Solid Wall but the Wall Is Made of Hands but the Hands Are Made of Sheetrock—Sean Noah Noah

The girl named Minus can start hands with her fire. She strikes matches against her skin to light them. As they burn, the flames don’t sputter. They’re overconfident for their size, conical little jets of fire like what comes out of the end of a blowtorch. Minus holds these flames up against dry trees or pieces of paper or the side of the house she’s squatting in and the fire never spreads. Growths start. Spreading out from the point of contact: lumpy knobs that flatten out into palms, with knuckles on one side and heart lines on the other. The palms fold out into jointed fingers as she draws the flame back, reaching forward for the match, ending in nails. They never stop reaching when Minus takes the flame away, even after she blows her fires out, but they never grow wrists or arms. The hands aren’t flesh and blood, they’re the same material as whatever kindling they start from, but every hand is an entire hand. Some of them have knuckles raw with scar tissue. Some have long, perfect nails like acrylics. Some have hair that feels like real hair. Fingers splay out or curl slightly into a grasp, always reaching out, sometimes stretching or shaking as they grow. Minus records every new hand she burns into existence: left or right, young or old, fast or slow as it grows, how long it takes to turn still and solid once the flame is out. She’s compared her own hands to every single one of them, and she knows they do not belong to her.

Sean Noah Noah is a non-binary writer living somewhere in the American Northeast. Their weird fiction has appeared in Reflex Press, Eunoia Review, Bizarro Central, and Plus Literary Magazine. You can find them on twitter at @SeanNoahNoah.

photo by Sabine van Straaten, Danilo Alvesd and Annie Spratt (via unsplash)

The hunger moon draws out the wolves—Mary Ford Neal

From the sharpest parts of the night they appear,
wearing borrowed light. 
Those that can cross water do,
those that cannot pace the bank,
howl their helplessness into the space between,
and the forests darken and fold up 
oyster-like, doubling down on their treasures.

Once in hushed woods during the thick hours 
I was bitten by a starving soul
who seemed sorry about catching me:  
would there be a woodcutter? But
I didn’t grudge him the moment of relief,
or the passing taste of my juice on his tongue;
I took the wound and pitied him, and we parted
on an understanding.

I look for him sometimes, expecting nothing:
he was a half-dead thing even then
and will have settled into earth long ago, 
yet sometimes if the darkness shifts 
in a certain way under a hunger moon 
and in just the right wildness, I feel the soup
of my blood stir, the wound sings, and my left arm
braces for a bite.

Mary Ford Neal is a writer and academic based in Glasgow, UK. Her poetry is recently published or forthcoming in Ink Sweat & Tears, perhappened, Dust Poetry Magazine, Capsule Stories, Twist in Time, The Winnow, Marble, IceFloe Press, and Dodging the Rain. Her debut collection will be published by Indigo Dreams Press in 2021. She tweets about poetry and other things @maryfordneal.

photo by Thomas Bonometti (via unsplash)

A Fairy Tale in Retrograde—Louise Mather

content warning: self harm

I showed you the edge
of my thigh where I had first
held blunt
jawed compasses, plum handled
scissors and tinselled
razors loosed from cold
plastic bone.
Under the gloaming, you could dredge
their auras
of roses, leftover imprints, ethereal
cavities, ugly violet
jags and rails
of lines without
anchors. Sometimes I thought
they were remembering forks
from a devil’s bramble
tongue or feline gouged
with a claw that had never known 
its own 
sharpness. I told you how I could measure
time by these marks –
then you bit right there
into the doughy flesh and I hallucinated;
that you were telling me something small like
love, as I finally
into deep, deep
velvet sleep; a fairy tale
in retrograde.

Louise Mather is a writer and poet from England. You can find her on Twitter @lm2020uk and her work/upcoming work in Streetcake Magazine and The Cabinet of Heed

photo by Annie Spratt (unsplash)

You Keep Yourself Alive on the Moon—Jacqueline Xiong


You keep yourself alive on the moon by weaving cloaks of hare fur. 

When your hare was alive, it bounced from side to side at your feet, and you would always reach down to rub its head. The people on Earth call it yutu, Jade Rabbit. Just as they call you Chang’e

O moon goddess, they sing on the Mid-Autumn Festival, dancing around a table of pastries and fruits. O goddess, bless us with your eternal beauty, bless us with your powers of immortality.

Forget about elixirs of immortality; all you need is the reminder of a companion—and it is worth noting you killed your own companions. I mean that in plural form because you killed me before you killed your hare. 


You keep yourself alive on the moon by thinking about the husband you left behind. You have no choice but to think about him. You see the single sun across from the moon every day, and of course you’d think of the archer Yi—the archer who shot down nine of the ten suns that scorched the Earth. He kept the people from hardship, but it’s funny how he can’t keep the only person he loved from flying up to the moon. 

He often wonders why. He knows why you’re up there because obviously, you left him. But why did you do it?

No, you silly ghost. I’m not Yi.

Who am I, you ask?

Well… hush. We’re talking about Chang’e. 

But many years have passed—a thousand or something?—and Yi doesn’t lament over his losses now. He sharpens his arrows, angling them at the moon every night, imagining it going down like the nine suns lost in the distant past. 


You keep yourself alive on the moon by regretting that you stole that flask of elixir from Yi. You wish that you hadn’t drunk it in a moment of greed, a moment where you were willing to leave your family in pursuit of immortality. You wish that you were back amongst the mortals so you won’t have to seek for life, but it would never be the same because a thousand years have passed and now the people pray to you for good fortune and eternity. Do you hold eternity in your hands? Or are you merely passersby in the folds of eternity?

