches do. She wanted something tastier, soft and chubby for the few teeth she had left. So instead of poisoning the children with an apple, she decided to eat them up. The problem was that they were too skinny. Therefore, she locked Hansel in a cage and resolved to wait till he would get fatter. In the meanwhile, Gretel would do all the housework. The children trembled on hearing her plans and were scared to death. They had become smart though, for sorrow had sharpened their wit. Hansel found a little bone which he showed the old witch every time she asked for his finger. Fortunately, while preparing the venomous potion, the stepmother had turned blind and could not discern his finger from the bone.

At home, the woodcutter was almost relieved for his wife’s absence and his secret hope was that she might had left forever. Perhaps, she had got lost in the woods and a big wolf had eaten her up. He couldn’t help his bad feelings against her. If ever he should find his children still alive, he would ask to be forgiven. That’s what his first wife told him to do in his last dream. She was crying more desperately than usual. He felt her tears on his pillow. The man realised that Hansel and Gretel were in great danger. He hurriedly shut his cottage door and set forth in search of them. He took along his axe just in case he should chop up some wolf or who knows…

The evil witch was getting hungrier and hungrier and decided to waste no more time. She would eat the children at once. Perhaps, she foresaw the woodcutter’s axe moving closer or simply was devoured by her own voracity. She ordered Gretel to light the oven. Now it was Hansel’s turn to cry. He huddled in a little corner of his cage as to become invisible. Gretel was so desperate that when the witch moved over to the oven to check if it was hot enough, the girl pushed her in and shut the oven door. Survival was essential. Then she ran to her brother’s cage and freed him. They both hugged and fled into the woods. Should they try and find their way home? They hadn’t answered the question yet when they saw the woodcutter running towards them. He took their hands and fell on his knees, pleading forgiveness. Hansel and Gretel looked at each other. Distrust had replaced ingenuity. Their happiness and love for their father, however, made them overcome that somehow unfamiliar feeling and they threw their arms around his neck. Forgiveness was granted.
The woodcutter never remarried but now his dreams were haunted by the wicked witch, still claiming his heart. He knew that only his first wife could free him, when she too had forgiven him. One night the man felt a deep pain as if his heart had been torn out of his chest. He feared that the cruel woman had taken it away and lost his senses. Unexpectedly, when he woke up, he found himself beside the lovely mother of Hansel and Gretel. She had forgiven her husband and wanted to stay with him. From then on, mother and father looked down on their beloved children together.

Olivia Arieti is a U.S. citizen and a high school English teacher living in Italy with her family. She has had some plays published by Brooklyn Publishers, Desert Road Publishing, USA, Lazy Bee Scripts, UK, as well as others produced in NYC. Her poems appeared in Women In Judaism, The Wanderlust Review, Poetica Magazine, Eye On Life, VWA: Poems For Haiti. Her piece of fiction, “Grandpa’s Toscano” will be published in The Smoking Poet’s next issue.

A Girl's Liberation, By Paula Jones

noreply@blogger.com (Kate W.) — Sun, 07 Nov 2010 16:45:00 +0000

"Water," Hansel said as he plopped down at the kitchen table, all sweaty and smelly from helping Father chop firewood since the break of dawn. His muddy shoes dripped onto the floor that had taken nearly half a day to clean.

"Please," Gretel said, grating out the word that was evidently beyond Hansel's ability to utter when asking her for anything.

"Water, please."

She closed her eyes and counted to ten. "I haven't moved the water well once today, so I'm certain you can still find it."

"But it's your job to fetch it for me."

She was elbow deep in kneading bread for supper. It was mid-morning, but if she didn't start early, it would never be done on time. She often wondered how her step-mother had done it all, what with the washing and cleaning and preparing three square meals a day. But then, Father had helped her with the chores in addition to his own job of chopping wood. And her step-mother had never waited on any of them hand and foot, not like what was required of Gretel.

But her step-mother was gone, dead--Gretel often wondered where Father had buried her--making her the Lady of the House. She'd soon realized that being The Lady of the House was nothing more than a fancy title for servant. Just like she'd been for the witch who'd kidnapped both she and Hansel. Gretel had done all of the cooking and cleaning and whatever else the evil woman had demanded of her, while Hansel had eaten to his heart's content, fattening up as a delicacy for the witch.

It wasn't as if Father couldn't afford to hire someone to do all of the things that Gretel hated to do, what with the gold coins she and Hansel had found after she'd killed the witch. She'd even suggested it. But Father had hidden the coins, never used even one to make their lives a little easier. He believed in hard work and thought it was important for her to learn her duties for when she married. Like that was ever going to happen because moving from one man's house to another wasn't her idea of a bright future. She wanted her freedom and she wanted the coins--she'd earned them, after all. She only needed to be patient a while longer until she was of age.

She wiped her hands on her apron, grabbed a bucket by the door, and went to the well, muttering words that she'd learned from the witch. Words that would get her mouth washed out with soap if Father ever heard her. When she returned, Hansel hadn't moved from his spot and mud still dripped onto the floor.
She sighed, put the bucket down on the counter, dipped in a cup, then slammed it down in front of him. The water sloshed over onto the table, a little landing on his lap.

"Father will punish you for that," he spat.

But Father had yet to ever scold her. He'd never said much of anything, even to her step-mother who'd whined and complained all of the time.

Gretel smiled.

***

Supper was a quiet affair, had been since her step-mother had died. Gretel didn't like the quiet.

She cleared her throat to get Father's attention. "I cleaned the floors again today. Hansel muddied them up when he came in from the fields. I expect the two of you to remove your boots before you enter the cottage from now on."

Her eyes were lowered when she spoke, but now she eyed them both, determination building in her gut.

Hansel sat with his mouth hanging open. Father didn't say a word, but his face was awfully pale.

The next day, Father and Hansel's shoes were lined up nice and neat on the porch and they ate with their socks on.

***

Gretel had decided to sleep in. Waking up with the rooster's crow had never been her idea of a good night's rest. But a banging on her door woke her from her sweet dreams. Dreams of ventures into town to visit Mr. Halden's book shop, just like when she'd been little and Mother, her real mother, used to take her. Father had never taken Gretel to Mr. Halden's, even though she'd begged him to after Mother had died suddenly--she'd often wondered where Father had Mother buried. She knew he didn't approve of her wasting time and hard earned money on books, especially when there was so much work to be done.

The banging got louder, and she sat up, closed her eyes, and counted to ten. "What?" she ground out through clenched teeth.

Hansel opened the door. "I'm hungry. Where is breakfast?"

"If you go and search under the hens, I'm sure you'll find it. Now let me sleep."

"It's not my job to cook breakfast. And what about biscuits? You can't find those under a hen." His voice was shrill and whiny. It was the voice of a near man used to getting his way. The way most men sounded, she was sure.

Then she remembered the mornings when her step-mother hadn't made breakfast. She'd suffered from headaches that were sometimes so severe she'd be in bed for a whole day.

Gretel smiled.

"Hansel," she said, her voice soft and shaky. "My head aches something awful. You and Father will have to fend for yourselves today as I can't even manage lifting up from the pillow.

He frowned, probably wondering how to light the stove so that he could get his stomach filled. His stomach never seemed to fill, anymore.

"We'll manage, I guess," he grumbled, then shut the door softly behind him.

Her step-mother had been a genius.

***

Gretel was taking a stroll in the small garden behind the house when she noticed a piece of cloth sticking out of the flower beds. As she got closer, she realized that the cloth had the same design and color of the apron her step-mother had worn every day for as long as she could remember. Gretel grabbed a shovel and began to dig until she found a body. It was nothing but bones in a dress, and the skull was cracked open as if an axe had split it in two, just like the logs Father and Hansel made every day.

At the soft creaking sound of twigs snapping underfoot, she turned to see Father, an axe draped from his hand and a look of sadness upon his face. No words were said. Then he raised the axe and began to lower it with such force that Gretel shut her eyes tight.

***

"Where's breakfast, I'm hungry," Hansel said, sitting at the table with his muddy shoes on.

Gretel sighed. Father was gone. He'd tried to kill her, just as he'd killed before. But he'd slipped and fallen on top of her step-mother's bones. On top of the axe that had impaled him.

Gretel had reburied her step-mother in the flower beds, the secret well hidden, then wrapped her Father in the sheet off of the big bed in his room.

"His heart stopped beating," she'd told Hansel. Father had been old, after all. They'd buried him in the back yard, then went back to the cottage for a supper that Hansel had expected her to make. He was the man of the house now, he'd said. Which evidently meant that she was at his mercy.

He wished.

Gretel smiled.

She looked at the sink filled with dishes from the supper she'd prepared last night, then looked to Hansel.

She'd told him before they ate that if she were to continue to cook, then it would be his job to wash up afterwards. She grabbed the apron that hung from a nail on the wall and dropped it at his feet. "Get it yourself."

His eyes were wide. "Where are you going?"

She grabbed the book she'd gotten at Mr. Halden's bookshop--she'd visited the day before her Father had died, left straight after breakfast, not even asking for permission--then opened the screen door to go outside.

"I'm going to sit under the large oak tree at the edge of the property and read." And there wasn't a thing Hansel could do about it.

