Tarot: The Star

If you whisper your secrets to the stars, they will hear them, and they will keep them.

Wrapped in darkness and camouflaged with stardust.

They will make them shine brightly so that no one can tell one secret from another.

They will shoot across the sky with them should someone discover your secrets. Half-way across the universe, they will be hidden just as well.

Someone else may reach for your secret and discover it is too far away; the sky is fathomless, bottomless.

Someone may whisper their secret to your secret, thinking it a star, and the secrets will intertwine, but the stars will pull them gently apart when you wish them to return your secret.

Only ask, and they will be returned.

They may be glittery with stardust. Do not worry. It will fade in time.

Art by Woraya Chotikul.

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Tarot: The Sun

Beware the heat of a summer's day. Do not let it lull you to sleep. Do not curl up in it like a cat. Heat will do you grevious harm.

First it is the skin. It reddens it, leaves you feeling restless, with the desire to peel it off.

Then it is in your eyes, blinding you to faults and lies.

Then it is behind your eyelids, bright as a star when you close your eyes, imprinted.

Then it warms you from the inside out. Starlight fills your veins, erupts from your nerve endings.

Then the sun sets. What you thought, in the moment, was eternal and unquestionable, is as delicate as the night time breeze. The brilliance fades, the warm with it. The monsters under your bed, the whisper in your ear at night, the cold when you sleep, all present themselves.

Beware the heat of the sun. It will leave you cold.

Art by Woraya Chotikul

Text by Lucie MacAulay

The Battle Of The Two Wolves

An old Cherokee told his grandson, "My son, there is a battle between two wolves inside us all.

One is Evil. It is anger, jealousy, greed, resentment, inferiority, lies and ego. The other is Good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, humility, kindness, empathy, & truth."

The boy thought about it, and asked, "Grandfather, which wolf wins?"

The old man quietly replied, "The one you feed."

Art by Adams Doyle

So Close

Glory-of-the-snow is abundant in the lower altitude regions of Internment, studding the grass like amethysts in aged copper. The wind speaks in whispers.

Meredith can just barely see the edge of Internment, which she had suspected was not real until she relocated from the central cities.

The edge is tantalizing, addictive, pulling. There are legends of a long-ago place thousands of feet below them, and the edge is shrouded in the same dreamlike wonder of the mythologica. Yet Meredith would not dare go near it, there are troubles enough in her household without accusations of being the next Jumper reaching her parents. 

Art by Shel Silverstein

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Where I Come From

When a place is remembered, it is never forgotten. Places of beauty are never forgotten, the smell of morning rain on the grass, sunlight dancing off the waves of the blue green sea. Where each cloud moves to the beat of the drums, the players sit around a warm, contented fire, while the black cosmos hovers over small beautiful villages. Sun-ripened wheat sways gently in the soft breeze.

Where I come from there are courtyards filled with flowers, trees hang limply as their leaves wave sadly in the cool autumn wind. Green afternoon skies fade to purple as the stars twinkle brightly, defying the darkness soon to follow. Tree vines twist and twine as the fog rolls away in the late morning, a flock of birds cast colossal shadows across the noisy, sunny schoolyard. Busy streets criss-cross along the city, a small, grey, stray cat bounds across a long line of cars. Dirty shops, old, abandoned, mud clings to a tree as the storm passes, leaving a faint trail of damp. A long black cat slinks silently, swiftly towards a hidden bush, waiting. This place is where I come from.

Where time passes slowly while the sun descends, giving in to the silver light of the solitary moon, vibrant lights blur, illuminating the city in the otherwise dark night. Evergreens soft needles offer shelter from the rain, an overgrowth of wisteria guards the garden of sunlight, planes imitating the swallows, flying over the clouds, turning villages, cars, and people in to toys. Snow blows through the air, and the only place to hide is under the branches of a shivering maple, pigeons swoop and glide searching for food dropped among crowds of people in the streets. Tall, bleak houses lined up in rows, each bleaker than the last. Farm land, rolling hills, and beyond that are distant purple mountains, hardly standing out against the dull gray sky. This is where I come from.

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Mermaid Thoughts

If I were a mermaid I would travel from sea to sea, stopping in each continent, exploring it like I would explore another world. In the Mediterranean I would enjoy the sun, the smell of exotic fruits and spices. In Australia I would glide over the reef, surprising small colourful fish. I would spend hours underwater enjoying the colours, the pearly iridescent whites, the swirling greens, the soft pink of a seashell and the countless shades of blue as pale or deep as the sky. I would rise out of the water, among the waves that crash like galloping white horses. I would lie still in slow currents, drifting, dragging my fingers in the sand, the currents sliding over my skin like ribbons. I would find a place among the sea turtles and rest on their broad warm shells. I would play with the dolphins, laughing and expelling bubbles from my mouth. I would reach the depths of the ocean and explore the vast grand kingdom of Atlantis, the ruins of majestic spires and towers and overgrown gardens of sea lavender. I would swim to the arctic oceans, circling the icebergs, watching the sun glint off the ice and pass through in hazy canyons that pierce the frozen water. I would turn and find myself face to face with the ice bears, their massive claws and big black eyes. I would climb the underwater volcanoes, run my hands on the dark rock, feeling the red heat flowing and rushing within it. I wonder if, being underwater so long, I would admire the sun? Would I be fascinated by the colours of a fire, watching the flames and sparks that light up dark nights, from afar? Would I begin to become captivated by embers and coals, the smoky ruby prisms? What of the moon, would the silver patterns of light on the water’s surface entrance me? The green grey tint on night clouds and white orb keeping me above the waves long after I’ve gotten tired. If I lived in a world of blue and green and wet, would I want the feel of warm dry sand, trees that grow on mountainsides instead of mangroves? Like a princess who gazes out the window of her tower, daydreaming of running away and tasting new things. Would I close my eyes and imagine the smell of ripe apples by a hot meadow, the blinding pink light of cherry blossoms dappled with sunshine, the nectar yellow of leaves falling as trees bend in an autumn wind? If not, if I did not yearn for a world I was a part of, what would I fill my days with? I could sing tragic, mournful, beautiful songs and lead sailors to their death. I could pick my way through riches and treasure in sunken ships, amid watery graves, skeletons sleeping in caverns too deep for their bones to be bleached by the sun. I could have a sweet face, masking fatal intentions that are the ending of so many. Perhaps I would desire to lure someone or something, without bringing them harm, without being the cause of pain. I would want something else, something different. As everyone does. 