Now you’re a heroine. Now people praise you, dance for you, sing for you before their shrines. Now people remember Chang’e’s husband as only Yi and no longer the legendary archer who saved the people from hardships. Sometimes he wonders if anyone knows that he was rewarded the elixir of life and that he would be the one on the moon if it wasn’t for his tether to his wife. But no one remembers.

He’s not even sure if he remembers, himself.


You keep yourself alive on the moon by gazing at Earth. 

You find life during the Mid-Autumn Festival because a huge part of this festival is dedicated to you. I would call it narcissism, but when I was honored by the people, I did the same. 

What? When did I say I’m Yi? Don’t be foolish.

Did I say that the people honored me? You must have heard wrong.

All kinds of sacrifices are made for you. Cakes, wine, fruit. People gather around you in hopes you will bestow anything upon them. Poets recite the tale of how you stole my elixir to become a goddess, but they fixate more on your beauty instead of your crimes. Dancers twist their bodies so they can mimic you, but I know for a fact you don’t dance. Musicians sit under the moonlight to play pipa, guzheng, flute. 

The bones of your children—that you left behind—lay scattered around the land, buried deep beneath layers of soil. Has it been five thousand years already? Perhaps enough time has passed. Perhaps I’m ready now. 

What am I ready for?

Tonight, when the moon is a full circle, I’ll offer my sacrifice.


You keep yourself alive on the moon by pretending you are.

My arrow is sharp. A long, hazy time ago, I had ten of these arrows, but they have long sunk into the horizons. Now only one remains. Blazing with flames, polished to a gleam to rival your moonlight,  aimed directly at the pearly plate you live inside.

But you don’t live inside. You’ve never lived inside, never fully, and even if you had, I will take that last bit of life away.

The ghost of the hare you killed for warmth bites the hems of my hanfu, refusing to let go.

We have accompanied each other for five thousand years, hare.

Ten thousand? Well, it’s more of a reason for you to let go.

Let go now.

When the ghost doesn’t move, I banish the ghost.


You keep yourself alive on the moon by vanishing.

Where is my arrow?

Where are you?

Where are you, Chang’e? Where are you, hare?

Maybe you aren’t alive anymore. 

Maybe the only figure dancing on the moon is my own ghost, taken down by my own arrow.

Jacqueline Xiong is an emerging Chinese-American poet and writer. She is currently attending Franklin High School, and is an editor of The Paper Crane Journal, an online literary magazine that can be found on Twitter at @journalcrane. 

photo by Uomo Libero and Luca Bravo (via unsplash)

Sleepless in Tokyo—Samuel Strathman

After “The Grudge 2” (2006)

In the closet,
there’s a boy
with a cat
in his mouth.

He calls the ceiling 
dwellers down
for a game
of Gin Rummy
under the bed.

Stakes are limb
by limb.


The boy is also
a long-haired trickster
in disguise.

Once you’re in
the estate,
chances are a eulogy
has already been drafted
for the temple,
sleepless in Tokyo.

Old faithful
has crypsis in spades,
paws capsizing
the heart-shaped bed
like Jaws.

After a beat,
the boy creeps
back into the closet,
awaits his next set 
of victims.

Samuel Strathman is a poet, author, educator, and the founder/editor-in-chief of Floodlight Editions.

photo by Andre Benz (via unsplash)

The Factory Siren—Sylvia Santiago

Or, Virago ex machina, is native to far-flung lands, where the air is heavy with sweat. She is drawn to noise, mechanical, and to misery, female. Common habitats include buildings of industry where the walls sag, crumble, and threaten a return to earth.

Within the walls of such a building, women run machines. Cuts of cloth become things of beauty, destined for those richer and whiter. Amid clatter and clink, the factory siren weaves her song, threading together disparate melodies. A lullaby crooned to a sickly baby.  A tune hummed while rinsing rice for the pot. A lament for the girls who must earn instead of learn.

In earlier times, a chime of four or more sirens would occupy a building and sing in unison. But studies show that Virago numbers are dwindling. Women no longer respond to siren song; the music does nothing to stop the hollowing of eyes and the emptying of hearts.

Sylvia Santiago is a writer whose creative process is best described as “fits and starts” and usually involves copious amounts of caffeine. Her work has appeared in Janus Literary, Gasher, Parentheses Journal and elsewhere. Find her on Twitter @sylviasays2

photo by Bundo Kim (via unsplash)

The Witch’s Daughter—Rachael Llewellyn


They called her the Witch’s Daughter, but in truth, she was just a little girl. 

From the tales in town, I’d expected to see a monster. Some terrible misshapen thing, too horrifying to behold, too scary to even begin to describe. From the stories, I expected bulging eyes, sharp white teeth, claws, an inhuman snarling voice, a hunched back and webbed toes. 

So when I came to the place where they kept her, I peeked through the window to the little black room where she was held. There were no bulging eyes and sharp teeth. She was just a normal looking little girl. 


They called her the Witch’s Daughter and everyone in town knew that she was a monster. Magistrate Bailey had her confined to the little black room at the top floor of his house. For the people’s safety. To stop her black magic seeping down into the town. To stop wickedness from surfacing once more and spread door-to-door, as it did when her mother, the Witch walked these lands. 

The stories called her a monster. A snarling, vicious thing who communicates only in lies. A forgotten thing of flesh and shadow. An unnatural union of devil and man, like her mother before her. I find that even my children whisper of a creature in the Magistrate’s halls whose feet do not touch the ground. 

I hear the stories well. 

But you see, I remember the Witch. 

I even remember a time before she was called ‘Witch’, before it was forbidden to speak her name. I am not allowed to say it aloud. None are allowed to speak it. Magistrate Bailey goes as far as to say that he will know if any of us so much as think it. 