Although she kept her Father's axe handy, just in case.

About Roses, Alexandra Seidel

noreply@blogger.com (Kate W.) — Sun, 07 Nov 2010 16:45:00 +0000

Come, dear brother mine

they say in the woods, there grow roses

let’s go into the woods, oh brother

with wide eyes that are thirsting

for a scarlet that doesn’t fade to purpled flesh

let us go where roses grow

here is the way that we should take

why would you pour pebbles on that way,

dear brother? They seem like the moon

caught in stone and salt and dropped to earth

Be not a fool! Here is bread

and I let the crumbs sink into the hollow

of our footsteps, food

for worms and crows

lost like so many things to hunger

Don’t you see, dear brother mine?

Here is the house with sugar for roof tiles

and marzipan flowers that grow from the earth

For you, I would eat anything,

for you, I think, it wouldn’t be so bad

come in, the door is open!

Come in, dear brother mine,

my little brother,

warm your hands by the fire

and let me deal

with the flames

Alexandra Seidel would like the day to have more than just 24 hours. She might even be enticed to make a deal with some shady fairy tale creature if only it would give her more time in which to spin her tales and compose her poems. As of now, Alexandra’s writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Enchanted Conversation , Scheherezade’s Bequest, Sybil's Garage, Star*Line, and other places that don't do mainstream; her mainstream stuff can be found in
decomP, Word Riot, Monkeybicycle, yes, and others. Feel free to check out Alexandra’s blog at: http://tigerinthematchstickbox.blogspot.com/

Two Sides to Every Story, By Janet Bucklew

noreply@blogger.com (Kate W.) — Sun, 07 Nov 2010 16:45:00 +0000

This morning, as I washed my dirty clothing, a voice rang out though the clearing around my cottage. I looked up, and there stood my two children. They were covered in dirt and a substance that looked like soot. I didn’t care; they were truly alive as they ran into my arms.

I thought I was doomed to eternal punishment for my sins. Yet, Someone has forgiven my transgressions, and restored my precious children to me.

As we walked to our home, Gretel asked if their step-mother, Matilda, would be angry to learn the she and Hansel were home. I shook my head and told them their step-mother died of remorse when she realized my beloved children were not coming home again. That seemed to satisfy Gretel, and nothing more has been said of her.

There are two sides to every story.

I was deeply in love with my beautiful wife, Agna, whose name meant chaste and holy in our tongue. On our wedding night, she gently told me her name no longer held that meaning, for she had given herself to me completely. I smiled, stroked her soft skin, and told her she was holy, and I would perform worship rituals every night for the rest of our lives. She blushed, and then gave herself to me again. Soon, we delighted in the news of her pregnancy, and were astounded at our good fortune the day our twins were born. Hansel and Gretel were two beautiful, perfect children. Both resembled their happy, adoring mother.

When the twins were six, a fever plague rose in the countryside, with my fair Agna falling victim, dying in only three days. I was left with my children, and a sorrow that seemed to consume me. When the gypsy nomads traveled through our forest in their colorful wagons, one woman, Matilda, remained behind. She told me she was a teller of fortunes and read messages in tea leaves. Her tea leaves told her to stay with me and my children. I was so stupid. My grief made me numb to the warnings, but I allowed her to stay. Soon she was in my bed, telling me my children were a financial burden and should be left in the forest to die. Only then my luck would change and the two of us would be happy and wealthy forever. Or so she said.

I gave in, taking the children out into the forest. I lied to them, saying I would return at the end of my workday. I turned and walked away. Matilda met me at the door of our house, where she began telling me all was well, using her body to convince me. Then, a miracle, the children returned but Matilda was furious. She wove her magic again, and I left my own children, Agna’s beautiful children, out in the forest once more to die.

For two days, I believed Hansel and Gretel might return. Then, on the morning of the third day, I knew I had to change my life. I could no longer allow this witch of a consort to rob me of my soul. While God may have taken my Agna from me, I realized the Devil had stolen my children from me.

That morning, as I dressed, I reminded Matilda I needed her help in the forest. We were clearing a thicket of tangled vines and shrubs. I could not do the work on my own. Grumbling, she dressed, then gathered fruit and cheese for our midday meal. We walked out together into the morning light.

We walked farther into the forest than ever before. Matilda complained of the distance, and that her feet hurt. Finally, we stopped in a small, natural clearing. I smiled at her, “here my sweet, let’s rest and eat before we begin our day’s work.” She smiled, and lowered herself onto the grass provocatively.

I resisted Matilda’s advances, telling her we needed our strength to work through the day. She pouted, but following our meal, she worked alongside me. The sun shifted to the west, and shadows fell through the trees where we were working.

“Oh, Gustav, my arms are so tired from moving branches, and I can hardly stand on my legs, they feel so weak. You may have to carry me back to our house.”

“Don’t worry, my pet, Gustav will take care of you.”

With that, I grabbed Matilda and threw her against a nearby oak tree, pinning her by her neck.

“You have had your way with me long enough,” I growled in her ear. “You have used your charms and spells for the last time. My Agna is gone, and so are my children. You convinced me to leave my children to die,” my words now venomous and harsh. Matilda, that witch, looked at me and snarled.

Gasping for breath, she spit her words at me. “You are a weak and pitiful excuse for a man, let alone a father. I only encouraged you to act on your thoughts. Those brats stole your love from me as well as food from our table. I can do so much for you, let me go,” she demanded, while trying to pry my fingers from her throat.

So, I let her go.

Then I killed her.

I buried her body deep in the forest, covering my tracks with leaves and brush. No one will ever find Matilda.

The next morning, my children were restored to me. We cried, as they told me some fanciful story of a house made of candy, and a witch that wanted to bake and eat Hansel. Personally, I believe they suffered from hallucinations brought on by hunger. Yet, when they emptied their pockets and apron of pearls, I was willing to believe anything they said.

I told them Matilda died of a broken heart; they told me stories of a witch. I pray that is the only lie I ever tell my children. My heart is changed. I will never allow anything or anyone to come between me and my children. I have my most precious treasures; my children. They are all the riches I require.

Janet has had a story published in EC previousy. Click here to learn more about her and the story.

Sugarcoated, By Tahlia Merrill

noreply@blogger.com (Kate W.) — Sun, 07 Nov 2010 16:45:00 +0000

"Megs?” Shawn’s voice drifted down the basement stairs. “I got the peanut butter!”

Megan wrenched out the duffle bag she’d been searching for and hefted it over her shoulder. Her spirits sank. How would she carry this as well as a backpack full of supplies?

Her little brother stood at the top, straining to hold the extra-large tub of peanut butter with both of his small six-year-old hands.

“What’s that?” her brother asked as she passed. “Megs, where are we going?”

“It’s a tent.” She considered sugarcoating the situation, pitching her voice high with fake cheerfulness and telling him they were going on a camping adventure. The idea turned her stomach sour, so instead she kept her mouth set in a firm line. “We’re leaving.”

Most kids run away from home to take a stand against what they see as parental tyranny, but Megan had no such grandiose visions. The scratch marks and bruises covering Shawn’s pudgy body were why they now walked down their cracked and weedy driveway. It had taken Megan less than a semester in school to understand that if she got good grades, Mom was content to yell instead of hitting. Shawn on the other hand never told anyone why he always forgot his gym clothes, but couldn’t grasp that higher grades would keep him out of trouble at home. She’d watched it for a year and couldn’t bear it any longer. Armed with food, water, shelter, and a copy of The Worst-Case Scenario Handbook, Megan planned to walk from their apartment in New Jersey to their dad’s house in Connecticut. Both were tiny states on the map and right next to each other, so she hoped it would take around three days.

“What’s that?” Shawn’s sing-song voice asked for the thousandth time. It was day six. Megan rolled her eyes and didn’t even glance at him. Any warm fuzzies towards her brother had faded on day two when he refused to walk unless she carried his pack. Although her usually endless patience had been reduced to rags, she resolved never to show it, terrified the anger would turn her into a monster if ever expressed. Again, he piped up. “I think it’s a fire!

The breeze brought a smoky scent into her nose. Was there actually a fire nearby? She spun to see Shawn staring at a faint gray fog wafting in. A second sniff puzzled her. Wood smoke mixed with a tangy, fruity aroma like pie in the oven? How was that possible when they had seen no houses in days?

It was a mirage, it had to be. But instead of an oasis, Megan was imagining a life-sized gingerbread house, complete with giant Necco wafers for roof tiles and a candy cane door frame. M&Ms decorated the chimney emitting the magnetic fragrance. Before she could gather her wits, Shawn did what anyone would expect of a little boy after wandering in the woods for six days.

“Shawn, don’t!”

“But the sign says, ‘Welcmm—ouch!” his attempt to bit into the gummy bear lawn ornament had failed. “This thing is rock hard!”

“I’ll bet it’s really old and all sorts of bugs have gotten stuck in it.”

Before she could get a closer look, the door opened and an old woman poked her head out. She was plump and wore an apron over a floral print dress. “If you children want treats, you can come inside for them instead of eating my masterpiece.”

“Oooh,” Shawn said, abandoning his destructive endeavor, but looking to his big sister before accepting the offer.