Art by Adams Doyle

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Tarot: Justice

Lady Justice put down her tea with a clatter. "I am not."

Her sister smiled, a smile full of knives. "There was a time you were needed. Now people make justice of their own."

"Not everyone. I've still got a job."

"For now, maybe." Her sister shrugged. "But you won't always. It's alright. I don't have one. Chivalry is dead. Everyone has to move on."

Lady Justice shook her head. "Not yet." She glanced at the shelves, lined with scales. There was a thin layer of dust over them. She took one down, occasionally. Polished it until it shone like silver. It was getting harder and harder. There as much more to do.

"It's not so bad, retiring. I've been reading more. Drawing. If you come by my place next time, I've even done some decorating. You should consider it. This place could use a little cheering, sweetie." She stood, setting down her cup. "Which reminds me. I've got to go see Curtesy in an hour. Sorry to pop in and out like this."

Lady Justice stood, embraced her sister. "I'll come see you next time," she promised.

"Do. And think about what I've said, hm? You'll wear yourself out with all of this." Lady Truth kissed her sister's cheek and departed.

Art by Woraya Chotikul

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Tarot: The Emporer

Praise the king who raised our city. Raised it on the bones of others.

Our brave king, our great king. See him wave from his tower window, from his ivory balcony, to the peope crowded in the streets. Thank him for his generosity, for the food so scarce we gnash our teeth in hunger. For the soft beds we make from the mud in the alleys. For the clothing on our back, like veils blown by the wind.

A brave man will start a war, for he is not scared of loosing. A wise man will teach his children his wisdom, so that if might be passed down. A man corrupted will turn a blind eye to suffering. Will be deaf to pleas for help.

Our emporer was a brave man. A wise man. A blind man. A deaf man.

So praise him as we break down the walls of his castle, raise our swords and knives. As he returns our visciousness with his own, with the ferocity of hell. With fire and blood.

In the red sunrise, he will be the most glorious sight.

Art by Woraya Chotikul

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Tarot: Wheel of Fortune

Take your pick. Think about it, but don't take too long.

You have to pick one. That's just the way it is.

They results vary. They look identical so you can't predict an outcome, but we can give you a few hints:

One of them is poisonous to touch. Two of them will give you back a year of your life, but only if you use it then and there, or the time disappears like sand running through an hourglass, forever gone. One holds a promise (though for what, not even we know). A few contain animals with pocket watches, fans, and other items of interest.

One of them will kill you instantly.

Take your time. But not too much.

We have other customers.

Art by Woraya Chotikul

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Tarot: The Tower

When the fire had calmed, burned to nothing but embers and a few forlorn flames, she began to chant.

The shadows didn't understand her words, but they understood her request. They writhed in anticipation. A favour, yes, a favour...

They slithered into the fire, dancing as though the timber of her voice was a song. Then, suddenly, the fire erupted into a tornado of swirling flames - blue and red and star-white.

The shadows screamed, like howling wind, and in the heat they moulded, like clay, into human shapes, arms and legs black as sin. They circled the fire, took one another's hands.

She chanted loudly, lifting her voice, but it was stolen from her lips. The shadows said the incantations, in rasping voices, with black tongues. Her heart beat steadily in her chest, thumping her ribs so hard it hurt. It skipped a beat, painfully. She pitched into the circle of shadows, into the fire. It did not burn, but her heart pulsed and sipped another beat.

The shadows closed in, and another painful beat sent tears streaming down her face. Her hands moved to her chest, clawing at the flesh over her heart. She howled and screamed and twisted and raked her nails over her chest, drawing blood. Colours burst behind her eyelids.

Something picked apart her skin, and in a final searing heartbeat, something warm and wet slid into her hand. She gasped and opened her eyes, to see a beating heart in her palm.

The shadows reached with inky fingers, and she clutched it like a mother clutching her newborn baby, but they took it and covered it and whisked it away.

She watched them wrap it like a present, and lay it beside her, but her muscles were water, she coudl not reach for it.

Sleep washed over her, like a black tide, and she welcomed it to her bed of ashes and blood.

Art by Woraya Chotikul

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Home Sweet Home

Welcome to the Maison le Fay. Please wipe your feet before entering and read the addendum below before settling in.

Hooks in the front hall are labelled by the number of your room.

Outgoing mail can be placed in the box in the front hall; incoming mail will be delivered to their respective owner's room.

The temperature stat cannot exceed 85 degrees Fahrenheit.

Common areas may only be used between 6:37 am and 11:52 pm. Do not enter the parlour outside the posted times, no matter what you may hear.

Ignore the cats on the third floor. Do not feed them, ever.

Room service is unavailable on dates divisible by 3.

We wish you a good time.

Please remember, we may not always be visible, but we are always watching.

Please enjoy your accomodations.

Art by Patrycja Makowska

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Dreamers

Dreamers see the world with their eyes closed. They are so often seen as blind, naïve. They weave their world with the threads of half-forgotten dreams, from moonlight and lullabies and fairy tales.

But nightmares are fairytales too.

Once upon a time, there was a dreamer, a young boy.