Still, when the night is cold and the north wind blows, even though it is forbidden, I remember my friend and I pray for her child. 


I edveileb eh dluow llik em. 


The Witch’s Daughter has a split tongue like that of a snake! I heard she has no tongue at all, that Magistrate Bailey had it burned out to stop her from calling to the Devil himself. I heard my mother say that the Witch’s Daughter speaks backwards with her words all jumbled together. And she has bumps on her forehead from where her devil’s horns have been worn down for grace of God! She speaks in lies and falsehoods and howls in the night like a beast. I hear she runs around on all fours like a hound. No, no, I heard that her feet do not touch the ground. I hear that her eyes are red. I heard pitch black. I heard she sleeps through the day and rises with the moon at night. 

I went by Magistrate Bailey’s attic once and I heard evil laughter. My father was a guard there for a while and he swore blind that she tried to call him into her cell. Old Robert told me that men who look at her die three moons later in mysterious circumstances. My ma says that the Witch’s Daughter can see how you’re going to die if she looks at you. 

I heard her hair is blood red – no it’s all white like an old woman. I heard she has black hair and reddened skin. I heard her skin is covered with pricks and marks from Father Bryant’s crucifix. I heard that her body won’t endure harm. She won’t bleed or burn. I heard she could survive on no food or water. 

I heard she eats children. No, that she drinks blood. Children’s blood. No – anyone’s will do! She drinks blood once a month. And her teeth can transform to be sharp like a dog. I heard that Magistrate Bailey is the Witch’s Daughter’s father. 

No. No. That’s not true at all. Don’t you dare let me hear you saying so again, Jonathon! 


Are you awake now, Iris?

Father Bryant said the pain would subdue you for longer than this. Can you hear me, little one? Don’t cry now. You know how I feel about crying. You know why you must suffer, don’t you, my dear? Yes, Iris, that’s right. Because you are wicked. It is not your fault, but it is the reality of the world, child. It is in your body, your blood, carved into your soul. 

Your mother was a truly wicked woman.  

Like you, she seemed ordinary at a glance. Nothing to fear. But if you looked closer, she wore her evil in plain sight. A fool could have seen it, and yet so many chose to ignore it.  

It is why you live here, Iris, so I can protect the good people from you and your cursed nature. 

I knew your mother for what she was. I have known wickedness all my life and fought against it. Stop crying, girl. I have warned you once already! 

Now listen. I want to make you a good and proper young girl. I know you want that, my dear. Do you know why I do not allow the servants to read to you? It is because your mother could read forbidden texts and spoke to a Dark God who taught her to write her name. She tried to pass on that sickness to other women in the village. Wives and mothers and impressionable young girls. Claiming that the book was only the bible, but that was a lie, Iris. The book she read from had been filled with deception: pages and pages with dark words and spells. She spread her lies to the good people of this town as easily as the rain comes. 

Of course, child, you don’t understand. You have never seen the rain and you won’t. You’ll never leave this room. 


I never paid much thought to who my husband would be. My sister has a particular love of fairy tales, silly, frivolous stories. I do not. I never imagined that I would marry a handsome prince or a noble thief. If I was to be completely honest, I may have fancied that I would marry a man with a townhouse in the capital. My mother believed in the family legacy, of doing the proper thing, the proper way.  She passed when I was but a child and my father lost his mind to the pursuit of righteousness and a holy life. My husband is an important man, a magistrate. He saved this small town on the edge of the woods, from wickedness and witchcraft – should you believe the rumours. I was five and ten when I became his wife. 

We are yet to be blessed with a child of our own. He suspects the little creature he keeps upstairs has placed a curse on me. I am not permitted in that wing of the house to ask her myself if this is the case. 


The old lady said that she would be vicious and bite when I went to bring her food. She showed me a scar on her leg, dents from teeth deep and reddened. She told me that the marks never faded and always felt fresh and wet. Reckon she just said it to frighten me a little. But as I climbed the stairs, I found my hands had started to shake. 

Don’t you dare leave them old plates, she’d said to me. 

I’d need to go in there, into the little black cell, put down her food and get her leftovers. I’d heard the stories me whole childhood. I knew that the Witch’s Daughter was more beast than girl. I heard that her feet did not touch the ground. I heard that her mouth was filled with fangs and her forehead bore stumps where her horns had been removed. I heard she spoke in lies and riddles, that she could prophesise my death like. 

As I reached that cell, I was shaking, trying to imagine if I could fight back a beast like that, someone more animal than child. Would I be able to fight her off? 

But I reached the cell and she was just sat there. Quiet and still at her bed. She didn’t so much as flinch when I opened the door. Didn’t make a sound. But when I reached over her to put her tray down before she, she sort of squealed and put her hands to her head like she was expecting me to strike her.

She reminded me of Mabel then. Me sister. Scrawny and shrill thing, she is. Cries easy. And when I went away, I kept thinking about how much Mabel would cry if she was locked up all alone by herself in that room painted black. 


It’s never discussed, o’ course. We don’t talk like that round here – certainly not where no-one can hear. But we all know where that kid came from. The Witch’s Daughter, don’t we? Seems awful convenient, doesn’t it? I swear he must reckon we can’t tell the days from the years. I remember a time before he was Magistrate Bailey. Just jumped up young Bailey who wants to be magistrate so bad if old Gordan had died in mysterious circumstances like, we wouldn’t ‘ave needed to look far for his killer. 

And let’s not forget how he had his eye on Lady Margaret. Back then she was comin’ of age. A real lovely young thing. 