“I am so sorry,” Megan began.

“Not at all,” the old woman said with a smile. “That’s what it’s built for, so come in and make yourselves comfortable.”

Megan thought the “Woah!” that came from her brother as he beat her inside was due to the goodies waiting for him, but nothing could have been further from the truth.

The inside of the cottage was pure metal, dimly lit by glowing strips around the walls. Panic rose in her chest. This wasn’t even a house! There wasn’t even a fireplace where the chimney had been! The only recognizable piece of furniture was a swivel chair parked in front of a switchboard with blinking lights.

The door shut behind them with a pneumatic hiss.

“Stay still,” the old woman said, pointing what looked like a metal Nerf gun at them. Before their eyes, her features rearranged themselves. While the basic shape stayed the same, the resulting oversized head, squashed torso, and spindly birdlike legs would barely pass for a human with serious birth defects.

Shawn put his finger on the truth immediately. “Holy crap, she’s an alien!”

“Don’t say ‘crap’,” Megan corrected out of habit.

The alien gave a gravelly laugh, even her voice transformed. “That’s right, little boy. I am Ulasa from the asteroid Nytheb. I was in the middle of the Great Migration when my ship ran out of fuel and I’ve been on your planet for over a year, collecting energy sources. The Powers favored to bring me two of you—exactly the remaining number of sources I need.” With the flip of a switch, the ceiling slid away and a set of half a dozen golden cages descended. Inside the cages were other children, staring sullenly at the alien witch. “You humans have such tiny brain capacities compared to the Nytheb, but the younger you are the more brain energy is available to me. You’re also the easiest to fool with my ship’s camouflaging system.”

“She’s going to kill us!” The oldest boy of the group said. “She’ll hook us up to her machine and drain our brains until we’re all dead.”

“It’s a long journey,” Ulasa explained with a shrug. She cocked her gun. “Now, you newcomers, get into the last two cages nice and politely.”

“Shawn, get her!” Megan yelled. It was a stupid thing to do, but she hoped if they both rushed the alien creature maybe one of them would be able to topple her over. She was betting Ulasa wouldn’t want shoot her energy sources dead.

She’d bet wrong. Two paces from striking distance, the gun made a loud popping sound and pain shot through Megan’s shoulder. Instantly, all strength evaporated from her body and even as she lunged for the gun, darkness enveloped her.

The sound of lots of people shouting woke her up.

“It’s that one!”

“Which one? What’s that?”

“I think I’ve got it.”

“No, let me do it!”

The floor lurched to the side, rolling her a few feet and effectively waking her up. When the world finally came into focus, she couldn’t believe what she saw. All the kids were out of their cages clustered around the control panel. Nobody noticed her because they were all too busy arguing.

“Everybody calm down!” She hated raising her voice, but she hated bickering even more. To her surprise, they seemed to listen, turning to her with expectant gazes. She felt like Wendy with the Lost Boys, except some of these kids were girls. “Shawn, where’s the old alien lady?”

“I grabbed her knees right after you got shot and knocked her out cold. Then I figured how to get everyone out of the cages and we hooked her up to the machine instead of us.” He pointed to a crumpled form in one of the cages.

Megan glanced down at her shoulder. It was sore, but there was no blood. The older boy who had talked earlier explained, “It was a sleeping dart.” He cleared his throat. “My name’s Kevin, by the way. We’re trying to fly this thing, but we’re totally lost.” He welcomed her into the huddle with a wave of his hand. There were no windows in the ship, so everyone was staring at a computerized map. “This is us,” Kevin said, pointing to a green blinking light. “Earth is way over here and we’re trying to figure out where to go next.” The triangular shaped icon labeled “Earth” was over a hand span away. “Right now, we’re flying in circles to avoid drifting off into space.”

“That’s really smart!”

Kevin blushed. “Thanks, it was my idea.”

Megan pointed to a golden star with the word “Safepoint” on it. “Let’s try there. Maybe they can give us directions.”

Shawn, who was too short to see the map, tugged on her t-shirt. “Megs, where are we going?”

Megan grinned because this time the truth was better than a sugarcoated lie. “We’re going on an adventure!”

BIO: Tahlia is a senior at Westmont College in Santa Barbara, California and has been writing for EC since it began. She is currently trying to publish a novel while juggling school, work, two blogs, and a youtube channel. Her favorite fairytale is Anderson's The Little Mermaid. For more of her writing, check out her ongoing Victorian fantasy story at www.GuardianGhost.wordpress.com.

Broken, By Gerri Leen

noreply@blogger.com (Kate W.) — Sun, 07 Nov 2010 16:45:00 +0000

Father has changed. I don't just mean the way he looks, all dressed in finery, paid for by the jewels we stole from the witch's house. I mean inside, something is...broken.

Hansel says Father feels bad, that we should forgive him. That it was all our mother's fault, the woman who raised us, maybe not given birth to us, but raised us from small babies, and then threw us out. She left us, left us in the woods, knowing she wasn't coming back.

Father did that too, though.

Hansel doesn't realize that while he was in the barn fattening up for the witch's meal, I was inside...talking to her.

"Eh, girl, and where are your parents again?" She loved to ask me that. "Threw you out like last week's refuse, they did. Kept the pigs, I bet. And the cows. But not you two."

She wasn't wrong about that. The pigs, the cow, the horse, and Hansel's cat and pigeon--although I haven't seen the pigeon around so I think they ate it.

"Father didn't want to," I said, defending him because I loved him.

"Didn't want to but he did it. At least your mother wanted to and carried through. I applaud that kind of wherewithal. But your father? " She spat. "Only cowards do things they know aren't right."

"He's not a coward!"

"And he'll come charging in here on his steed, swinging a sword at me any moment, eh? I'm shivering in my shoes, girl. Get a move on. Your brother needs his lunch."

And so it went.

But...was she wrong? Father did something he didn't want to do, and it wasn't as if it was a small thing like paying taxes when you barely had enough to live on, or selling off your daughter's puppy even though she loved it as much as your son loved his cat.

What he did was much worse: he left us to die.

And now he is spending our money, the money we earned--or at least the money we suffered for. There is so little left, gone so fast it seems as if he's thrown it out the window to let the four winds carry away.

I'm starting to understand why we never had enough to eat.

"Girl!" Father leans over the side of his armchair, and he looks for me but the drink is making his eyes weak.

I say nothing.

"Girl, where's this house you found the jewels in? There are probably more." He laughs, a strange, hollow sound. "More for the taking."

I skulk outside.

Hansel is sitting in the far field; I can barely make him out, his red shirt and the white cat draped over his shoulder giving him away. I run to him, sit down next to him, trying not to shiver.

"He's drunk again," I say.

Hansel just nods.

I reach over, pet his cat, who stretches her neck so I can get under her chin.

"There was a cat in the witch's barn," Hansel says quietly.

"The orange one?" I saw her a few times and then she disappeared.

"She was a nice cat." Hansel sounds funny, so I glance at him and see he is crying. "Didn't you wonder where I got the bone I used to fool the witch? The one that made her think my finger wasn't getting any fatter?"

I look down, and I wish I could feel something for him other than annoyance. It's not that I'm not sorry for the cat. I am. But I'm not sorry for Hansel. He was in his little pen, left alone, while I had to listen to the witch, had to clean her house, had to eat crayfish shells as my only meal even as I fixed him sumptuous feasts.

Feasts he could have chosen not to eat. I'd have gotten rid of them later. If he hadn't been such a glutton, he wouldn't have gained weight, and his finger wouldn't have gotten fat, and he wouldn't have needed to kill a nice little orange kitty just to cover up the fact that he had no self control.

Why should I feel bad for him?

He's just like our father.

I don't tell him that, though. Hansel is getting a temper on him, when he isn't crying over dead cats and lost birds.

Our father has a temper, too. I know this, but Hansel doesn't. Father doesn't raise a hand against Hansel. Hansel gets to stay outside and work the fields and be with his precious cat while I'm stuck inside, listening to father go on, all his big plans.

When we first got back, he wasn't this way. He was overjoyed, or so I thought.

Until I found the body. Buried shallow in the root cellar. Mother's favorite dress poking out just enough. I'm not sure why I did it, but I dug her up. Her head was bashed in. Not a little, not like she slipped and hit her head. More like a rock had come down over and over and over.

I could almost hear father yelling, "You made me. You made me."

The witch was right. He's a coward.

Hansel doesn't know. Hansel doesn't care. Father said Mother was dead, and my brother just shrugged and went on dangling a strand of her yarn in front of his cat.

I whisper, "He wants to go back to the witch's house."

"That'd be a good idea. Lots more to take--you saw how much. We should bring a wheelbarrow this time. Can bring more out that way, make less trips."

"I don't think it's a good idea." I'm trying this out on him, seeing how much there is left of the brother I adored, the brother I looked up to.

He turns on me, and his cat jumps down with a hiss. His temper flares quickly and then burns out, unlike Father, who holds on to his anger for dear life. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes. "No. We should go. Father is right."

I roll up my sleeve, show him a bruise on my arm. "Was Father right

about this?"

It is a test for my brother; I hate that I feel compelled to give them.

