Once Upon a Time: New Fairy Tales Paperback(59)

So Lupine shackled herself in the place where ancient princesses had sacrificed themselves to fire-breathing dragons, using for this their old, abandoned chains. The little bird flew off with the key.

Soon Kyrie strode up the path, bright as morning. Lupine hissed at him and shook her rusty chains. He was not afraid, though, for he had learned all that it was necessary for him to know from Piece-of-the-Sky.

Still, he feared Lupine would bite off his nose before he succeeded in placing his lips on hers and melting into her mouth. But at last he kissed his love.

When he stopped they were both dizzy with bliss and victory. He unlocked her, and together they rejoined the world to share their joy.

Their whole lives were ahead of them, and they were free.

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? Lupine ?

As for Lupine’s mother, when she heard of the way in which she had been outwitted she grew more and more anxious over her impending death. When would it come? Where would it be? How would it find her? What would be the manner of it? At last she could bear the suspense of her ignorance no longer and jumped into a fiery furnace.

Thus all concerned found peace.

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Nisi Shawl’s story collection Filter House was one of two winners of the 2009 James Tiptree, Jr. Award. Her work has been published by Strange Horizons, Asimov’s SF Magazine, and in anthologies including Dark Matter and The Other Half of the Sky. She was WisCon 35’s Guest of Honor, which Aqueduct Press celebrated by publishing Something More and More, a collection of stories, essays, and an interview conducted by Eileen Gunn. Nisi edited Bloodchildren: Stories by the Octavia E. Butler Scholars. She co-edited Strange Matings: Octavia E.

Butler, Science Fiction, Feminism, and African American Voices with Dr. Rebecca J. Holden; with Cynthia Ward she co-authored Writing the Other: A Practical Approach. She is a founder of the Carl Brandon Society and serves on the Board of Directors of the Clarion West Writers Workshop. Her website is www.nisishawl.com. She believes in magic.

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When I was working on my MA—writing reloaded fairy tales—I had two rewrites I could not make work: “The Raven” and

“White Bride, Black Bride.” In the end I gave up, but they’ve mocked me for several years. Each tale had all the elements: princesses, princes, kingdoms, magic, ill-will, bright hope, all bumping up against each other, creating tension.

But neither story was right—neither was enough. When asked to contribute to this anthology, I figured it was time to show those stories who was the boss. I peeled away their skins, cutting off the excess fat and flesh. I took them back to their barest basics and found—for my purposes—the core of a single story. I built a new skeleton, discarding the bones that did not fit, then layering on new flesh, new skin.

All writers working in the genre engage in the same Frankensteining process. With fairy tales, we make and remake our own pretty monsters, with their roots firmly embedded in the past. Oh, they will look new, but if you look at the shadow they cast, you’ll recognize their original shape. You’ll know who and what they were. That co-existence of old and new is both comforting and disconcerting.

Old storytellers used to finish with: “This is the tale you asked for, I leave it in your mouth,” and I think this is the essence of the fairy tale. The words sit differently on varied tongues and each retelling changes the tale, however infinitesimally. The fairy tale is the ultimate Chinese Whisper, shifting with telling and time, its feet in the past and its head in the future—and I think that’s why it’s my favorite form of storytelling.

Angela Slatter

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Flight


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Angela Slatter


The feathers were tiny and Emer hoped they would stay so.

Indeed, she prayed they would fall out altogether. They

were not downy little pins. Small, but determined, their black shafts hardened as soon as they poked through her skin, calcifying under her touch as she stroked them in dreadful fascination.

All day she’d felt something happening beneath the gloves hastily donned after her morning’s escapade. The sight of those ladylike coverings had brought approving nods from both her mother and governess, as if they were a sign she was finally listening to their exhortations. A princess does not run. A princess does not shout or curse. A princess keeps the sun in her voice, but off her fair skin. A princess sits quietly, back straight. A princess smiles at a gentleman’s tasteful jest, but never laughs too loudly. A princess never furrows her brow with thought. A princess does not chew her nails.