But Bailey was married, wasn’t he? To old Gordan’s daughter no less. He thinks we don’t remember, but you’ve got to admire the old dog. It seems an easy enough thing for a man to be rid of his wife n’ child by spewing out words like ‘witch’. 

She didn’t help herself, none. You remember, don’t ya? What kind of girl she was.  


It was a tragic affair, but you have to understand, there were too many things about the young lady for the accusation to go ignored. 

She was wild – her father said that she was just a free spirit. 

She wouldn’t bind her hair behind a bonnet as a lady – we thought that would change after she got married. But she wouldn’t listen. I told her as much myself, do you know what she told me? She said that her hair was God’s gift to her and why should she have to cover it. 

I never found out who taught her to read. Deceitful girl would play act that she couldn’t in church. But I caught her reading the bible to the other girls when she was barely three and ten. She promised that her intentions were pure. For my foolishness, I believed her. I let it slide. That will always be my sin. 

And the way she carried on with the other girls, dancing and singing in the fields. It was very ungodly. She caused disruption wherever she went. Quick to talk back. Of course, we all said that it would stop when she married, but Bailey couldn’t control her. He came to me about it often. I told him to seek out her father for advice. But alas Gordan was… well, he wasn’t that sort of man, the kind who forced an issue, not even to aid his daughter and son-in-law to a more Christian life. I know it is not meant to be said, but Gordan was a dear friend. What happened to him was wrong.

The trial made all of the facts so clear. Things we had all known for years but had let slide. To our own sins. That book Bailey produced when her room was searched. All spells and enchantments, hateful words and poisons. She argued that the book was not in her hand, that she could not write. But had I not seen her drawing words into the soot of her fireplace? And had the book not come from her very chamber? 

She was pregnant while she stood trial. Bailey saw the child wasn’t his. He claimed that they had not been together as husband and wife in many moons. He swore to me and the court on the bible that he hadn’t touched her. Yet throughout the trial she grew large, even after starvation, even after torture. Bailey claimed at first that she had been observed lying with devils in the fields, then that she bewitched men into her bed using dark magic – but when no such men came forward, he claimed it was the devil attempting to shape her into a figure of pity. 

He denied there was a child at all. 

She said the child was Bailey’s. No, her story never changed.


When I realised my husband wanted rid of me, I fled to my father’s house. I believed with all my heart, that if I remained in that house, he would poison my food or push me down the stairs. I believed that with that distance between us, I would be safe from him. I believed that by returning to my father’s open arms, I could not be touched. 


Milord is a good man. A man of virtue and righteousness. He trusts me. Appointed me to his personal guard when I was just a lad. He confides in me. Has me look after his lady wife, protect her from prying eyes and unworthy mouths. Milord told me once he was born to sniff out wickedness and burn it to ash. 

Some down in the tavern sneer behind milord’s back when he speaks at church. They sneer and look down their nose and fill their insides with bile and drink. They say I’m a fool to believe him in all he says and does. But what would they have me do? Turn to ale for answers and drip sin from my skin as they do?

He rescued me from wickedness, so if milord says that child is the Witch’s Daughter, then she is. If he has me hold her down as Father Bryant dowses her with holy water, then I will. If he says that her cries and pleas are devil’s tricks, then they are so. If he says to tell him if anyone, anyone at all, is heard communing with the child, so he can purge that person of the wickedness the Witch’s Daughter has passed along. 

I must. Milord is a man of God. 


It was handy having Daisy on the serving staff. Useful to have someone who didn’t weep or cry at the notion of going upstairs. I spoke up as much as I dared when the Master said that the girl would be culled for consorting with demons. I tried to tell him that she was a good worker, just simple in the head, friendly of disposition and soft of heart. 

It did nothing for her in the end, but I’d tried. 

Kind girl she was and a hard worker. She deserved better than what happened. 


Iris, are you awake? 

I know you’re sad about your little friend from the kitchens, but you have no-one to blame but yourself. Silly, girl, what am I always telling you? You are cursed. Everyone who comes into contact with you dies. You know this to be one of the truths of this world. 

It was cruel of you to befriend the kitchen girl. I know it is your nature to be wicked, but you promised me that you would try. Father Bryant and I have worked so tirelessly to show you the right path. I’m disappointed, Iris. I know this must cause you pain, but this is your fault and one day you will understand. 


Magistrate Bailey says that we’re safe from the Witch as long as we have her daughter. The Witch wouldn’t dare use her magic against her own child. Mam says that’s how all mothers are, even the bad ones, I suppose. 

It’s hard for Mam because the Witch used to be her friend and a lot of people remember that. Mam says when the Finders get their hooks into a witch, they always find more, and people get silly and start pointing fingers at anyone whose done them a wrong turn. She don’t like people remembering her and the Witch being friendly in case they start to think she’s a wicked one as well. 

You know, I remember her a little, the Witch. Know I’m not supposed to say. But I do all the same. People say witches are ugly, but I remember that she was beautiful with all this long red hair. When I was right little, she used to carry me around on her shoulders. I remember her laugh, it was loud and happy, not like an evil cackle like what witches are supposed to have. And she told these dead good stories. 

I’m not supposed to say though. 


I was ti nehw yeht dellik ym rehtaf. 


When I miscarried for a third time, he left my bedside to scream and rage and curse the creature he keeps under lock and key. Some men might offer words of comfort, though it is scarcely expected of them, when their wife is in pain. Within minutes, I heard her screaming. 

He has instructed my maids to sing loudly when she screams. We are all supposed to pretend it isn’t happening, even me. 

Mr Grey, who worships my husband like the most devout cleric, stands guard for me often. He counters the presence of the child in our house with long, rambling speeches of my husband’s goodness. It is more tiresome than the maids who sing and raise their voices to the heavens. 