His look changes. He touches my arm gently and murmurs, "What did he

do?"

I am happy he passes the test.

Hansel meets my eyes. "What can I do?"

That he doesn't know troubles me. That he's so much like Father saddens me. But at least he cares. Some part of him cares.

There's nothing he can do. But there is something I can.

I smile at him. "You're right. We should go to the witch's house." I don't tell him that I will skip ahead while they push their wheel barrows. That I will light a fire in the oven, get it going nice and strong.

The oven's plenty big enough for Father. No one will know anything. Not if Hansel and I tell the same story. I'll make sure Hansel knows what I expect of him.

And if Hansel fails that test, well, the oven's big enough for him, too.

BIO: Gerri Leen is celebrating the release of her first book, Life Without Crows, a collection of short stories published by Hadley Rille Books. You can read more of her stories in such places as: Sword and Sorceress XXIII, Return to Luna, Sniplits, Triangulation: Dark Glass, Footprints, Sails & Sorcery, and GlassFire. Gerri lives in Northern Virginia and originally hails from Seattle. Visit http://www.gerrileen.com to see what else she's been up to.

Cooking Children! With Witch Wanda, By Samuel Valentino

noreply@blogger.com (Kate W.) — Sun, 07 Nov 2010 16:44:00 +0000

“Is it on yet?” asked the Witch, scurrying in the hovel door.

“You’re just in time!” said the other. “The crystal ball is warming up now!”

The two excitedly sat down around the glowing orb.

“Did you see last week’s episode?” asked the host Witch.

“Did I?” answered the visitor. “I even tried the recipe!”

“How did it go?”

“The roof fell in,” she said. “I guess I didn’t make the icing thick enough.”

“Did you try propping it up with candy canes, like Witch Wanda suggested?”

“No,” she said with a shrug. “All I had were breadsticks, and that just didn’t seem the same, somehow…”

“Shhh!” said the hovel’s owner. “It’s starting!”

* * *

“Welcome to Cooking Children!” boomed the voice over. “With your host, Witch Wanda!”

Thunderous applause greeted this introduction, mainly because Wanda had employed her “thunderous applause” spell.

“Thank you! Thank you!” beamed Wanda, as she waltzed into the kitchen. She took her place behind what looked like a cross between a sparkling kitchen counter and a blood-stained altar to a grim and terrible god. She wore a typical witch’s dress, augmented with a wide-brimmed, pointy hairnet and an apron that said, “Kiss the Cook – and you DIE!”

“Last week you may remember how I taught you to bake a lovely full-sized gingerbread house, perfect for tempting tasty little treats right into your lair. And, I’m happy to say, it worked like a charm!” She paused for laughter at the pun, and the crockery, suitably enchanted, obliged. “As you can see, two delicious morsels fell for it right away.”

The camera zoomed in on what would have appeared to be a chimney, except that instead of a fire grate it had a barred metal door. Two small hands gripped the bars, and a sad face looked out.

“In there is the yummy little boy I’ll be serving up on next week’s show. And, since kitchen help is hard to find, I’ve decided to ‘enlist’ his sister as my sous chef.” She knew the chuckles this would elicit from her viewers, since undoubtedly all of them at one time or another had ‘enlisted’ equally unwilling victims. “Although,” and here she dropped to a sotto voice, and addressed the audience behind the back of her hand, “that’s not to say that I won’t also be preparing an appetizer as well!” She gave the girl a glance and winked at the camera.

“For now, though,” she said aloud again, as the camera panned back to show her at the counter, “we’re going to concoct a nice – and calorie laden – dinner to fatten the little guy up. Our first recipe is tortellini served with a bacon Alfredo sauce. After our break, I’ll be back to show you how to make meals for your sous chefs, using crab shells as a base.”

* * *

from Crone Weekly:

Trouble on the Set?

We here at CW hear that someone’s in the kitchen with Witch Wanda – a little boy who won’t gain any weight! The star attraction of the upcoming episode remains distressingly thin – insiders claim that his fingers feel as thin as bones. He won’t make a good broth at this rate, let alone a main course!

When asked, the production staff at Cooking Children! had this to say:

Witch Wanda is perfect. All hail Witch Wanda!

So word on the set has it that things are cooking up nicely. But since her entire staff is made up of magically animated camera equipment, who would expect them to say anything else?

* * *

“Welcome to Cooking Children!” announced the familiar voice. “With your host, Witch Wanda!”

“Despite what you may have heard,” said Witch Wanda, a smile on her face but a snarl in her voice, “the show must go on! Right now I have my first course, er,” she paused in fake embarrassment, “I mean, my sous chef preparing the oven as we speak.

“Now,” she said, grabbing a knife and some herbs, “we’ll prep the…” She was interrupted by a noise in the back.

“What?” she growled, turning behind her.

Facing the camera again, she said, “Apparently the little twit can’t tell if the oven’s hot enough! It’s so hard to find good help. I think next week I may have to find someone new for the job!” she added, with her usual conspiratorial wink.

“Why don’t we show her how it’s done, eh?” Wanda continued, as the camera followed her to the oven. She addressed the girl. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Well,” said the girl, in a small voice, “you told me to see if the oven was hot enough. I don’t know how to do that.”

“Don’t know how?” groaned Wanda. She paused, allowing the audiences at home a moment for laughter. “Why, there’s nothing easier! Just lean on in and check the temperature!”

“Like this?” said the girl, bowing in front of the closed oven door.

Wanda theatrically rolled her eyes. “No, you culinary idiot. First you open the door, like this…” she said, demonstrating, “then you lean forward like this…”

TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES
Please Stand By

Sam Valentino lives and works in the Boston area. He is a professional illustrator, with experience in book illustration, marketing, storyboards, trade shows, etc. His previous writing experience includes marketing copy, and, on the extreme other end in genre, short stories based on fairy tales.

The Blacksmith's Children, By Ben Langhinrichs

noreply@blogger.com (Kate W.) — Sun, 07 Nov 2010 16:44:00 +0000

In a small village alongside a great forest there lived a blacksmith and his wife. Although the years had passed, they had no children. They lived a quiet life, but the woman often sighed deeply, and the man knew she was unhappy.

"Why do you sigh so deeply?" he asked his wife.

"Because we have no son to carry on in the smithy when you grow old and weak, and we have no daughter to clean and cook for us when I grow weary," said the woman.

The man thought for a moment, and said, "I will go into the deep forest and visit the witch who lives there. Perhaps she can help us."

The woman had heard tales of the witch, and was afraid.   She begged him not to go, and so he stayed.

But in another month, the man heard her sighing as she stood in the kitchen, and again as she dug in the garden, and again as she collected eggs from the hens. He said nothing, but quietly prepared a bundle of food to take with him.

In the morning, the man left the house, telling his wife that he needed to buy a new bellows and would visit a carpenter in a distant village. She bade him take care, and he started off down the road. Once he was out of sight of the cottage, he turned and walked into the forest.

After a day and a night of searching, the man found the witch's house. It was made all of bread, with a roof of cake and windows of clear sugar. Although the man was hungry, having run out of the food in his bundle, he knew not to eat from the house, as the townsfolk said it was a trap. Instead, he knocked on the door.

After a minute, a voice came from inside. "What do you want, knocking at my door and disturbing my rest? I am just an old woman. Leave me in peace."

But the man said, "Come, good witch, I would make a bargain with you."

The door opened, and the crone peered out at him. " What bargain would you make with me? You are nothing but a blacksmith." Still, she left the door open, curious to hear his offer.

"With your house made of treats, I am sure you are very fond of children, but you live deep in the forest where few children pass by. You must be very lonely."

The witch looked at him sharply, but answered, "It is true. I have not seen a child for many a day."

The blacksmith went on, "Some distance through these woods, there is a village with many children, but it is cut off by a deep stream which keeps the people and the children from the woods."   He paused. "I could make a bridge over the stream, so that the people and their children could cross and come into the forest."

The witch frowned. "What use would that be to me? The children would cross and return and would not visit my house."

"Ah," said the blacksmith, "but I would build a gate on the bridge. From the village side, the latch would be easy to open for anyone, but from the forest side, only a tall grown man or woman could reach the latch. Without doubt, sometimes a child would wander through in search of flowers or berries, and be unable to return."

The witch smiled wickedly, and it made the blacksmith's heart nearly stop. "Then the child would grow hungry and wander in the woods to my little house." She looked closely at the blacksmith, and asked, "What would you get from your side of the bargain? Why would you help a witch like me?"

The blacksmith explained that he and his wife were childless.   "In exchange for my building the bridge and the gate, you would find a strong boy and a hard working girl to be our children."

The witch agreed, and the man set off to build the bridge and the gate. When he finished, he returned to his wife, but did not tell her what he had done. Every day, he watched the forest to see if the witch had kept her promise.

***

Deep in the forest, the witch heard a scratching and nibbling sound. Though she had grown quite fat from the three children she had eaten already, she was greedy and called out to them.

     Nibble, nibble, little mouse,
     Who is nibbling at my house?

She listened, and from outside the house she heard a boy and a girl, and they called back.

     Not a mouse, but little birds
     who stop to listen at your words.