The boy was tall in the way of one unaccustomed to being tall, and nut-brown from hours in the sun. He worked with his father in the estate of a wealthy merchant and his twelve daughters. His life was one of lilies and roses and the heat of a near-eternal summer. He was a good gardener, but more often than not he found his way beneath bowers of dogwood roses with a collection of fairy tales and read the hours away until the sun had set and he could read no more.

He lay beneath the arbors or on the mossy carpets of the forest, which the owner of the estate also possessed, and dreamt of gilded castles, of lakes so still they seemed like mirrors of the night sky, of ships hoisting royal violet flags, and of a kingdom hidden in the forest, where the trees bent like an emerald canopy over their king and the leaves whispered his name in their secret language.

He often fell from his perches on tree branches while so enraptured by his dreams, and it was not uncommon for him to accumulate bruises the way a rich man accumulates broaches.

While he was a good gardener, he had few friends among the garden staff. They had long ago given up their dreams. Magic did not exist for them. Fairy tales were for children. Would dreaming keep the clematis from climbing in the windows? Would it water the herbs or sew the seeds?

Art by Abby Diamon 

Text by Lucie MacAulay

A Cleaning

“What’s next?”

The boy was wearing fingerless gloves, and his nails were already cyanotic blue. He’d catch cold if he wasn’t careful.

“The ice needs to start melting. But we’ll leave that for now. Let’s move on.” Jack pulled the boy along, by the sleeve of his coat, around the snow banks. Winter in the city was more grey than white, and the slush soaked through the toes of their boots as they walked.

The park had become a blur of white and grey and colour only really appeared ten feet from a person, before it faded into the flurry of snow. Strollers and dog-walkers hardly seemed to notice the boy and the elderly gentleman, each carrying a torch that occasionally spat copper-green flame.

Only the children paid any attention, and they ceased their snow-angel-making or snowball-throwing for seconds to squint through the wall of snow as if they were looking through a smudged glass window.

The boy nudged the elderly man’s elbow. The man’s torch scattered green sparks. “The kids keep making me nervous,” he said.

The man didn’t look at them. “The kids see us, but don’t worry, they’re not doin’ any harm. They just don’t know yet that they aren’t supposed to see us. They’ll grow into their parents. They’ll think they made us up. When they learn.” He made an inelegant sound, like a snort. “Seems that’s all their parents teach them, to be blind.”

The snow here was deeper. The elderly man motioned for them to stop, then adjusted the shoulder strap of his torch. He pointed the torch and fired.

Around them green flames erupted, like a ring of summer trees. The snow began to melt, quickly, collapsing like a deflated cloud after a rainstorm. It was beautiful and very dangerous.

Then there was a noise like the ticking of a broken clock. The boy’s torch sputtered a few small flames, then ceased firing and emitted a thin curl of green smoke.

“Oh, bother,” he said, shaking it. The elderly man set aside his own torch and watched the boy as he shook, cursed, and shook some more.

“Let me,” said the elderly man, and took the gun. His cold-bitten fingers fumbled with the latches. It was some complicated design, something from after his time. The boy had the stunned look of one who just finished training. He stayed silent as the elderly man fixed his torch, then handed it back to him.

“Thanks. Have you been doing the Cleaning for a long time?” he asked.

The elderly man hefted his torch and pointed it at the snow again. There was noise like a gunshot and winter erupted into green light again. “Depends what you mean by a long time,” he shouted over the din.

The boy looked sideways at a couple huddled together, walking on what they assumed was a path. They came within inches of the green flames, close enough that sparks fell on their coats and sparkled like spangles.

“Aren’t they going to notice?” the boy asked asked, squinting through the snow.

The old man sighed. “Nope. Doesn’t happen overnight, the cleaning. And look at them, they don’t notice nothin’, do they?” He pointed. “That one’s got her nose buried in a book.” He pointed again. “That one’s busy with his blackberry or what have you.” He nodded to a passing man with a steaming bakery bag. “That one can’t see past his next lunch. Nobody notices anythin’ unless you give ‘em a reason to. And we don’t. So that’s that.”

“I mean, how do they think spring comes? Do they think it just happens? That winter just shoves over and makes way?”

“They likely do think that. ‘Cause they don’t see anyone prove otherwise.”

“What about all the stuff we do?” The boy asked.

“The little stuff we do? We don’t take care of the big stuff. Those are the guys upstairs. We just handle the little stuff. Cleaning the ground and all.”

The boy stopped again. His eyelashes were caked with snowflakes. Her wiped his face. “What big stuff?”

The old man looked up and gave him a look. The boy held back a sigh. He was getting tired of being the recipient of looks.

“You’re new to this, aren’t you, lad?”

The boy nodded. His cable knitted scarf fell over one should and into the snow bank. The old man handed it to him as he straightened with an audible creaking of joints.

“See that?” he pointed a gloved finger over the boy’s shoulder. The boy turned and caught sight of a woman’s outline in the snow. She shivered and breathed on her gloves hands. Her face was obscured by her white cloudy breath.

“What?”

“The breathing thing. That’s the big man’s job.”

The boy shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

The old man watched the lady trudge on, until she faded like a shadow in the grey distance. His eyes were piercing blue, milky at the edges with the beginnings of blindness. “When they breathe, they’re breathing out just a bit of their soul. It’s white, you see, so they don’t think nothin’ of it. But it’s their soul.”

The boy blinked. “That’s not- why? Why would anyone want them to breath out their soul?”

The old man turned his face up. Snowflakes glittered like embers falling from the sky. “Because you can’t carry around that much soul all the time. You’ve got to get rid of all the bad things. The bad deeds, the broken promises, all those things that make you feel awful. Imagine rememberin’ that, year after year. That’d be the death of a person. They’ve got to be cleaned out too. To make way for the new year.”

The boy breathed out. His breath was clear, no white puff of air, just heat.

