Knots and Intent

She twined the ribbons together around her fingers, weaving more knots that she intended. She scowled, then sighed, and set the knots down in her lap.
She was curled up in a white armchair with its back to the lightless window. Her father stood at the other end of the room, hunched over a desk, reading over the string of symbols in black ink that had been her morning work. There were pages of them that, to the untrained eye, looked like scribbles and pictures made out of boredom, but made up black waves on the ivory rice paper, shapes that crested here with the curve of an ankh, there with the line of a choku rei.
"Don't stop," he muttered to her, flipping the page where the symbols became neater, the ink blots fewer.
"Why? It isn't doing anything," she said, pulling one knot out and trailing the smoky grey ribbon of the arm of the chair.
"It is simple, not ineffective. Knots and intent. It is the most basic of charms." He glanced up at her, eyes large and dark in the dim light. "Why do we learn the basic charms first?"
She touched her thumb to a loose black thread that wove itself back into the ribbon. "Because to improve we must build upon what we know. Complexity comes from simplicity," she recited.
"Good," he returned to the book in front of him and flipped to the last page of symbols. "There will do." She thought for a moment he might bestow a smile on her but closed the book abruptly and strode to the door. "Keep practicing," he called without looking back. The door closed heavily behind him.
She sat still in the chair, eyes on the door. The light slowly bled from the room until it was a nest of shadows. She turned her attention to the black leather bound volume on the desk. The cover sprang open, pages flying past until they tore front the bindind, uneven edges became feathers, corners became talons and dozens of white rice and ink black birds flew to the cieling in a rustle of crinkled paper. They nested on the beams as she took up her ribbons and began to knot.

Art by Helen Musselwhite


Text by Lucie MacAulay

Cirque Conversations III

"There will always be fairy tales, and despite how much they are changed, there will always be sides. There is black and white, frost and fire, the sun and the moon, light and shadow. People believe these forces are conflicting, they do not see beyond the differences. These forces work together. Do you believe there can be light without shadow? It takes nightmares to make dreams. Do not forget that."

Art by Rob Tarbell

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Cirque Conversations II

He passed a hand over the tea cup and steam stopped curling from it. When he pulled his hand back there was a thin layer of ice on the surface, cracking against the edge of the china.
"Dreams wane, as one gets older."

Art by Rob Tarbell

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Cirque Conversations I

"They'll search for smoke and mirror and wires where there are none. They'll search until they've pulled the circus apart."

"You can't know that, they may appreciate the mystery. Many prefer to remain unenlightened."

"Most will prefer not to be kept in the dark."

Art by Rob Tarbell

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Prices

I am bound to the ashes that once was my beloved.
Flakes of silver that stand like gravestones in the grass.

Art by Kirsty Mitchell, 'My Darkest Dreaming'


Text by Lucie MacAulay

Permanent Residence

We found purgatory. All this time is was at the corner of Stratford Villas and Murray Street, just across from the London Irish Theatre.
Purgatory was a place for lost things; socks and gloves without pairs, skeleton keys, china dolls with cracked faces, a cat. Purgatory was the echo of a city, no specific city, for it had the cramped houses of Perugia in Italy, the astronomical clocktower of Prague, the mosaic fountain of the Park Guell in Barcelona. All covered in a fine layer of dust. There was a small cafe tucked in a corner, with fresh flowers and dark jewel coloured walls. I sat down for a glass of wine. It was a particularly pleasing red and I noted the vintage for future dinner parties or quiet nights at home. It was much more of an oasis than I had ever found in London.
There is a to-do list in Purgatory, I glanced at it on my way out. It was scrubbled on a scrap of paper, illegible chicken scratch. The paper was pinned to the front of a young girl in a lace frock who looked too pristine for the weather beaten cobblestones and cracked streetlamps around her.
It read:


1. All missing children are confined to P. House.


2. All lost senses are to be kept in the P. Archives, they shall not be distributed to those in need of sight, smell, common sense, etc.


3. No person, pets, dreams, languages, belongings or places may be removed fromthe grounds of Purgatory. Residence is permanent. 

At the top of the note, stamped in black typset letter were the date and the words: No Exceptions Made.
The little girl watched wearily as I pushed against the heavy oak door and cursed when it would not budge. I kicked and clawed, raking gouges in the elaborate woodland carvings. When I had worn myself out, reasoned in my head this was a nightmare and I would wake slumped over my desk next to an empty bottle of brandy, and pushed down the feelings of dread in my stomach, she showed me to my new house.

Art by Chloe North


Text by Lucie MacAulay

Earth Dance Part I

The earth is a dance. A story that circles on and on; the snake with its tail in its mouth. The dance never stops as the story weaves on in the same pattern. Fairy tale strands woven in history decide the steps, the steps of spangled silk slippers on a polished ballroom floor, the steps of worn leather sandals over gnarled roots and wet leaves, and the steps of heavy boots on a cold stone tomb. The steps lead a dance, the dance tells the story and is woven back into the circle of life.

This is a tale of sisters who chanced upon a dance as ancient as the ruins that surround it. The dance began as a treat, a gift for a maiden too impatient to wait.            

Dark rain blurred the lands beyond the forest; Elise heard it pounding on the black soil. Her own shoes were covered in earth, mud caked the thread sewn in the leather straps. She shivered at the thought of one of her sisters’ waking up and finding her empty bed, if it was poor tender Alice who slept so lightly and discovered Elise’s absence… Elise could see a river of salt flowing from her wide blue eyes.

It wouldn’t be Elise’s birthday for another week but she could not wait to go to the ruins, despite the surprise her sisters had wanted it to be. So Elise had woken and dressed beneath her sheets, slipped on her cloak and tiptoed through the passages of the castle. It had not been easy and she’d had a hard time being silent but not even Alice stirred when she stepped into the shadows behind the wall.

Now she carried on, barely able to contain both her excitement and her fear. Her dress was splattered and her lantern flickered weakly but ahead she could see the silver trees that bordered the ruins. As she approached, a chill gripped her. Something wasn’t right, her footsteps faltered and she paused in the darkness. The ruins were different now; a ghostly light came from them, brightening her path and the trees. It wasn’t the light that frightened her so; it was the music. It was high and haunting and made pitch-black flowers bloom behind her eyelids. The closer Elise came to the light the more aware she became of shadows dancing to the music. They were shaped like men but longer than ordinary shadows and thinner, and the air of nightmares clung to them.

Elise was hesitant. For the first time she considered she was wrong. This was meant to be a birthday present; that she and her sisters travel to the ruins together. As she built up this excuse she knew it was not her reason for stopping. The shadows were too dark and Elise did not want to meet whatever creatures cast them.

Here is where the dance pushed her onward, as many before her had done. Here is where the steps of sandals on the earth change to slipped in a ballroom. The music was like a siren call. There was no beat but it pulsed in her veins, heating her blood, creeping fire up her wrists and throat. Entranced, her heart beating in her ears, breath escaping in shallow gasps, Elise continued onward until she was close enough that the golden light burned in her amber eyes. The trees that had been silver were now vibrant and gold, casting wavering and dappled shadows over the weather beaten stones of the ruins.

With a courage Elise felt did not belong to her she placed her hands around the crumbling wall. Not breathing, every muscle tensed, her feet planted and legs stiff so as not to rustle silk on the earthen ground, she peered around the wall. The snake bit its tail. 

Art by Dan Simonjova

Text by Lucie MacAulay