The nibbling sounds went on, and she opened the door.   Standing in front of her was a strong boy with curly blond hair, and a sturdy girl with clear blue eyes.

The witch thought of the blacksmith, and her promise to him, but even with her very weak eyes, these two children looked too tasty to send away.   I will send him another boy and girl and keep these two for myself , she thought.

"Dear children, you look so hungry. Come in, as there are more treats inside."

Hearing this, the boy and the girl followed her into the house, but she promptly tricked the boy into a cage. The girl wept piteously, but the witch laughed at her and told her they must fatten up the boy so that the witch could eat him.

The girl was forced to make the fire and take good food to the boy in his cage, while she had only scraps to eat. The witch watched her closely to make sure she didn't unlock the cage and set the boy free. Each day, the witch asked the boy to stick out a finger so she could feel if he was fat enough to eat, but he never seemed any fatter.

One day, the witch decided she would eat the boy, no matter how thin he was. She told the girl to light the giant oven and fetch a large pile of sticks to keep it burning hot. When it had burned for a while, the witch ordered the girl to check the heat in the oven.

The girl said that she did not know how to check the oven, and the witch screeched at her, but finally opened the large oven door and leaned in to feel the heat herself. It felt just right for cooking the boy. She started to back out, but the girl shoved her, and the witch tumbled into the fiery oven. The door clanged shut behind her, and she slowly sizzled to death.

***

The girl ran and unlocked the boy's cage. They rejoiced and danced around the room together. At last the boy said that they ought to return home, but the girl looked sad.   "Will they even want us back? They left us in the woods to die."

Somber, the boy and girl walked through the woods, searching for the edge. At last they came upon a wide stream.   In the distance, they could see a village, and they ran across the bridge, but there was a gate with a latch much too high to be reached.

"We will starve in these woods, or be eaten by wild beasts," the girl said, and she sat upon the ground and wept.

The boy took her hand and said, "Come, let us see if there is another bridge or a ferryman further down the stream."

They walked along for almost an hour, when they came upon a duck, swimming near the banks. The girl sang out to him.

     Come, pretty duckling, come give us a ride
     Help us cross the stream and reach the other side.

At first the duck hesitated, but then it swam over to the edge of the stream. The boy wanted them both to ride at once, but the girl said they were too big, so they took turns riding on the graceful duck's back. When they were both safely on the far side of the stream, the girl sang out again to the duck.

     Thank you kindly, duckling, for giving us a ride.
     Now we are safe and sound and on the other side.

As the boy and girl turned toward away from the stream, they spied the edge of the forest. They ran out and into a field.   Nearby, they saw a cottage with a man standing, looking at them.

The blacksmith, for it was he, welcomed them and invited them in to meet his wife. "Where do you come from?" she asked. "Where are your parents?"

The boy looked around the comfortable cottage with no sign of any children. He looked at the welcoming smiles of the blacksmith and his wife, and remembered the cruel way their own parents had left them in the woods. He had an idea, and said, "The witch sent us to you to be your very own son and daughter."

The woman cried and the man cried, and they all hugged and danced about the room together.

     The little birds have found a home
     and nevermore to woods will roam.

Ben Langhinrichs is a software designer living in Shaker Heights, Ohio with his lovely wife, two cats, and one of three children still at home. He has had stories published or accepted in many magazines and anthologies, most recently several published by Pill Hill Press and the Library of Science Fiction and Fantasy.

Into The Forest and Through The Woods (The Song of Hansel), By Wynne Huddleston

noreply@blogger.com (Kate W.) — Sun, 07 Nov 2010 16:44:00 +0000

Into the forest and through the woods,
mother makes us go.
But I drop bread crumbs,
because I’m not dumb,
and soon we’ll be back home.

Into the forest and through the woods,
we cannot find the trail.
The birds ate our bread,
and soon we’ll be dead;
we’re starving and we’re frail.

Into the forest and through the woods,
the witch’s house I spy.
Hurrah for the cake!
No more bellyache!
On a big, soft bed we lie.

Into the forest and through the woods,
the witch wants me fat for dinner.
Now Gretel must cook,
‘cause the witch mistook
the chicken bone for my finger.

Into the forest and through the woods,
she’s firing up the stove.
She says, Climb in now,
but Gretel asks, How?
and gives her a great big shove.

Into the forest and through the woods,
to our own house we go,
We have the treasure,
and now with pleasure
our father welcomes us home.

Wynne Huddleston's poetry may be read in Emerald Tales, Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream, Gemini Magazine, Enchanted Conversation, The Shine Journal, joyful!, From the Porch Swing - memories of our grandparents, Poets for Living Waters, THEMA, and Birmingham Arts Journal.

Sugar Coated Dreams, By Loralie Hall

noreply@blogger.com (Kate W.) — Sun, 07 Nov 2010 16:44:00 +0000

he cloying smell of sickly-sweet gingerbread permeates my senses and
coats my tongue. Traces of cinnamon crawl across my skin, the once
welcome flavor burning the back of my throat each time I inhale. I
hear the chatter of children outside my door and my hope rises without
permission.

The sound of my house being dismantled distracts me from the torturous
scents inside. I wonder – not for the first time – how tiny hands can
break apart my home for an insidious afternoon snack, while my girth
and tattered shoes never leave so much as a scuff on the shiny red
hard-candy beneath my feet. High-pitched squeals of delight grow
louder as I cross a shimmering floor of caramelized sugar. The voices
tug at and expose buried memories.

_“I don’t think we should, Sis.”

“But I’m starving, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but it’s not our home. We haven’t been invited. I think we should leave.”

“You’re such a child. Besides, why would there be a candy house in the middle of the forest if someone didn’t want lost children to eat it?”_

I decide it’s time to greet my uninvited guests. Part of me wonders if this is finally it. The remainder of me squashes the hope, too deeply scarred by the past to be anything more than cynical. I wince as the kernels of the doorknob dig into my palm. Time has worn thin spots in
my skin any contact with the popcorn ball causes me pain.

It reminds me of when we first discovered the clearing in the woods. The horrid day my brother and I stumbled on the life-sized confection. The birds didn’t peck at it, and it was untouched by the weather – tasting as though it had just come from the baker’s oven when we
nibbled. I came to realize over time that was just another part of the curse that bound me there. As months turned into years, I recognized that my defiance had made me a prisoner.

If only I had known. I would have run as soon as I saw the house – curling up in a starving ball under a tree would have been better than this. I would have left my brother to die in the witch’s cage. It would have been better than letting him suffer at my hands.

But how could I have known that the vile smell of candies would torment me day and night, nearly driving me to madness? When I pushed that horrid old woman into the oven, I thought I was doing us a favor. It wasn’t until we tried to escape that I started to realize my
mistake.

Though I could open the door, neither of us could leave the house. Each time we stepped outside, we found ourselves inside again. The weeks drew into months, and Hansel continued to dine on the magic home that I couldn’t touch. Whatever curse kept the house intact also kept
me from eating the structure I had enjoyed my fill of when we first arrived.

We both grew sick of the smell, and Hansel of the taste. Living off a strict diet of candied gingerbread lost its appeal quickly. He would alternate between starving for days, and then gorging himself when the hunger became too great to bear. It was easy to sympathize with him
when he chose not to eat, but when his ravenous rampages started, both my jealousy and hunger would remind me in sharp pangs of how long it had been since I’d done the same.

As my body consumed itself from the inside out, his grew more rotund. I would sleep for days, or weeks, wishing I could die and not understanding why I hadn’t yet. It occurred to me one day that the same curse keeping us in the house was preventing my death. I don’t know how soon after that the horrible thought occurred to me, but when it did I could not shake it. I couldn’t control myself. Hunger drove me as I stalked Hansel. At least I still had the wits about me to make his death quick. The taste of his fatty flesh provided temporary respite from my self-made prison.

My self-disgust as I dined on my own sibling struggled with ebbing hunger for dominance. For a brief moment in time, the smells of my torment vanished. However, once my dance with dementia subsided and I realized what I had done, the grief had overwhelmed me. With time,
though, I learned to suppress the guilt. I suspect it helped that no other was a blood relative, but with each lost child who stumbled on and sampled my prison it became easier. My brushes with salvation were rare, and I decided I would not let conscience deny me.

The peppermint stick hinges make no noise as the peanut brittle door swings open. Two pairs of eyes greet me, pudgy faces surrounding the blue saucers.

_“I told you we shouldn’t be here.”

“Hush. It’s just an old lady. Hello Ma’am. We’re very sorry about your
house, but my brother and I were so hungry.”_

I invite the children in, the sweet perfume of their youth already masking the noxious fumes of my home. I can tell they don’t know if I’m a threat or not, and I do all in my power to reassure them until the boy is locked away. With her brother my captive, the girl will do what I tell her. She’ll work to protect him, just as I once did my own sibling.

It has been too long since I last had visitors, making me weak. I take advantage of her unwilling servitude and have the child help me prep the stove. The boy is whimpering in the background, his cries muffled by the chocolate he shoves in his face to help ease the terror. His familiar sobbing tugs at emotions long since lost and I ignore it. I don’t need my memories now; I need relief.

Turning my back from the girl, I bend to check the heat on the cast-toffee stove. It’s an intentional opening, and as I feel two pudgy hands on my backside, a wave of relief overrides my terror.