It makes me feel as though the world has gone mad. 


That’s the thing. Peter’s brother’s got a job as a guard at Magistrate Bailey’s house and he says that the Witch’s Daughter is dead ordinary looking. I didn’t believe him like, we all know the stories. She’s meant to have fangs and red eyes and horns. Mam’s friend used to clean for Magistrate Bailey and she reckoned that the Witch’s Daughter had hooves instead of feet, like a goat. 

But Pete’s brother swears that she’s just ordinary looking. Skinny and pale. And she just sits there all quiet, like someone’s little sister. I told him I didn’t believe a word of it. So Pete’s brother asked Mr Grey if I could go along with him one day. Told him I had designs on being a guard when I’m older, and I got to go see her, the Witch’s Daughter. 

I hoped she’d have claws and webbed hands and feet. I heard that she had long ratty white hair that trailed past her feet. I reckoned Pete’s brother was just trying to trick us into thinking she was just normal, but he wasn’t. 

She really does look like just a regular girl. I looked right at her through the bars and all she did was cower away n’ cry. I had to do a whole day’s work with Pete’s brother after as well. All that, just to go n’ look at a regular little girl. Could’ve done that at home, ya know? 

But, you want to know something else? I noticed when I was there like, she’s got eyes like Magistrate Bailey. All pale and grey. I saw his eyes up close once, I dropped the big silver candle in church last year, n’ he rushed down and took it from me. I was right frightened – he’s got this scary look and his eyes are so pale it’s like looking in a mirror. Only she’s got them too. The Witch’s Daughter. 

Funny, right? Anyway, I told the boys back in the square that Pete’s brother was lying. Said she had fangs and claws and wings like a bat – all twisted and sharp and bound to her with chains to stop her from flying off. 

It’s a much better story, right? 


I don’t much care for beggars. Laziness and sin, I always thought. How with some of them, I can’t see how they’d find work any other way. The Harding boy with his twisted spine, when his parents passed, how was he supposed to support himself? Too slow to work the fields. He begged until Magistrate Bailey took pity on him, had him working with Father Bryant. The Harding boy is unsightly, sweeping the floor of the chapel, but it keeps him from the streets. 

It’s the same for Mad Madge. Twisted with scars all over her face. Who could say how old she is? There are times she carries herself like a young thing, and at others she hunches and contorts herself like she’s not long for this world. Scraggly white hair, missing a few fingers. Some days, she’s clear as a bell – please sir, spare me a coin – and at others, she babbles in tongues and twisted verses. 

Magistrate Bailey and Father Bryant offer beds in the church to those on the street, to keep them from the rain and the cruelty of others. 

Magistrate Bailey says it’s our Christian duty to have mercy on the weak, old and diseased. 

Like I say, I don’t much care for it, but I can see his point, I suppose. 


I was asleep when the men came to our home with pitchforks and fire. I watched them, terrified, from my window in the attic room. My father told me that he would send them away and I believed him. I crept to the foot of the stairs, believing that my father could fix it. But then Wendy, our housekeeper cried out in pain as they forced her to the ground and trampled over her body to get into the house. My father told me to hide, he shouted it, it was the first time I had ever heard him raise his voice. I heard glass smashing. The servants were screaming, my handmaid crawled under my bed and sobbed silently. 

Witch, they called, Witch! 

I knew then that nothing would ever be the same again. 

I saw it when they killed my father. He was trying to talk to them. He still believed that this matter could be resolved peacefully. He was mid-sentence, hands up above his head. So calm and so still. ‘Good people,’ he said, ‘You know us, you know me’. Then Joab York knocked him to the ground. I ran back, I tried to pull them away from him. I was knocked down when I tried to throw myself over his body to stop them from stamping down on him.  

When they killed my father, I screamed for so long it felt like it would never end. The world could crumble away, and I would remain, red and pulsing like a sore. I tore at my hair, beat my fists against the ground and I howled at them when they came close, I swiped and fought. My eyes felt heavy in my head from sobbing and I cursed them, I cursed them all. 

Three men died that night. 

Bailey said that I was the one who did it. He said that when I screamed, blood poured from their ears and they collapsed. I didn’t care if that were true. My father was dead and the world so much colder. 

Witch, they called me. Men and women, I’d known my whole life, blamed me for rotten harvests, for sickness and death in the town. They tortured me, hissed at me, spat, beat me with sticks, starved me, burnt and bled me. Tossed my aching, pregnant body into the filthy river to see if I would drown. 

There were days where my grief and pain chocked all sound out of me. There were others where I would be brave and defiant and repeat the same truth that got my father killed, the same truth that had me on trial for witchcraft. And there were days where, for my shame, I’d ramble and rave and scream and cry. I’d talk in tongues and snarl like an animal to watch the husbands tremble in fear and the wives cover their children’s eyes. 

Bailey told me that he could free me from the devil’s hold on me. He said I should confess. He said that I should write a confession admitting that the child inside me was that of the devil. I know he has designs to marry little Lady Margaret, just fifteen. I know he wants me gone so he can free himself from our union. He said that I should confess, and all of this pain and suffering would end. He said that I should stop claiming that the child inside me was his. He said that I would be burned if I did not comply. 

It was the last time we spoke. 

I told him that there was no place in God’s light for a father who murders his own child. 

She was born with her father’s pale eyes. And taken from my arms before she’d so much as made a sound. 


When I was pregnant for the fourth time, I had decided that I was tired of beds of blood and my husband’s rage. 

So I waited until my sanctimonious husband had business in the city. I found Mr Grey something to do to get him out of my hair. Then I dismissed my ladies for the day and travelled upstairs to the Witch’s Daughter’s room. 

