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  THE WEDDING FAIRY By Harriet Darling Art by Richard Mandrachio  First Published on line by Aurora Wolf Dec. 1, 2010 Aurora Wolf Anthology III Print Copyright 2011 Aurora of the Sun   The tiny creature’s sheer veined wings flickered in the arc of sunlight reflected in the mounted hand mirror. She turned from side to side as if to check that her wings sat tidily on her shoulders, while her creamy-white legs dangled below. Her soft, curly silver hair floated about her shoulders as she hovered like a hummingbird at a particularly sweet blossom. Hanging suspended in air, the...

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Fairy Dust Guitar

Fairy Dust Guitar by John Miller Smoke’s lazy haze hangs over the bar and the customers chatting over their drinks. Some patrons actually listen to me play.  It’s a packed gig but sedated,a mellow husk I carve myself into, boring into their brains via their senses.  Just me and my guitar. The pretty woman in the corner is having an affair with the young man holding her hand.  While the married woman is happily in love with the young man, the future is paved with black days and suicide, as her lover slips away eternal one lonely night—two cuts,...

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A Home Invasion

A Home Invasion by Alex F. Fayle Unlike most magic wardrobes, mine just led down to the kitchen, which was great for midnight snacking but not so good when you’re barricaded in your bedroom hiding from a houseful of pixies looking for someone to help. At least the kids were at their father’s and I only had to worry about my stupid sister Marilyn. The pixie home invasion was all her fault, what with her insisting on putting a saucer of milk outside the door before going to bed. “Don’t do that,” I told her. “This isn’t the suburbs...

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When The Shoe Won’t Fit

When the Shoe Won’t Fit By Margaret McGaffey Fisk   Tiptoe pushed the cradle, her stiff overalls rustling with the movement.  Her large, flat foot almost crushed the delicate vines making up the cradle’s form.  “Hush, little one.  I’m here.” She looked down at the cherry red face of her newest charge and frowned.  Tiptoe could feel heat radiating from the infant.  She’d never seen a fairy grow hot before, or turn red.  The warmth pulled her closer, so different from the chill most fairies radiated. Stroking his face, she cooed at the baby and rocked the cradle in time to the sound of her deep, gruff voice. He turned, his eyes still screwed shut, and latched onto her little finger, sucking vigorously. “Oh, you’re hungry.”  Without shifting from her position by the cradle, she reached across the room and grabbed one of the bottles filled with flower juice.  Then, she teased the side of his mouth to get her finger free. The new infant didn’t like that at all.  His body swelled as he drew in a deep breath.  He opened his mouth, releasing such an angry roar that the little house shook. Tiptoe cringed, sure the other fairies would blame her if even one root pulled free.  She jammed the nipple into the baby’s mouth, sighing with relief when he started suckling. The red color subsided from his face...

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These Hands

These Hands by Shaun Ryan   I wait in shadows, head bowed.  Outside, in the sun’s blessed light, the crowd roars its delight as some man or beast meets their end.  Steel clashes against steel, a song that sings in my blood.  My heart quickens as brass trumpets blow a glorious fanfare.  The prince has arrived. My nephew, Galen, who serves as my arms bearer, hands me a ribbon of crimson silk.  He is my brother’s son, orphaned now, my charge. Standing, I whisper a final prayer to my grandfathers and tie the fabric around my brow.  The crowd loves this minor affectation.  It is part of my character, my trademark, but serves a practical purpose as well.  When the heat of battle is upon me, it will prevent the sweat of my efforts from blinding me at the worst moment.  I check my sword belt and scabbard, making certain they are secure.  The battered leather greaves receive the same careful scrutiny, as do my boots.  The sword remains sheathed.  I have no doubt as to the weapon’s state of repair.  It is a part of me, handed down from father to son since the beginnings of my family’s long, bloody history. Far down the dim corridor, a gate crashes open, stout oaken planks meeting ancient stone with force.  The booming echo rolls past on a breath of hot...

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