_“I won’t let you eat us, you stupid old witch.”_

Memories of my own voice echo in my head, mingling with those of the defiant girl behind me. My flesh begins to blister and I don’t care.

_“I don’t care if you burn, you evil woman.”_

I can’t see the child’s face, but I know what her expression looks like. I am positive it matches mine from so long ago. To say my coffin is uncomfortably hot would be an understatement. I feel the stove door push on my rump, trying to force my too-large frame into the compact space. The heat sears me, the skin crisping and shrinking, but it’s a welcome change from the tortured life I’m about to leave behind.

Along with the physical pain, guilt creeps into my bones, and it takes me a moment to figure out why. As the girl tries once again to compress me into the oven, I realize what I’ve just condemned her to. Once again my voice echoes with another inside my head – neither
reaching my ears now that the fire has taken them from me - and I finally understand the words spoken to me so long ago. An apology. Not for the wrongs already committed, but for the one foul deed about to be done.

I try and stop her, try and call out for her to run and never look back, but my lips and tongue are too damaged to form words. My form too confined for me to move.

“I’m sorry.” Despite my condition, the words are distinct and they slip through the crack in the door before my grave is finally sealed. Though I know she's doomed herself to the same fate as the young Gretel I once was, I hope she will find the meaning in my apology
before it's too late.

Loralie Hall is a Technical Analyst by day, donning her secret identity as a fiction writer the rest of the time. Her spouse plays the role of muse, and their three cats are very much their children. She has been writing since she was six, and is ecstatic each time someone agrees to publish one of her short stories.

The Schwarzwald Incident, By Laura Garrison

noreply@blogger.com (Kate W.) — Sun, 07 Nov 2010 16:43:00 +0000

Several months ago, deep in the heart of the Black Forest, a party of hunters discovered a crumbling cottage that had been constructed almost exclusively from edible materials. Upon exploring the interior of the dwelling, they found the charred remains of a human being in an oversized oven. Weeks of police investigation followed, and eventually two siblings, Hansel and Gretel Hassenpfeffer of Offenburg,
both minors, were tried for the murder of Adelinda Becker, the late occupant of the cottage. The Hassenpfeffers were acquitted on the grounds of their own testimonies, in which they claimed that they had
acted in self-defense. Their story was corroborated by the large number of children's bones that were uncovered in the cottage's root cellar.

Curious about the motivation behind the actions of the key players in this highly publicized case, psychologist Dr. Jacob Wilhelm, Ph.D., secured interviews with the siblings and their father, Karl
Hassenpfeffer, shortly after the details of what became known as the "Schwarzwald Incident" were made public. The following excerpts have been transcribed from the audio recordings of those interviews.

DR. WILHELM: Tell me how you arrived at the decision to abandon your children in the forest.

KARL: Well, once my wife--God rest her soul--got an idea, she became fixated on it, and she got it into her head that we needed to get rid of the children. She started watching them the way a cat watches a spider on the wall. She said we could keep the kids and starve to death, or we could lose them and live.

DR. WILHELM: And this did not strike you as a false choice?

KARL: What do you mean?

DR. WILHELM: Were there not other ways in which you could have supplemented the income you made as a woodcutter? Your wife could have taken in sewing or washing, perhaps. Lots of housewives do, in
lean times.

KARL [_laughs_]: You obviously never met my wife, Doctor.

DR. WILHELM: What about asking your neighbors for assistance? Or your church?

KARL: The neighbors had nothing to spare. And I'm not a churchgoing man.

DR. WILHELM: I see. So you agreed with your wife's assessment of the situation--that the two of you would be better off on your own?

KARL: It was a tough decision. I was very fond of the children.

DR. WILHELM: And your wife? Was she fond of the children as well?

KARL: I would like to think that she was, in her own way. Some might disagree. I've heard people whispering about the rain barrel.

DR. WILHELM: Why would they do that?

KARL: When Hansel was very small and Gretel was just a baby, it rained nonstop for a week. We were all cooped up inside, and everyone was a little on edge. After it stopped raining, I went into the forest to
chop wood. When I came home, the rain barrel was tipped over, and Gretel was soaking wet. My wife told me that she had been holding Gretel, and Gretel was being fussy, and somehow she had fallen into
the rain barrel.

DR. WILHELM: So it was an accident?

KARL: Of course it was an accident. My wife wasn't a bad person, she just didn't have a lot of . . . maternal instincts.

DR.WILHELM: Would you say that your wife was a survivalist?

KARL: We're all survivalists, Doctor. My wife and I left our children in the forest because we needed more bread for ourselves; the hungry birds stole Hansel's trail of breadcrumbs; the children broke off pieces of the cottage because it was made of candy and sweetbread, and the lady who lived there caught and ate children to survive.

DR. WILHELM: So all of these actions were, in your view, morally equivalent?

KARL: Everyone needs to eat.

* * *

DR. WILHELM: Tell me about the time you spent in the forest.

HANSEL: It isn't easy to pretend you're having a nice walk outdoors with your parents when you know they are planning to leave you in the woods to get eaten by bears. I tried to keep the conversation
light--"Oh, look, you can see Fluffles sitting up on the roof," and so forth--but I know Mum suspected something. She must have figured out how we got home the first time, because when I went to gather more
white pebbles from the yard, I couldn't get out of the house. She had installed a padlock on the front door.

DR. WILHELM: And that was why you used breadcrumbs the next time.

HANSEL: Yes. And everyone knows how that turned out.

DR. WILHELM: Perhaps you could tell me anyway.

HANSEL: Without the crumbs, we were lost. We wandered in the forest for days. We ate a few berries, and Gretel found some brown mushrooms. I tried a tiny bite of one, but it must have been
poisonous, because I threw up right after I ate it. I ached all over, and I couldn't stop shivering. Gretel stayed awake with me all night, holding my hand. I think she felt like it was her fault, because she
had found the mushrooms.

DR. WILHELM: And then what happened?

HANSEL: The next day, we kept walking, but I had to stop and sit down about every hundred paces or so. If it hadn't been for Gretel, I would have just curled up on the forest floor and waited for death.
While we were resting, a bird fluttered down and perched on a nearby branch. Its feathers were snow-white, but it was the shape and size of a raven. It stared at us for a moment before flying off to the roof of a nearby cottage. The cottage was hidden in such a thick cluster of trees that we might have passed right by it without ever knowing it was there, if not for that bird. Then we would have died in the forest, just like Mum and Dad had planned.

DR. WILHELM: You sound angry.

HANSEL: Your family is supposed to make you feel safe. Did you know Mum tried to drown Gretel when she was a baby?

DR. WILHELM: No, I didn't know that.

HANSEL: Gretel was crying, and the noise was getting on Mum's nerves, so she carried Gretel outside and dropped her in the rain barrel. Then she went back inside. I was only four at the time, and the rain
barrel was taller than me, but I pushed it as hard as I could, and I was just strong enough to knock it over. I tried to tell Dad what happened, but he didn't believe me.

DR. WILHELM: Your early childhood was obviously unhappy, even dangerous. You could not have known that your mother had died while you were away. Why, when you and Gretel were able to leave the
forest, did you choose to return to your parents' home?

HANSEL: Where else could we have gone?

* * *

DR. WILHELM: Tell me about the time you spent in the cottage in the forest.

GRETEL: After she caught us nibbling on her house, Mrs. Becker called us inside. She fed us pancakes with butter and maple syrup. They were yummy, but after I finished eating, I felt more sleepy than I ever felt before. When I woke up, Hansel was in a cage and Mrs. Becker was shaking a broom at me and telling me to sweep the floor.

DR. WILHELM: Why wasn't Hansel given any chores?

GRETEL: Mrs. Becker was fattening him up because she wanted to eat him first. She never gave me anything but carrot peels and rotten potatoes to eat, but she brought him delicious meals every day. When
she wasn't looking, Hansel would push bits of food through the bars of his cage for me: cheese, pretzels, apple slices, cake. Neither of us ate the sausages. She made them herself, and we didn't know what--or
who--she put in them.

DR. WILHELM: At what point did you realize that you would have to kill Adelinda Becker in order to escape?

GRETEL: I never planned to kill her. Hansel was the planner, the one who thought about things before they happened. When Mrs. Becker bent over the oven, I saw her great big butt right there in front of my
face, so I just gave it a shove and slammed the door behind her. Her screams were terrible. Sometimes I have nightmares where I can smell her skin sizzling and her hair burning while she just screams and
screams like she won't ever stop. It's awful.

DR. WILHELM: You were not kept in a cage, like Hansel. You probably could have run away on your own. But you stayed in the cottage, working like a slave, knowing that the only reward you could expect
for your labors was to be cooked and eaten. Weren't you afraid? What kept you there?