Unsurprisingly, she had no claws or talons of so to speak. There were no hooves or horns. If not for her hair, which has grown scraggly past her waist, she could be just another scrawny peasant girl. She does have his eyes though. Such distinctive pale eyes. 

She was afraid to speak at first. She scrambled under the cover her bed like I was the one the town feared and just cried and cried. I told her that I was the lady of the house and commanded her to answer me when I spoke.

In the tiny voice of one unused to speaking, the wretched creature told me her name was Iris and that Magistrate Bailey gave her that name. I asked her if she was cursing me to miscarry my babies over and over, and she told me no, no, she would never, she could never curse anyone. 

This came as no surprise to me. 

Quite frankly I’ve had rather enough of my husband and his stories. 


It was a cold and crisp All Hallows Eve night when the Magistrate’s house perished in the fire. The townspeople looked on in horror. The heat of the flames blew out the windows, even the little red one at the very top of the house. Amongst the chaos, someone screamed that Magistrate Bailey was still trapped inside. Men and women tried to douse the flames with pales of water, but the fire roared against it, reaching up high towards the sky like a great red hand. 

Lady Margaret blended in amongst the common women of the village, her finery hidden beneath a dirty, soot covered cloak. She watched her marital home crumble beneath the flames. Her baby howled and wriggled restlessly against her chest. She watched as her husband’s men busied themselves with pales of water, shouting instructions over the blaze as the servant girls wept. She watched Old Cook stare at the ruined house, silent for the first time, her mouth hung open in horror. 

Mad Madge danced in the street as Father Bryant begged her to cease at once, to show some respect. 

While the common people rushed around her, Margaret felt frozen in place. How trivial it seemed, their panic and their rush. She knew plainly that John would never leave the ruins of their home. She thought to open her mouth and tell those attempting so desperately to rescue her husband from the blaze to stop and wait, as she was, for the fire to burn out. A piece of ash touched her cheek and Margaret brushed it aside, rocking her baby gently in her arms. 

“Hush, little one,” she said softly. “All will be well.” 

In the chaos at the town square, nobody noticed a child slip out from under Lady Margaret’s soot-covered cloak. Why would they? She was such an ordinary looking thing after all. Pale, scrawny and slightly sooty. Nobody noticed her slip away from the crowd, past rows of houses and finally out into the woods that surrounded the town. 

In the morning, a rain came that doused the fire that consumed the house of Magistrate Bailey. His blackened remains were buried in the town cemetery and his fearful congregation grieved for him most admirably. Lady Margaret did not attend. She made a new match with a rich merchant in the city. She left the town in a smart black carriage and never looked back. 

The townsfolk would whisper reverently about their fallen leader, who saw witches in every shadow and made one of them his prisoner. They told stories of the witch even as the years passed and those who remembered her came to rest in the earth behind the chapel. The town would whisper about the Witch and her daughter and the fire as the years stretched on. They whispered of the Witch’s Daughter, who perished in the fire that destroyed the house that had been her prison all of her eight years, of the fire that killed the jailor that had likely been her father. 

Some would whisper that the Witch’s Daughter caused the fire that killed Magistrate Bailey. 

Some would claim that the Witch had returned at last for her child and burned the house to cinders to take revenge on Magistrate Bailey for keeping the two of them apart. 

Strangest of all were the rumours of a girl with pale hair and pale eyes who wandered the woods at night. It was said that her feet never touched the ground.

Rachael Llewellyn is a novelist living in Wales. Her previous work includes the Red Creek series (Down Red Creek and Impulse Control, both with Sulis International Press), and her short fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies and journals, including Heartland Society of Women Writers, Nymphs Magazine and Jazz House Publications. Her first collection of short fiction, Human Beings, is due for publication with Bear Hill Books in 2021. She is currently a PhD candidate at Swansea University, and is completing her thesis on trauma and memory in folklore.

photo by Feix Braas (via unsplash)

Locked Door/Open Door—Joan Kwon Glass

A locked door can mean that:      no one is home
A locked door can mean that:      someone is suffering in silence
A locked door can mean that:      a mother is nursing her infant
A locked door can mean that:      a mother has nothing left to give
A locked door can mean that:      you are not welcome
A locked door can mean that:      girls are conjuring ghosts
A locked door can mean that:      a whole family is home, together, safe
A locked door can mean that:      he is looking up how to shoot a pistol on YouTube
A locked door can mean that:      he is writing his suicide note
A locked door can mean that:      he will go through with it
A locked door can mean that:      we will never see him alive again
A locked door can mean that:      we won’t get to him in time
A locked door can mean that:      he did not want to be saved

An open door:                                  in my dream, the night that he dies. At the end of a forest
                                                              trail. It is swung wide open, onto a cottage full of light.
                                                              His footsteps sound lighter than before. His laughter:
                                                              1,000 bells, unbound.

                                                              When I wake in the morning, I take the doors in my house
                                                              off the hinges. Now, when the girls conjure their ghosts

                                                              maybe he will find me.

