FFP#28 – The Bird Queen, Part I

Before her mother vanished, Loretta had loved spending hours outside climbing trees. One of her father’s servants would always be nearby, ready to catch the child should she fall. She’d climb as high as she could possibly go and then straddle a sturdy branch. There she spent her afternoons, and some evenings, imagining herself a hawk, peering at the world below, seeking out her prey. There was the lawn keeper trimming the hedges. Over there, her nanny Eloise read a book under a weeping willow. The dogs stayed near the patio, jumping up with pricked ears whenever a door opened or shut, barking when a strange car pulled into the winding driveway.

Sometimes Loretta would watch her father, a tall, portentous figure who seemed to float across the well-manicured green. He was never alone, but always in discussion with the other businessmen who came to their home for dinner or cocktails. Loretta wondered to herself if there existed a bird large enough to grasp her father in its talons. A bird with wings powerful enough to carry him away to some cold and wasted mountain where he’d become nothing but meat for the bird’s ravenous chicks.

Loretta’s mother had been the complete opposite of her father: soft where he was hard, involved where he was indifferent, fanciful where he was leaden. She sang fantastic tales about the Bird Queen, a woman with wings who lived on a remote island known only as the Windy Country. In legend, she’d been a gift from the moon to the island’s peaceful peoples, breathing life into the land and protecting the islanders from the mercenaries looking to turn them into slaves. Her mother came from the Windy Country. This was where Loretta’s father had found her, fallen in love with her, and, finally, stolen her from her people.

“Oh, he didn’t really make me leave,” her mother would say. “I was young and in love. I wanted to go with him.”

Loretta didn’t believe her. She couldn’t imagine anyone loving her father that much. He was so stiff and grim, so serious. “Let’s go back,” she’d said one night, while her mother braided her hair. “Just you and me.”

“There’s nothing there anymore,” her mother had replied. “Only wind and dust. The Bird Queen died long, long ago. Perhaps it’s for the best. Now the island has no value to anyone.”

“But we can still go back,” Loretta said, not quite understanding what she meant.

“There.” Her mother tied a purple bow onto the tuft of hair at the braid’s end. She leaned in close. “No, Loretta,” she whispered. “I could never leave your father. I gave him my heart and he gave me his soul.”

The Bird Queen, Part II
The Bird Queen, Part III
The Bird Queen, Part IV
The Bird Queen, Part V
The Bird Queen, Part VI

FFP#27 – ex silentio

When he snores, a single line of white satin moths flies from his mouth. They are such a bright and reflective white, that I can even see them in the dark. They land on the ceiling above me, forming a circle, their wings pulsating with each sound he makes. One night — he’s snoring again — I place my hand over his mouth to keep the moths inside. Instead, they squeeze out of his nostrils, one at a time, hurrying to escape. Even then, they flutter toward the ceiling and form their circle above us. When I tell him in the morning, tell him what I’ve heard and seen, he laughs. “Don’t watch me when I sleep,” he says. “Put on earplugs. Go to sleep yourself.” How do I sleep through that? I ask him, but he just shakes his head. “Dreams or something. Gotta be.” That night I cover his mouth and I squeeze his nostrils tightly closed. I suspect the moths will fly out of his ears. Instead, nothing comes out of any part of his body. For minutes I wait, but not one single moth appears. Maybe I was dreaming. I move my hand, release his nose. There is a nearly imperceptible rise of his chest. He doesn’t snore. I wait again, listening. But no, not even one little snort. I can’t even hear him breathe. I rest my head against my pillow. Silence. Now I can sleep.

FFP#26 – Interference

In her eyes, he saw a small boat rocking back and forth against the stormy edge of her iris. “What would happen if that boat escaped?” he wondered. When he kissed her lips, the skin was dry and he imagined a desert made of human flesh and human dust. When their tongues pushed against each other, he tasted blueberries and sugar. And when he placed his hand against her chest, her heart didn’t beat at all. In its place, swelled an orchestra, the symphony of her love multilayered, harmonious and complicated, a movement in four parts: allegro, adagio, scherzo, rondo. The sound and rhythm of the orchestra pushed against her chest, trying to break free and expand from her body – a turbulent body, one unable to contain and nurture a hundred disciplined musicians. He pressed his torso against hers and the exchange was made. His heart for her orchestra. Her music for his humanity. Finally, when she looked into his eyes, she saw little men somersaulting into the dark depths of his pupils and in her chest she felt the constant beat of an intrusive heart.

Reading Minimizes Memory Loss

THIS ZINE WILL CHANGE YOUR LIFE

Issue #9 of Kaleidotrope is out! New fiction by Marshall Payne, Genevieve Valentine, Rachel Swirsky, and more. Order it!

from the Wigleaf archive: “Speedwagon” by Kim Chinquee

The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake by Aimee Bender

Light Boxes by Shane Jones

FFP – New Story Next Week

Due to some personal matters, I didn’t get a story finished in time this week. Please check back for a new story and some reading recommendations in the next few days. Thanks!