GRETEL: I was used to being afraid. The oldest memory I have begins with a feeling of fear. I was so little that I didn't think in words yet, just in feelings. In this memory, I am somewhere cold and dark and wet, and I can't breathe. There is a circle of sky above me, but it's too far for me to reach. There are bubbles coming out of my nose and mouth; they look like strings of pearls, and they are floating up towards the sky, but I am moving the other way, down into the darkness, and the circle of sky is getting smaller and smaller. Then
the world turns sideways, and there is a big crash, and suddenly I'm tumbling towards the circle, which isn't sky anymore but grass and trees. It comes at me in a rush and I'm so confused that for a moment
I'm even more scared than I was before. Then I feel my brother's arms around me, and I start to cough, and then I can breathe again. My brother holds me on his lap and he starts to sing, softly. I didn't understand the song, of course, but I understood the sound of his voice and the feeling of being in his arms, even though I didn't know the word for love.

[_pause_]

Does that answer your question?

DR. WILHELM: Yes. Yes, I believe it does.

[_tape ends_]

Laura Garrison grew up in Erie, Pennsylvania, and currently lives in Maryland with her husband Justin. Some of her other work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Puffin Circus, Pig in a Poke, Jersey Devil Press, Umbrella (Bumbershoot annual), and Niteblade, among others. She contributed a poem to the mermaid issue of Enchanted Conversation.

The Trouble With Candy Houses, By Heather Talty

noreply@blogger.com (Kate W.) — Sun, 07 Nov 2010 16:43:00 +0000

This is the thing people do not seem to understand: it is never okay to eat someone else’s house. There is just no excuse for it, okay? I mean, I don’t go around gnawing on bricks or vinyl siding, right? Chewing on my house is no different, even though it might be made of gingerbread and gumdrops and peppermint candies. I still live here. I still have to clean up the mess if it rains after someone has chewed through my walls.

Not to say that makes it right, what I do. It isn’t nice, I know. Maybe I am a little bit of a witch, after all.

How did it start? With children, of course. Maybe I had them in mind once upon a time, when I first drew the plans, when I selected my building materials, when I watched the house erected in front of me. For children, yes. For my children. Not strange freeloading children. So I had my candy house built deep into the wood, where no one else could find it. Where I and my family, when I had one, would live in peace.

But somehow, the other ones found it. I would hear them in the morning while the birds chirped, crunching, licking, breaking, chewing, just outside my window. I would listen to the floors creak and crack as I fell asleep, wondering if this would be the night my walls collapsed around me.

The animals knew to stay away, knew not to disturb my home. Why then, did the children, supposedly intelligent and sympathetic beings, have to be reminded? Once I heard a great crack, and through the hole that formed in my living room, an angelic face stared at me for just a moment before she opened her mouth and crammed my door knocker into it.

Sometimes I would run to the door, my hair wild, my nightgown askew, my broom waving wildly in my hands, and they would run screaming. Witch, they’d cry, as their footsteps died away.

But they would come back.

In the night, in the early morning, I would hear them again, chomping and chewing and gnashing and smacking. And then some part of my home would be gone forever, because a candy foundation is not as easy to replace as one might think.

I had to do something, and I will admit I was a bit uninspired at first. Making it up as I went along, really.

During a particularly loud and obnoxious visit, I slammed my door wide open, and was surprised to see just one boy, but one with the audacity to give my window treatments another lick as I watched him.

“Why don’t you come in, boy?” I asked. He shrugged and followed me inside.

I started with a scolding, your usual, “How dare you disturb someone else’s home, your mother would be so disappointed,” that sort of thing. He did not look at me as I spoke, and was back bright and early the next day to sample my flowerbeds. Sometime during that second scolding, I had the idea: I would scare him, the way only a witch could.

While he sat at my table and stared blankly at the wall, I fed him the most full, fattening things I could find and heat up. A slice of chocolate cake. A pork sandwich with a generous helping of cheese slathered over it. A potato with a stick of butter melted inside. He simply ate, said thanks, and went to leave.

“Come back later if you feel hungry,” I told him. “I would love to have you for dinner.” I tried to put as much emphasis as I could on the word you and on the word dinner. He left rather quickly. But if I thought my plan could work that fast, I was mistaken. He did indeed show up that very night for dinner. Luckily I had a fair amount of leftovers available, and he left stuffed.

After a few nights of the same routine, I knew I had to be even more direct. I refused to let him leave. I fed him all day. I made repeated statements about getting him nice and plump, until finally I had to throw a pan of broiled ham on the floor and ask him to stick his head in my oven to see if the other one was done.

Luckily the oven was off, because he did it without question.

Finally, I grabbed him, shook him by the shoulders and said, “I eat children, okay! Boys like you. I am going to eat you for dinner, soon!”

“Literally?” he asked.

“Literally,” I replied. He thanked me for a lovely time, and I never saw him again.

After him, there were, of course, others, and over time, I refined my technique. I started dropping hints right away, from the moment the children came in for their first snack. I noted daily progress in weight gain in a small black book, and left unclaimed toys and clothes strewn about the house. Later on, I would try for two children, and only feed one, hoping to arouse suspicion in the one not chosen. I kept several in cages during their stay.

Eventually, it worked. Word spread about the witch, the monster, the cannibal, the horror who used her candy house to ensnare tasty children to eat. They stayed away long enough for me to do the work I needed, to re-build, re-glaze.

Until today. Today, a boy and girl sit just outside, picking sour candies off of my new windowsill. I wonder, if things had turned out differently, if I would have had a boy or a girl, or one of each.

I decide to start with the boy.

They look up at me when the door swings open, sticky sweetness smeared across their mouths, grubby hands hiding their spoils behind their backs. “Dear children,” I say. “Would you like to come in?”

Heather Talty is a school librarian living in New York City. Currently recovering from summer vacation, she spends as much time as she can re-doing her website of twisted fairy tales and working on what she thinks are middle grade novels. Visit her alter ego at www.beatrixcottonpants.com.

Things That Cannot Be Eaten, By Jazz Sexton

noreply@blogger.com (Kate W.) — Sun, 07 Nov 2010 16:42:00 +0000

The first thing to do

was clear out the pearls

and rubies, sapphires, and diamonds

she left behind a decade ago.

Gretel swept the treasures

into piles according to weight.

She sorted them into boxes

and sold them all, keeping a quarter

for herself, donating a quarter to her poor village,

and giving half to Hansel to spend

as he would

because he said he deserved

a share.

She bought paper and pencil,

and crossed the lake

to the house made of bread and cake

on the back of the white duck

that had helped her escape

in childhood.

Rust fell away in chunks

as she pried the oven door

open. Her fingernails turned orange.

She bled.

The crone’s teeth hid in a corner.

They were yellow and black

and curved at the back, becoming smaller

with each tooth, grinning

on their own without the cover

of the crone’s slobbering lips.

She pinched them between

her thumb and forefinger

and set them on the table

at her elbow.

Gretel began her list.

Things that cannot be eaten:

“The desperate chop of a woodcutter’s axe

who is childless, and can only blame himself

A woman’s disdain

for what is not her own

Lies children tell themselves

to believe they are safe

and loved

An old woman’s screams, heat,

and a maiden’s triumph

No matter how sour

a taste it leaves

Resentment

for a forgiven father,

for a fed and fat

brother

Fear a girl knows when life is beyond her control”

She pressed a hand

over the oven door

until blisters threatened her skin.

She wanted to feel

the paper inside

char and curl

into something that didn’t exist.

Gretel buried the teeth

where mud kissed

the house’s crust.

She licked the blue gumdrop doorknob,

and ate her fill of bread.

No one—not a gluttonous witch,

a selfish mother, a spineless father,

or a clever but greedy brother

who never shared even as his sister

became leaner than twigs in February—

would cage her stomach and soul

from satiation.

Jazz Sexton is a senior at the University of Pittsburgh where she is trying to earn a Bachelor's degree in English Fiction Writing and a certificate in Children's Literature without the aid of her fairy godmother, who perished tragically in a head on collision with a unicorn. She blogs about writing and whatever she feels like at http://jazzsexton.blogspot.com/.

What's Up With Issue? Update

noreply@blogger.com (Kate W.) — Sun, 31 Oct 2010 12:48:00 +0000

Besides the fact the this sight has so many problems now that I can barely post this, one of my sisters had a heart attack on Friday. I am not even at home. She is doing better, thank you. I will get this out ASAP! But it will be a few days.

Update: My sister is doing much better. She has angina, though. Things are getting back to normal, except that posts for this issue continue to take from 30 minutes to three hours. That's with editing already done and art already picked. It appears there is a major issue with the site itself (not Blogger). I will keep at it, never fear!
Kate 11-2-10

Working On Issue Four

noreply@blogger.com (Kate W.) — Sun, 10 Oct 2010 19:35:00 +0000

We are putting Issue Four together for EC, but because we are so very busy with our "real" jobs, we are not doing it as fast as we hoped. Fear not, it will be published in October.

Next year, Enchanted Conversation will return. We had real fears that the 'zine would be a one-year affair, but we think we can fix things -- although the site will be radically different.

As we currently imagine it, EC will not have four issues, but, rather, will have one theme for the year. Stories and poems will be accepted throughout the year, but no more than 20 for the whole calendar year -- BUT NOT COUNTING CONTESTS! Hooray!

We'll keep you posted, and are so thrilled about the upcoming issue. We have learned so much this first year, and we think EC will be even better next year. We will be doing some promotional work on Diamondsandtoads.com with some submissions we accepted provisionally for that purpose, in advance of the "Hansel and Gretel" issue. Stay tuned.