He wrinkled his nose.

“What now?”

“It just seems – wrong. Is it really right to just forget?”

The old man took his finger off the trigger, produced a rag from his pocket, and wiped his brow. “No. It wouldn’t be. But they don’t forget it, exactly. It’s like – it’s like a wound that they’ve inflicted on themselves. If we don’t take care of it, if they spend the rest of their lives rememberin’, it’s just goin’ to fester and hurt them. So we make them forget – but only a little. Some part of ‘em will remember, and that’s like a scar. Still there, but not a nuisance. They can get on with their lives, see?”

The boy nodded. He pictured the park in April, when the trees would shiver away the last of the snow, and green shoots would impale the thawing earth, and the view would be a spectrum of greens and yellows and blues. There was no room for sorrow and guilt.

He felt the touch of a gloved hand on his sleeve. He opened his eyes.

“We’re one here. Call it a day?” the old man asked.

“Sure.”

They slung their torches across their backs, barrels pointed away and down.

“Does the cleaning get easier?” the boy asked.

“Doubt it. Seems to be getting harder, actually.”

The elderly man looked sideways at the boy. “Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll do fine. Just keep breathing the way you are. You don’t want to get cleaned, do you?” He laughed, and just the tiniest hint of white appeared in front of him. 

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Boon

Beneath the green-golden bower of the forest canopy – lulled by the heat and the hum of cicadas, he falls into a deep sleep.

When he wakes, he wakes in the shadow of a woman.

She traps him in a gaze the colour of dying leaves. She is draped in a thin cloth the colour of the sky at twilight. It is not just the cloth that is ghostly-thin. Her entire being radiates with insubstantiality, as though she may fade with the morning mist. Even her hair is like the gossamer threads of a spider’s web.

She bows her head. “I would recommend that you soon go inside. After the sun sets and the lights are out. That is when they leave.”

Jonathan sits up. “When who leave?”

She does not reply, but produces from the folds of her gown, a flower, and holds it out to him.

It is still in full bloom, as though freshly picked. It is a trumpet flower, but ringed with several velvety petals. And it is golden as the sun, medallioned with pollen like fine gold dust.

He gently takes it, and she is careful not to let her skin touch his. When is it secure in his grasp, she releases it and steps back.

“Get them out,” she says. “They do not belong in my dominion.”

“Who?” he asks, baffled.

“Get them out,” she says, before the sky darkens and soon it is the world around him darkening too.

He wakes with the golden streaks of sunset in his eyes, the horizon painted in shades of red and orange.

He cannot tell if what transpired was a dream or not. It cannot be real.

But a smell, deep and rich, like honeyed wine, draws him to the golden flower in his lapel.

Art by K.Y. Craft

Text by Lucie MacAulay

A Midnight Stroll

Slowly, very slowly, the phoenix flower opens. It bursts in an array of spear-sharp petals the colour of embers, scattering pollen like sparks.

He gasps and is certain that the girls have heard him, but they show no sign of having noticed his presence. He steps slowly out of the shadows, and they do not turn.

The girls are silent as they come to stand before a wall. Arianwyn slides the wall aside, like a paneled door. Beyond is darkness and stairs, punctuated by dim lantern light.

Fabrics as shimmering and diaphanous as woven moonlight rustle as they descend and, after a moment’s hesitation, he follows them.

They emerge from the stairs into a forest, in a kiosk filled with moss, speckled with night-blooming flowers. The girls walk with purpose, as though their destination is in sight, but they do not stop soon. They do not trip on the roots snaking in and out of the soil, as though they have walked the path a hundred times before.

Then, very slowly, the forest begins to change.

The trees are lit with a soft silver light, and every leaf is carved silver so bright they appear like stars.

He holds his hand over his mouth to stifle his gasp, and almost stops walking. He must run to catch up with the girls, whose procession does not halt and whose silence is uninterrupted.

The silver light begins to fade. Like moonlight changing to the light of dawn, the forest glows golden. The leaves on the trees here are like golden coins. Even the blossoms on the ground release small starbursts of golden pollen, and the ferns are covered in fine golden hairs, like those on a peach. The woods are a rich man’s dream, but the boy does not pause to pick a flower, to snap a twig and its leaves from a low-hanging branch.

They continue, and time begins to lose meaning in a blur of gold and silver. It is not until the light before them begins to twinkle like the night sky that he realizes the forest is changing once again.

The leaves, each one on every tree, is a clear shining diamond. They rustle with a sound like twinkling silver bells and catch the moonlight, glittering like tree-fulls of stars.

Art by K.Y. Craft

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Never Tears

The riots are fewer, but, as Dr.Kane suggests, it does not mean the project is being accepted. Protesters get tired, and Cynthia is showing promise.

It may work. It may truly work.

It is the years of investment in the project that propels her to imagine what will follow Cynthia. A race of Human Canvases, beautiful and blank.

And not unhappy. Unhappiness is not the absence of happiness.

Absence is only absence, if there was something there before it, she reasons.

After all, Cynthia has never cried.

Art by Joanne Young

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Insistance

The years pass as smoothly as water, and it is with extreme care that Cynthia does not come to hear the title Human Canvas or understand what it means. Prototype and experiment are words disallowed in her presence.

They are few of many things disallowed around Cynthia.

Mother and father are equally distant concepts, though she hears the words.

There are innumerable rules regarding the project: her eating habits, the sounds and conversations she is allowed to hear, the questions she can ask or be asked.

No one tells Dr.Kane’s son these rules. 

Art by Joanne Young

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Children of the Night

Beatrix circled him, and stood behind him. She could feel the warmth rising off his skin, like heat rising off a road in the summer. She could smell him, like sunlight and blood, golden and rich.

“But- I want to live forever too.” His voice was beautiful, soft as silk or the caress of moonlight. It was heartbreaking to hear/It was like a knife in her heart.