Joan Kwon Glass, author of “How to Make Pancakes For a Dead Boy” (Harbor Editions, 2022) was a finalist in the 2021 Lumiere Review Writing Contest, and serves as Poet Laureate (2021-2025) for the city of Milford, CT. She is a biracial Korean American who holds a B.A. & M.A.T. from Smith College, is Poetry Co-Editor for West Trestle Review & Poetry Reader for Rogue Agent.  Her poems have recently been published or are forthcoming in trampset, Rust & Moth, Rattle, Mom Egg, SWWIM, Honey Literary, Lumiere Review, Lantern ReviewLiterary Mama, Barnstorm & others.  Since 2018, Joan has been nominated four times for the Pushcart Prize. She tweets @joanpglass & you may read her previously published work at

photo by Annie Spratt (via unsplash)

We Find the Mammoth Prints Off the Highway—Lynn Finger

where we stop to stretch & smoke. Road’s empty.
               Sun concedes day’s end, tree birds call & curdle
                              as if choked on their own blood. Prairie
wind moans, calls our names, entangles us in its

smell of dust & forgotten carcass. We wander from
               the car into the grassy verge & find the mammoth
                              path, with imprints of gigantic feet, like
swollen mud pies, blistered in stone. We see lithic hair

& teeth glued, half stuck in layers it did not cause. The
               mammoth’s monster bones sleep in granite waves.
                              “Be careful or you’ll turn into one,” you joke
& stomp out your cig. The moon is extinguished in inky

clouds. I want to run but cannot. Fifty yards from the car
               we harden as we stand, hammered by rising dead
                              ocean netted with old coral, stone cast anemones.
We petrify, fall. Blood surge in my ears, my last view is you

folded into pounding earth, drowned in bridled slabs.
               I too go under. They find the car next morning, but
                              don’t know we joined the dead, lost in a bed
of crystalled hair, encrusted eyelash, arms crossed on our chests,

mouths open in impossible scream.

Lynn Finger’s poetry has appeared in Night Music Journal, Ekphrastic Review, MineralLitMag, Feral, and is forthcoming in Drunk Monkeys, Thimble and 8Poems. Lynn is an editor at Harpy Hybrid Review, and also works with a group that mentors writers in prison.

photo by Christopher Alvarenga (via unsplash)

The Doll Maker—Pam Knapp

Jenna held the small parcel in her hands tightly. “You say you’ve done this before? More than once before? Has it ever failed?” 

She and Tom stood before the desk of the doll maker. He gestured to the wall behind them covered in thank you notes and snaps of happy customers with their purchases.  

The doll maker smiled with a fixed grin. “All that’s needed is something that was always close to him and a lock of his hair.”

Jenna handed over Henry’s tiny, curled lock of hair from her locket and his blanket, the one she’d sewn in the months spent in blissful anticipation of his arrival. The one he’d been wrapped in for his first hours of life. The one that she tucked around him in his cot each night. Tom shifted uneasily beside his wife. The doll maker solemnly placed the items and closed the casket. They should return after three days had passed. 

For those three days Tom’s tense resistance, pulled at every part of Jenna. He thought it a stupid, sick idea. How had they let it get this far? They should pull out. Seeing how his words stung her, he crossed the kitchen to make the most of the impact. “I agreed because I thought it would make you see there’s no sense in looking back, Jen.” He folded his arms around her trying to find the old warmth he’d felt between them before all of this, before Henry, before the doll maker. Jenna slid away and out of his smothering reach. She didn’t want to hear another reason to stop what they’d agreed. Here was a chance and she wasn’t going to let Tom browbeat her into letting it go.  

“We’ve paid him now.” Jenna’s eyes were fixed to the floor. Her heart had been heavy for so long she’d almost stopped looking anywhere else. “We might as well see what he’s done. It’s a lot of money.” She watched as Tom pressed his lips tight together, exhaling heavily through flared nostrils. Her tone hardened. “I’m going to collect what we’ve paid for. You don’t have to come with me, but I am going.”  

Since she had heard of the doll maker, she’d thought of nothing else. She knew that Tom couldn’t be reached by the idea now. He had sobbed pitifully in the car after their visit to the doll maker’s, parting with Henry’s things was too much to bear. He thought that the whole business was a cruel play on their grief. A con. These things had occurred to Jenna, yes, of course they had. But there was no room left in her mind for doubt to take root because ‘What if?’ grew like wild vines wrapping around every thought. There could be no going back. There would be no going back. 

The doll maker greeted them with the same fixed smile. “Take a look. He’s yours.” Inside the casket a replica of their child, Henry. Still and unmoving like the doll it was, but with an uncanny life-like resemblance, it caught Jenna’s breath, snagging her heart.

Tom’s reaction was immediate and searing. “It’s a doll, an overpriced sick stunt! You feed people’s misery and prey on their heartache! I’ll be damned if I let you do it to us!”

Tom stormed out of the doll maker’s studio. The grey chill of winter frost hung heavily on the gravel drive of the studio as Tom pounded manically at the trunks of its bare branched cherry trees, kicking at its kerbs and spitting oaths at the indifferent world. The reignited suffering had wrenched his heart from its seating and left Tom’s hurt to bleed out. “Bastard! Bastaaaaard!”

In the studio, Jenna remained rooted, looking down into the casket. Her fragile wishes for Henry’s return granted, she dared not move nor speak for fear of the vision disappearing like the fantasy Tom had said it was. 

“Why don’t you hold him?” 

Jenna, tenderly raised the doll. Heavy and solid like a child’s weight, soft and supple like a child’s body. She pulled the familiar blanket aside to reveal one of the doll’s hands and brushed her index finger across the tiny fist. 

Had she seen it unfurl? Just slightly, not fully but just a little, like a half asleep reflex? Jenna’s eyes darted to meet those of the doll maker. His head inclined in a slow conspiring nod that sent Jenna’s pulse racing. She turned her back on him, nestling the doll more closely in her arms and held the hand of the doll in her own. Tiny fingers splayed out and curled around her fingers, she was sure, before they returned to a tight fist. A sob escaped from Jenna’s soul, a release that was raw and terrible.  

Tom appeared at the doorway. “Put that thing down, Jen. A doll won’t replace a baby no matter how much it looks like ours did, and it won’t bring him back either. Let’s go.”