The image is one I played with on Picnik, giving a Halloween vibe!

Posted Oct. 10, 2010

'Hansel and Gretel' -- Italian Style

noreply@blogger.com (Kate W.) — Thu, 23 Sep 2010 21:51:00 +0000

Nennillo and Nennella

By Giambattista Basile

"Hansel and Gretel" is one of the many well-known fairy tales with numerous variations. This particular version has no gingerbread House, but it does feature abandoned children, a weak father, and a rotten stepmother, who, in one of the great fairy-tale traditions, gets to choose her own fate. Enjoy! And don't forget , the "Hansel and Gretel" issue is coming in October!

Woe to him who thinks to find a governess for his children by giving them a stepmother! He only brings into his house the cause of their ruin. There never yet was a stepmother who looked kindly on the children of another; or if by chance such a one were ever found, she would be regarded as a miracle, and be called a white crow. But beside all those of whom you may have heard, I will now tell you of another, to be added to the list of heartless stepmothers, whom you will consider well deserving the punishment she purchased for herself with ready money.

There was once a good man named Jannuccio, who had two children, Nennillo and Nennella, whom he loved as much as his own life. But Death having, with the smooth file of Time, severed the prison bars of his wife's soul, he took to himself a cruel woman, who had no sooner set foot in his house than she began to ride the high horse, saying, "Am I come here indeed to look after other folk's children? A pretty job I have undertaken, to have all this trouble and be for ever teased by a couple of squalling brats! Would that I had broken my neck ere I ever came to this place, to have bad food, worse drink, and get no sleep at night! Here's a life to lead! Forsooth I came as a wife, and not as a servant; but I must find some means of getting rid of these creatures, or it will cost me my life: better to blush once than to grow pale a hundred times; so I've done with them, for I am resolved to send them away, or to leave the house myself for ever."

The poor husband, who had some affection for this woman, said to her, "Softly, wife! Don't be angry, for sugar is dear; and tomorrow morning, before the cock crows, I will remove this annoyance in order to please you."

So the next morning, ere the Dawn had hung out the red counterpane at the window of the East to air it, Jannuccio took the children, one by each hand, and with a good basketful of things to eat upon his arm, he led them to a wood, where an army of poplars and beech-trees were holding the shades besieged.

Then Jannuccio said, "My little children, stay here in this wood, and eat and drink merrily; but if you want anything, follow this line of ashes which I have been strewing as we came along; this will be a clue to lead you out of the labyrinth and bring you straight home."

Then giving them both a kiss, he returned weeping to his house. But at the hour when all creatures, summoned by the constables of Night, pay to Nature the tax of needful repose, the two children began to feel afraid at remaining in that lonesome place, where the waters of a river, which was thrashing the impertinent stones for obstructing its course, would have frightened even a hero. So they went slowly along the path of ashes, and it was already midnight ere they reached their home.

When Pascozza, their stepmother, saw the children, she acted not like a woman, but a perfect fury; crying aloud, wringing her hands, stamping with her feet, snorting like a frightened horse, and exclaiming, "What fine piece of work is this? Is there no way of ridding the house of these creatures? Is it possible, husband, that you are determined to keep them here to plague my very life out? Go, take them out of my sight! I'll not wait for the crowing of cocks and the cackling of hens; or else be assured that tomorrow morning I'll go off to my parents' house, for you do not deserve me. I have not brought you so many fine things, only to be made the slave of children who are not my own."

Poor Jannuccio, who saw that matters were growing rather too warm, immediately took the little ones and returned to the wood; where giving the children another basketful of food, he said to them, "You see, my dears, how this wife of mine -- who is come to my house to be your ruin and a nail in my heart -- hates you; therefore remain in this wood, where the trees, more compassionate, will give you shelter from the sun; where the river, more charitable, will give you drink without poison; and the earth, more kind, will give you a pillow of grass without danger. And when you want food, follow this little path of bran which I have made for you in a straight line, and you can come and seek what you require." So saying, he turned away his face, not to let himself be seen to weep and dishearten the poor little creatures.

When Nennillo and Nennella had eaten all that was in the basket, they wanted to return home; but alas! a jackass -- the son of ill-luck -- had eaten up all the bran that was strewn upon the ground; so they lost their way, and wandered about forlorn in the wood for several days, feeding on acorns and chestnuts which they found fallen on the ground.

But as Heaven always extends its arm over the innocent, there came by chance a prince to hunt in that wood. Then Nennillo, hearing the baying of the hounds, was so frightened that he crept into a hollow tree; and Nennella set off running at full speed, and ran until she came out of the wood, and found herself on the seashore. Now it happened that some pirates, who had landed there to get fuel, saw Nennella and carried her off; and their captain took her home with him where he and his wife, having just lost a little girl, took her as their daughter.

Meantime Nennillo, who had hidden himself in the tree, was surrounded by the dogs, which made such a furious barking that the prince sent to find out the cause; and when he discovered the pretty little boy, who was so young that he could not tell who were his father and mother, he ordered one of the huntsmen to set him upon his saddle and take him to the royal palace. Then he had him brought up with great care, and instructed in various arts, and among others, he had him taught that of a carver; so that, before three or four years had passed, Nennillo became so expert in his art that he could carve a joint to a hair.

Now about this time it was discovered that the captain of the ship who had taken Nennella to his house was a sea-robber, and the people wished to take him prisoner; but getting timely notice from the clerks in the law courts, who were his friends, and whom he kept in his pay, he fled with all his family. It was decreed, however, perhaps by the judgment of Heaven, that he who had committed his crimes upon the sea, upon the sea should suffer the punishment of them; for having embarked in a small boat, no sooner was he upon the open sea than there came such a storm of wind and tumult of the waves, that the boat was upset and all were drowned, all except Nennella, who having had no share in the corsair's robberies, like his wife and children, escaped the danger; for just then a large enchanted fish, which was swimming about the boat, opened its huge throat and swallowed her down.

The little girl now thought to herself that her days were surely at an end, when suddenly she found a thing to amaze her inside the fish: beautiful fields and fine gardens, and a splendid mansion, with all that heart could desire, in which she lived like a princess. Then she was carried quickly by the fish to a rock, where it chanced that the prince had come to escape the burning heat of a summer, and to enjoy the cool sea breezes. And whilst a great banquet was preparing, Nennillo had stepped out upon a balcony of the palace on the rock to sharpen some knives, priding himself greatly on acquiring honor from his office. When Nennella saw him through the fish's throat, she cried aloud, "Brother, brother, your task is done, The tables are laid out every one; But here in the fish I must sit and sigh, Oh brother, without you I soon shall die."

Nennillo at first paid no attention to the voice, but the prince, who was standing on another balcony and had also heard it, turned in the direction whence the sound came, and saw the fish. And when he again heard the same words, he was beside himself with amazement, and ordered a number of servants to try whether by any means they could ensnare the fish and draw it to land. At last, hearing the words "Brother, brother!" continually repeated, he asked all his servants, one by one, whether any of them had lost a sister. And Nennillo replied, that he recollected, as a dream, having had a sister when the prince found him in the wood, but that he had never since heard any tidings of her. Then the prince told him to go nearer to the fish, and see what was the matter, for perhaps this adventure might concern him.

As soon as Nennillo approached the fish, it raised up its head upon the rock, and opening its throat six palms wide, Nennella stepped out, so beautiful that she looked just like a nymph in some interlude, come forth from that animal at the incantation of a magician. And when the prince asked her how it had all happened, she told him a part of her sad story, and the hatred of their stepmother; but not being able to recollect the name of their father nor of their home, the prince caused a proclamation to be issued, commanding that whoever had lost two children, named Nennillo and Nennella, in a wood, should come to the royal palace, and he would there receive joyful news of them.

Jannuccio, who had all this time passed a sad and disconsolate life, believing that his children had been devoured by wolves, now hastened with the greatest joy to seek the prince, and told him that he had lost the children. And when he had related the story, how he had been compelled to take them to the wood, the prince gave him a good scolding, calling him a blockhead for allowing a woman to put her heel upon his neck till he was brought to send away two such jewels as his children. But after he had broken Jannuccio's head with these words, he applied to it the plaster of consolation, showing him the children, whom the father embraced and kissed for half an hour without being satisfied. Then the prince made him pull off his jacket, and had him dressed like a lord; and sending for Jannuccio's wife, he showed her those two golden pippins, asked her what that person would deserve who should do them any harm, and even endanger their lives.

And she replied, "For my part, I would put her into a closed cask, and send her rolling down a mountain." "So it shall be done!" said the prince. "The goat has butted at herself. Quick now! you have passed the sentence, and you must suffer it, for having borne these beautiful stepchildren such malice."

So he gave orders that the sentence should be instantly executed. Then choosing a very rich lord among his vassals, he gave him Nennella to wife, and the daughter of another great lord to Nennillo; allowing them enough to live upon, with their father, so that they wanted for nothing in the world. But the stepmother, shut into the cask and shut out from life, kept on crying through the bunghole as long as she had breath:

To him who mischief seeks, shall mischief fall; There comes an hour that recompenses all.