She sighed. This was the first goodbye, Beatrix realized. Only the first. “This is not living.”

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Tarot: The Fool

At the edge of the dying day, in the twilight, he finds a spot in the fence where the tall metal bars are warped, just big enough to slip through them. Inside the cemetary, the leaves do not stir. The wind does not rise, despite its howling just beyond the gate. All sound is muted by the cold, hard-packed cemetary loam. His breathing keeps the silence at bay.

He follows the curving pathways through aisles of tombstones, glancing at those with particularly elegant inscriptions, or topped with tall stone angels whose features have been worn away by time and the wind.

He stops at the only spot he recognizes, standing in the shadow of the mausoleum as the first of the stars appear, glittering in the sky like a scattered handful of diamonds. The metal doors are chained, but as he stares at it, the padlock unlocks with a series of echoing metallic thunks. He reaches for the gates and pushes them open. They protest wildly, with a noise like the squealing breaks of a train, and stop half-way, but it is lost in the sudden tempest.

The wind pushes against his back, making his coat billow around him. The leaves swirl madly, and voices whisper in his ears, longingly, though the words are too numerous for him to catch entire sentences. "... come... just another... closer to us... like falling asleep..."

A voice that sounds as though it is speaking as much within his head as without rings like a bell over the cacophany of jumbled whispering. "Why are you here?"

He pauses, and when he speaks, his voice sounds dark and wild. "I want to live forever."

Something sighs against his neck, warm and sad. The voice comes again, soft as fur. "This is not living."

But the gates open fully, and the darkness pulls him inside, like the cold hand of a child.

Art by Woraya Chotikul

Text by Lucie MacAulay

In Dreams And Death

I wrote a letter to death, to thank him/her/it for his/her/its services to the world. I felt death was perhaps underappreciated. I wrote it on lined paper and put a return address on the envelope and only DEATH in the centre.

I worried someone would think it was a joke and it would reappear in my mailbox stamped Return To Sender, but it did not return.

I waited a day, a week, several months, as the leaves died and my conviction died with them.

When the letter arrived, in a black envelope with my name in silver ink, I had to sit down. The world seemed to pinwheel around me as I clutched for the arm of the porch chair.

The handwriting was neat, and smudged. Later, I would ask if he was left-handed.

He said little but that he appreciated my letter and hoped to meet me soon, though not on professional terms.

I kept the letter in my pocket until he came to the house.

He was a young man, my age and also ageless. Pale, with dark, watchful eyes. He moved like a cat, from shadow to shadow, lithe an nimble. He asked to stay the night.

I learned that his hair did not stay one colour. As he slept, it was the glossy black of a raven's feather. And when I yawned myself awake in the morning, it was the rosy gold of dawn, made rosier by the sun through my window.

He stayed a second night. Not a third. He came and went. He was a busy man. But he came back, propping his scythe up against the wall (he said it came with the job; it was an aesthetic requirement, it was expected) and sinking to the bed as if pulled by an anchor.

"It must be the loneliest job," I said, once.

He paused before answer, running a slender finger along my wrist. "It isn't. I am hardly ever alone. And I recall most people I come for. Everyone comes to me, in the end. And most meet me in the beginning. It is more like being constantly lost, and constantly found."

"Are you lost right now?" I asked.

He stared at the space on the inside of my elbow where my veins converged, like the perspectives of a room or the lines on a map. "Not at all," he said.

"Then it must be a thankless job," I said. He laughed, and it was a sound like the first crack of thunder, and the first bird song of the morning.

He did not have a way with words. But he had a way with silence. When I was diagnosed, his silence filled the hospital room as he sat on the bed beside me. Quiet and soothing. I fell asleep to it, like a lullaby.

I woke up, and the heart monitor was no longer beeping like a metronome.

"I'm sorry," he said, as he took my hand.

The world began to fade as he raised the scythe, like a reflection rippling into nothingness.

"Don't be. Thank you," I said.

The scythe flashed like a sliver of silver moon as he brought it down. I closed my eyes and in the darkness, I was found.

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Dismissals

The party tonight is tense and quiet. The entire company is on edges, as though waiting for some calamity to take place and having difficulty wiling away the hours while they do. The conversation on the porch halts frequently, or dwindles into sparse pockets of discussion. The game, a previously popular topic for the market-folk, is avoided entirely and pointedly, and the guests are too distracted to maintain a conversation about art or theatre for too long. Many attendees grab a glass of champagne and disappear into the maze, drawing some close companions with them, to distract themselves. No one comments on the strange occurrences within the market of late, but they turn every corner with weariness, as though certain they will encounter a ghost of some sort.

Alice tries in vain to catch Eli’s attention, but he eludes her at every turn of the maze and later is lost in the collection of suits on the porch. He spends most of his time in the company of Bethany, only straying when he is persuaded into conversation with some other market-company member.

Mr.Marshall seems especially strange, and it catches Eli’ attention more than once. The proprietor stares at the lanterns or the flickering candles in their candelabras, then slips back into conversation, as though his attention has never wavered. He laughs rarely, and surveys the company with a haunted expression, which Vivienne can only coax him out of with excessive amounts of wine. His usually vivid countenance is faded.

It makes no difference except for the few glasses that Mr.Marshall seems to knock over when he is not paying attention. When a large decanter of brandy becomes a victim of Mr.Marshall’s careflessness, Eli catches it and rights it, setting it down on the spotless tablecloth. Mr.Marshall mumbles to himself about clumsiness and eyes Eli.

He continues to eye Eli as the night progresses, but Eli attributes it to little more than the numerous glasses of wine or brandy in his hands.

The arrival of the food is a relief; attendees can blame the lack of conversation on the delicacies rather than their own unease. Bethany stays by Eli’s side in the silence until Mako whisks her away to admire a particular bower of exotic plants in a corner of the garden.