“I’ve paid the money, Tom. I’m taking him.” 

“Taking it, you mean?”

She cradled the doll as if it were their own lost son. “Yes. Taking it.” Jenna’s eyes were fixed onto the face of the doll, as if she were to look away, the spell would break, and he’d be gone again. Tom, gripped by nausea rising in his gut, was struck dumb by her sudden wild possessiveness. 

Repulsed by the doll, Tom, refused all contact with it, convinced that Jenna’s obsession would fade. At first, Jenna hid her routines letting Tom believe that the doll remained in Henry’s cot for her to look at, as she might a photograph. But the bond between Jenna and this new Henry ignited each time Tom left for work. She fed it from breasts that bore no milk. She changed unsoiled nappies and washed the unblemished doll in warm baby baths. Her memory filled the silent rooms with the cries of her baby son, the cooing and babbling she recalled from that time before. She thought she could smell the talcum dusted skin of her child, feel again, the warmth of his skin against hers. She remembered the rise and fall of his breathing body, and the tiny sighs and mews that came from his dream filled sleep. She conjured all of these memories filling the house with them so often that she couldn’t tell which were recollections and which, she was convinced, were new to her. It made her smile; it had been so very long since she had smiled. 

Routine turned days into weeks and life had a little of the old brightness about it, she might even say she was happy again.  She was so busy with this baby. Just listen to that crying! The more attention she gave, the more was needed. More feeding. More comforting. More bathing. More lullabies. More rocking. This new Henry needed her and what mother could deny her baby anything? 

Knowing that the doll was in Henry’s room, Tom found it impossible to enter there, and so frequent changes of the doll’s clothes remained undiscovered, as did the opened packs of nappies and the mounting quantities of baby paraphernalia accumulating on every surface. What was noticeable was Jenna’s increasingly frequent and obsessive need to check on, to fetch, to search for an array of obscurely urgent things. It was on such an errand that Tom found Jenna leaning over Henry’s cot, cooing and comforting the doll. 

His heart sank low into the pit of his stomach, aching with pity, with appalling horror. But Jenna didn’t flinch. Defiant accusations flew from her. It was Tom who was cold and unnatural, whose heart had hardened and whose love had fled from their family! She would not stop. It made her happy.  

“It’s not Henry. It’s a doll, we bought it, for Christ’s sake!” 

Her face reddened with resentment at Tom’s his pleading, his sour looks and sermons. It was all too severe. Who were they hurting? Why didn’t he just let them be? 

Tom watched on bleakly, unable to stop his wife’s wilful embrace of this dark make believe, so utterly bereft of anything wholesome. Pretenses were dropped, and Jenna chattered each evening about ‘the baby’, impervious to Tom’s brooding disgust and silences. 

“Did you see that lovely smile?”, “Oh what a racket that child can make when he’s hungry!”

He’d thought about going, leaving Jenna with the hideous doll. But he wouldn’t. In time, he was sure the illusion would pale and she’d see what she had been doing, what her life had become. Tom wanted to be there when the realisation came. She would need him. She was his wife.

It was a fine Spring Saturday when Tom suggested they go out, “Let’s get some fresh air and a change of scenery, eh?”

“It’s too cold for the baby. What if he caught a chill?”

Tom’s voice was tender, “Let’s leave the doll here. We can spend some time together, y’know, like we used to. It’ll still be here when we get back.”

“Leave him here?! How can you say that? No!” Jenna scuttled off with the doll in her arms, mumbling baby voice reassurances into the blanketed bundle as she placed it back in the cot. She turned to find Tom standing close behind her. 

“Come back to me, Jen.”

“No. Not without him.”

Tom held Jenna’s hands. Their faces close enough to touch. 

“Please Tom, what’s the harm?”

Tom folded into Jenna’s embrace, resting his head on her shoulder as he allowed his tormented sorrow to erupt in great heaving sobs. 

And it was then that he saw. The head of the doll had moved, barely, but unmistakably and a tiny sigh had escaped the sleeping form. Jenna felt the change in Tom’s body and saw the stunned apprehension on his face. 

“You see? You could love him as I do!” Jenna’s voice was urgent and rasping. But she had read Tom’s reaction poorly. 

Tom reached into the cot and wrenched the puppet from Henry’s blanket. Fury and fear mixed and raced within him, hatred for this usurper bubbled over into a red, red mist. Jenna ripped and clawed at Tom’s arms to reach the doll but was flung away by the strength of his rage. Growling and howling like a wounded animal, Tom hurtled the doll into the corner of the room, watching it plumb to the floor and lay there twitching for a moment before stillness and silence filled the room. 

Still not quite summer, the funeral flowers carried the sharpness of early blooms. Jenna’s folks had come to stay for a day or two to help sort her things. They expressed some surprise at the way Henry’s room still looked as if it was used. They scowled at it, linking it to their own child’s demise, silently blaming Tom for the help he didn’t give or seek for their daughter. Surely, he had seen the signs? He must have seen her suffering. Why hadn’t he cleared this room to help her? Perhaps then, it would never have come to this. 

Blossoms fell from the cherry trees like snow, covering the gravel drive and collecting in deep drifts at the edges of kerbs. Tom stood and started at the door of the doll makers studio. A lock of Jenna’s hair in his locket.

Pam Knapp lives in the UK’s rolling countryside of the Sussex Downs, close enough to London to feel the heat, far enough away to avoid being burnt. Optimism is her greatest asset. Her recent writing can be found in Dreich Magazine, Green Ink Poetry, Owl Hollow Press and In Parentheses Literary Magazine.

photo by StockSnap (via pixabay)