A story involving my family has grown tentacles over the years that have choked out many truths about us. “A blessed miracle that she’s alive,” I’ve heard some people say as they pass by my house. “I can’t believe that the prey bested the hunter. God must be strong with that family,” the religious fanatics
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There once was a farmer named Michael Anderson — a tall, strong and winsome man. He was married to a beautiful woman named Ashley. She was comely and kind. She wore her hair down to her waist — so long that it swayed in the breeze. She bore two sons, and at nine and seven springs old, they were good boys,
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It is remarkable how like a syringe a spindle can be. That explains the attraction, of course. A certain kind of sixteen-year-old girl just cannot say no to this sort of thing, and I was just that measure of girl, the one who looks down on the star-caught point of a midnight needle, sticking awkwardly up into the air like
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I. The Invitation I am beautiful. I am tall and willowy, with the almond eyes of my people set like topazes in my flawless, heart shaped face. My skin is smooth and creamy with the faintest flush of peaches along my cheeks. My hair is the color of autumn leaves. My lips curve like Cupid’s bow and
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Fire makes its own kind of music. My toes start to tingle as the strains of a nearby waltz mix with the crackle of the flames. Warmth. Music. Joy. I’ve known them all. Indeed, I’ve known many pleasures, though I’ve never felt the quickening of conception. I’ve seen sweet loving under soft, thick quilts drain the
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Hear and Listen! O, most gracious and exalted sovereign, honored visitors from lands afar, ennobled company all. Hear and listen, I again beseech you, for I have returned most recently from a journey to the distant east, to the shores of Itl where the people live not upon the land as you and I, but within cities that
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All along the river’s been mostly redeveloped now, but the city kids, those without company car parking spaces at least, still have to get from shiny point A to shiny point B. Most going eastwards take the Docklands Light Railway. And those pensioners — near-forgotten survivors from the blitz, the summer of love, the silver jubilee and Thatcher’s
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The child dangles grey in the doctor’s hand. No movement, no cry. It comes to this. Seven months she has waited, telling secret stories to the little fish swimming in her ocean, staring at night over the mound of her own flesh and whispering, “I’m waiting,” feeling that momentary answering caress within. She built for
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“These bewitching poems and stories, always sensuous, sometimes sad, unwind a fevered world of magic and longing and young women who chance the uncanny and gain wisdom beyond their years.”
–Mike Allen, editor of Mythic Delirium
“The Winter Triptych is a gorgeous labyrinth of words, a vivid dream-world of ghosts, ruined towers, mad queens, and revenge biding its time. Its language is as rich as plum-cake, but it presents the reader with a challenge as well, parts that fit together like puzzle-pieces to form a story familiar and yet not, darker and stranger than the fairytale we remember.”
–-Theodora Goss, author of In the Forest of Forgetting
“Stunningly delicious! Cruel, beautiful and irresistible are C.S.E. Cooney’s characters and prose. Just when you thought fantasy had devolved into endless repetition, Jack o’ the Hills blows us all over the next hill and into the kingdom beyond. C.S.E. Cooney is a rare and exciting new talent. Whatever she offers us next, I’ll waiting in line to read.”
– Ellen Kushner, author of Thomas the Rhymer