Eli absently sips from his glass as he avoids Alice’s attention until Michael draws her into the maze to distract her.

“Mr.Kells, Mr.Marshall would like a word with you,” Vivienne says, suddenly at his elbow.

“Of course,” Eli says, putting down his glass. He follows the assistant inside and down a labyrinth of hallways to Mr.Marshall’s study, which Eli has visited only a limited number of times before. It is in even worse disarray now than it was then. It is littered with half empty decanters and bottles of wine, and paper on every surface. Stacks of newspapers from months ago sit in piles against the desk and walls. There is a path through the chaos toward the desk, though Eli cannot imagine Mr.Marshall having the capacity to work in such a cluttered space.

Mr.Marshall paces behind the desk. He does not look up when Vivienne deposits Eli in the middle of the room.

“Mr.Kells, sir,” she announces him.

Mr.Marshall does not respond except for a single wave of his hand, to which his assistant bows her head and turns gracefully on her heel. She leaves, and closes the door behind her.

“Is something the matter, Mr.Marshall?” Eli asks.

Mr.Marshall stops pacing and looks at Eli as though noticing him for the first time. “Is something the matter? You would have to be blind not to think it. Especially you.”

“Me, sir?” Eli says. The tenor of his voice does not change, but something akin to dread makes his hands tighten into fists behind his back.

“I want to know what… nonsense, you have been doing. How you do your act, and why you have come here,” Mr.Marshall says.

“I came here because I was hired as a performer, sir.”

Mr.Marshall hits the desk, slamming his palm against it sharply enough to upset a bottle of ink and send several documents flying off the desk. They fall to the floor with a rustled sound like flowing water.

“Do not tell me lies. I can tell when you are being dishonest with me. What is this?” Mr.Marshall holds up a locket, silver, with a long chain, and stained with something dark brown.

“That is mine, sir,” Eli says. His hands shake with the impulse to reach for the locket. “It was for a trick of mine that did not go exactly as planned.”

“Trick? What trick?”

“Nothing to concern yourself with, sir,” Eli says.

Mr.Marshall drops the locket to the desk with a clatter. The chain slides over several piece of paper and half off the desk.

“Not my concern? Everything that happens in this market place is my concern. What has been going on behind my back?” Mr.Marshall says.

“Behind your back, sir?”

“Do not try to dissuade me. I know you have been doing something, making some… mischief, vandalizing the market. I have a right to know what goes on in my market.”

Eli grits his teeth. “Nothing has been going on in the market that has not been going on since the market’s inception, sir.”

“This has something to do with your act. Is it those beasts of yours?”

Eli does not respond.

“You have unleashed ghosts on my marketplace, sabotaging the entire game. With that girl and her monsters. For what purpose?” Mr.Marshall demands.

“I cannot say,” Eli replies, meeting Mr.Marshall’s gaze steadily.

“Why would you keep it a secret? Deception will do nothing for you at this point,” Mr.Marshall snaps.

“I cannot tell you, because I do not know the purpose of our game, myself. I am little more than a puppet in this affair. And how very apt you are to call them ghosts and monsters, as though you did not condone the raising of ghosts and monsters everyday for entertainment. They have plagued the market since opening night, as constant as all. And I cannot be dismissed. I must remain here and conclude my game.”

“And who else is playing this game? Is it the Fairchild siblings? Or that monster-girl? Miss Morgenstern?”

Again, Eli says nothing.

Mr.Marshall moves around the desk, clutching at its edge as he wavers on his feet. He stands as tall as he can while he addresses Eli.

“You can leave, now,” Mr.Marshall says, his voice rising. “And you can take that harlot of yours with you.”

The doors slam shut of their own volition, rattling on their hinges. Several crystals hanging from the chandelier shatter into dust. Eli glares at Mr.Marshall with darkened eyes.

“Do not ever, ever, call her that again,” he says.

Eli steps closer to the desk and to Mr.Marshall. “This game will conclude, and I am being kind enough to try not to let the market conclude with it. You will continue with your management and fancy dinners as you always have. You will.”

Mr.Marshall can barely stammer a response. His tongue feels heavy and his mind is foggy as he tries to formulate words.

As he stutters, Eli reaches for the locket on the desk and slips it into his pocket. He pours a glass of brandy from the decanter on the desk, which is splattered with ink, and presses it into Mr.Marshall’s hand.

“Have a drink, sir. To settle your nerves,” Eli says, as he wipes his inky fingers on his black vest.

Mr.Marshall nods, looking confusedly between the glass and Eli.

Eli pats the pocket of his coat once more, before turning and departing the room.

Mr.Marshall raises his glass to his lips once, then hesitates. He sets it down and looks at the desk, eyes flickering back and forth across its surface as though searching for something.

“She was here,” he says, to himself.

Text by Lucie MacAulay

On The Verge Of A Verdict

It is some time after the incident that Bethany has enough time to contact her former instructor. It is more difficult than she first thought, as she has not seen him in months, and has never had the need – or desire – to call him to her. There has been no opportunity to see him in quite a while. He has left no indication of where he is, and in his absence, there is no sign that he will come back.

She considers writing him, but surmises that his address has likely changed (if it was ever accurate at all). She does not know where he is, so she summons him to the market.

In the daytime, when the market is no more than a series of erect and slightly colourful stalls, Bethany removes from her suitcase a piece of handkerchief, frayed with age, and lights a candle. She holds the cloth over the candle until it catches light, then sets it aside, watching it burn without charring.

She is watching it so intently that she does not notice immediately when her former instructor appears behind her.

“Don’t do that,” he says.

She reaches toward the fire and places her hand gently over it. Smoke snakes in the space between her fingers. When she removes her hand, the handkerchief sits in one piece, not even hot to touch.

Bethany turns to face her instructor.

“What is it that you want?” Her instructor asks.

“Why can I not touch him?” Bethany demands.

“Because we made it so,” says the vested man, simply.

“Why? What am I being punished for?”

“You are not being punished. It is more of a precaution and a barrier, of sorts,” her instructor says.

Bethany’s hands tighten. “What does that mean?”

“To prevent your… unfortunate attachment to him from deepening.”

“This game has nothing to do with him. I can focus on the game completely with any interference. Isn’t that why you put us here? To deal with the other market-folk? To see how we deal with that?” Bethany says.

“You know nothing about the conception of the game. Do not assume otherwise,” Her former instructor says.

“Undo it,” she says.

“No.”

“Why not? It has no effect other than holding us physically apart.”

Bethany waits, scowling at him, and briefly recalls being in this same position when she was young. A little girl in lace and ribbons, scowling at the man who rescued her from the museum.

“You two are not students/no longer students. You are competitors. You are on the opposite sides of a scale. You do not touch. No matter which way the scale tips, or if you are equal, you remain separate. Do not attach yourself to that gutter rat.”

“Gutter rat? You found me in the basement of a museum,” she says, struggling to keep her anger in check.

“And I trained you to be one of the finest competitors this, or any, game has ever had,” he says. “Do no throw it all away on some boy you hardly know. If you do, you throw away everything.”

Bethany clenches her fists at her sides. The scarfs and textiles around them ripple in a slight breeze, blazing with colour. “What do you mean?”

Her instructor smiles, though it is not, Bethany realizes, an expression of genuine happiness. “The loser of the game forsakes all ability to resurrect. You will not raise anything, ever again.”

For a moment, Bethany cannot speak. Her throat aches as though it is suddenly full of glass.

“That is the verdict?” she whispers. The decision is more terrible than she had imagined.

“I let you have your little tryst with Mr.Marchand,” her instructor continues. “But you can rid yourself of any delusions of love toward that boy. Remember, you purpose is to beat him.”

“You have never been so adamant about isolating myself from anyone before,” Bethany says. “Why now?”

“I have never truly believed you were in a position to loose.”

He starts to leave, then pauses. “Do not call on me again.”

He turns and walks down the avenue, slipping into a shadow and disappearing.

The handkerchief on the table begins to crumble into ash, the wind sweeping it away into nothingness.

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Art by Karol Bak

Angels Falling, Burning

There is a tale that says that all the world's blood that flows, from battles and wars and murder, converges in one place. A namless place. An ancient place. The battlefield where, once, the angels fought. Their blood, golden and rich and beautiful, posioned the ground. Scorched the earth, so it is burnt black as a lightless day.

Gabriel's punishment was merciless. The angels are unkind. Their beauty is harsh, their law is harsher. The angel looked into the faces of the Nephilim, the sons of the angels and mankind, and saw rot. Saw the sins of the fallen angels, which would be forever forgiven because of their beauty. He saw prey.

Golden as sunlight.

Black as sin.

Art by Silvia C. Text by Lucie MacAulay

Opening Night Part I: Games

The boy anticipated that he would disappoint his instructor, and himself. He feels almost like a novitiate to some Arcanum of syllabary, as he takes up position by the table and his black notebook, open to the night sky, and the birdcage with the dead dove at the bottom.

His first performance, Eli finds himself watching the crowd’s every reaction, and focusing on the dove more than he needs to. He soon concentrates more on the audience than the raisings.

There is a pattern in the reactions of the audience, revulsion at the dead animal, or its death, confusion, curiousity, and a mixture of horror, disbelief, and wonder when it blinks and breaths and meets their eyes with its own.

But some audiences react more strongly, some are less impressed, some do not beliebe in it and only clap politely as they would for a common street magician. Eli finds their reactions influence his performance, indicating when he should make a flourish, or how long a dramatic pause should be.

Now he finishes his performance and bows lowly as the crowd disperses.

Mr.Marshall informed the company only the day before that the game would commence at midnight precisely. Eli’s performances are scheduled such that his performance nearest to midnight ends five minutes prior. Now, faced with only a few minutes until the beginning of a game he does not know how to play, he feels unsure. His hands shake slightly as he opens his cage and gently puts the dove inside, next to the dove from his interview with Mr.Marshall.

When he is not performing, Eli’s supplies and resurrection paraphernalia is kept in a small tent erected in the shadow between two stalls. It takes only a minute to move his table, his cage, his leather bound book, into the tent, and when he is finished, he stands in the concourse, glancing around at the vendors, each keeping an eye on some timepiece, eyes/gazes flickering to clocks or pocket watches as the hands tick closer to midnight.

“Are you looking for a place to start?” a lady from one of the stalls across the avenue calls to him. Eli startles. He walks closer to her and replies, “I’m not sure how to start.”

“You have to find a starting point. Mr.Marshall has set up hundreds by now,” she says, then pauses. She eyes Eli with an almost amused expression. “This is your first time playing a game like this, isn’t it?”

Eli blinks at her a few times before nodding his head.

“You can start with us,” she offers. “We’ll help you.”

A man, younger than Eli, though the same age as the girl, he guesses, appears from behind the stall.

“I am Alice Fairchild,” the young lady says, holding out a hand covered in a white lace glove. “And this is Michael.”

“Elidor Kells,” Eli says, taking the hand and shaking it. He shakes Michael’s hand too, though the young man takes it reluctantly, and releases his grip shyly. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Fairchild, and Mr.Fairchild.

“I forbid you to call me Miss Fairchild. In fact, refer to neither of us by our surnames. Please, call me Alice,” she says.

Eli hesitates, then nods. “If you will call me Eli.” He pauses and glances at the other stalls, where vendors are glancing at their wrist and pocket watches. “How do we start?”

“We’ll help you,” Alice says again, and grasps his hand. Eli almost steps back in surprise, as Michael comes to stand on Alice’s other side.

“Don’t worry,” Michael says, quietly.

Before Eli can ask why he would worry, and if he should, something begins to happen.

Elements of the market are slipping away. Becoming softer and paler. They appear like ghost images layered overtop on another. They fade until everything is transparent.

When Eli puts his hand up to touch the tender crinkling paper of a swaying lantern, he feels only a slight resistant, like pushing against wind. There is the merest hint of heat as his fingers pass through it.

Then his hand falls away as Eli is overtaken by a sudden wave of dizziness that feels as though he has been thrown, but instead of landing on firm ground continues to fall through the open air.

The world around him shifts between light and darkness, never settling. Dots of colour dance across his vision.

Eli feels lighter, weightless, as he stands. And still slightly dizzy.

Beside him, Alice and Michael are already standing, though they seem disoriented too. Alice turns to him, watching him with concern as he dusts off the knees of his trousers. “Are you alright? The first time is always bothersome.”

Eli nods, slowly. He blinks. “What happened?” he asks, when he finally notices that they are in the market, but it has changed significantly.

Everything in the market is pale, save for themselves. Alice and Michael appear particularly vibrant in comparison, with their bright eyes and colourful outfits. They are the only substantial things.

“Think of it as a diluted state. You’ve been diffused. You’re less concentrated, like wine poured into a jug of water. Only, instead of the jug, it’s a market,” Michael says.

“You’re on another layer of the market,” Alice says, trying to clarify it to Eli.

“But we’re still in the market?” Eli says, as he focuses on the sensations around him. He has the impression that he is not within the market, but overlapping it.

“Of course. Where else would the game take place?” Alice says, laughing.

Michael smiles at the expression on Eli’s face. “This is what we use the starting point for,” he says.

Alice turns to Eli as she smoothes her skirts. “Supposedly, people used to be able to dilute themselves without a starting point. Now you have to find a spot to…”

“To step from one layer of a place to another,” Michael finishes for her.

As his vision/sight sharpens and focuses, Eli realizes that he and the Fairchild siblings are not alone. Other members of the market company are just as vibrant, and they are walking among their transparent surroundings with a purpose.

They pass through stalls as though passing through water, moving from avenue to avenue without the need for turns or intersections. Eli can see someone dressed in bright scarlet from six avenues away, appearing like a red dot in mist.

“You’ll get used to it,” Alice reassures him, looking at his discombobulated expression. “And you’ll be able to dilute yourself on your own.”

“So long as you are in the market,” Michael appends.

“But we should really start looking,” Alice remarks.

Michael hesitates before saying, “If you would like to start this game with us-“

“Oh, yes. Please do. Games are always much more fun with company,” Alice says.

Eli glances around, unsure even where to begin looking. “Yes. That sounds great.”

As they begin to traverse the pathways of the market, Eli learns more about his companions and their roles in the market.

The Fairchild siblings, while adopted, look deceptively similar. Both have the same fine cheekbones and pale complexions, and the set of the mouth that makes them look mischievous and childlike, though one of them is more reserved in person, and his eyes are often solemn compared to his foster sister’s. Alice is more outgoing and capricious than her brother, but Michael is perceptive and thoughtful. While she is the more imaginative of the two, and thinks up most of their endeavors, Michael is pragmatic about details, and catches his foster sister’s oversights when they occur. Together, they compliment each other well, and those that do not know them well enough would swear that they are brother and sister.

They have many talents, but the majority of their skill lies in the design of miniature buildings, which they carve from all manner of materials, and sell when the market opens. Alice draws out their concepts, sketches of balconies and doors and ornate stairs, and Michael calculates measurements and angles. The results are ornate and painstakingly detailed palaces and mansions no bigger than a shoebox.

Their current project involves carving a palace from ice, with turrets to hold small flames. Alice insists the fire is essential for that aesthetic quality, but they have only succeeded so far in one tower out of many staying solid in the presence of their body heat, let alone a small flame.

Alice walks beside Eli, speaking for most of their journey. After a time, Eli feels perhaps they are talking and walking more than they are actually searching. The Fairchild siblings appear to be paying more attention to him than the game.

“I’ve heard that his is the first game he’s held,” Alice whispers conspiratorially as she leans in.

“The first game?” Eli repeats.

“I know,” she says, eyes glittering as Michael nods gravely. “I’m not sure how he’s going to do it. It’ll be very difficult to manage something so big. For a first time. But,” she lowers her voice further. “I’ve also heard he hosts wonderful parties.”

“I did not know people played games like this,” Eli says, ducking his head in embarrassment. “I knew nothing of other sorts of manipulations and… magics, before I came here. I did not know others could do what I have been taught in secret.”

Alice looks at him in surprise, and Michael offers a small smile of sympathy.

“Where did you learn it all?” Eli asks.

“Our instructor taught us, of course,” Alice says.

“You were taught, too?”

“Everyone here was tutored,” Alice continues. “Our teacher once mentioned that students weren’t always privately tutored. They learned in schools. Large universities or academies hidden from the rest of the world-“ Michael begins, before his sister cuts him off.

“It isn’t hard to hide things from the rest of the world. They don’t look very hard,” Alice remarks.

“-and the only students in the academies who were tutored were the special ones. The gifted ones. But those ended a long time ago. The last academy was in Vienna, before it fell,” he says.

Eli is silent, pondering the existence of an entire community of others who were perhaps trained like him. He wonders why, with brief annoyance, his instructor did not mention it.

“You get to perform in the middle of the concourse. Mr.Marshall must think you’re very special. It’s quite a privilege,” Alice says, suddenly.

“I’m… sorry?” Eli says.

“Don’t be,” Michael says as Alice waves his apology away.

“I don’t care, so long as the game is played fair,” Alice says.

Text by Lucie MacAulay