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    Fairy Tale Review: The Blue Issue #1
    Fairy Tale Review: The Blue Issue #1
    Fairy Tale Review: The Blue Issue #1
    Ebook133 pages2 hours

    Fairy Tale Review: The Blue Issue #1

    By Kate Bernheimer

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    About this ebook

    The Blue Issue is the inaugural issue of Fairy Tale Review. Swiss scholar Max Luthi wrote about fairy tales as literary examples of abstract art. The strange quality that Luthi identifies as “firm form” is sparse, flat and depthless as it is wild, weightless and bright. The writing selected for the debut issue of Fairy Tale Review reflects this quality in a multitude of ways. The work in here is not beholden to any particular school of writing. Rather, each contribution uniquely dovetails with the aesthetics and motifs of fairy tales.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWayne State University Press
    Release dateJun 2, 2015
    ISBN9780814341704
    Fairy Tale Review: The Blue Issue #1
    Author

    Kate Bernheimer

    Kate Bernheimer has been called “one of the living masters of the fairy tale” (Tin House). She is the author of a novel trilogy and the story collections Horse, Flower, Bird and How a Mother Weaned Her Girl from Fairy Tales, and the editor of four anthologies, including the World Fantasy Award winning and bestselling My Mother She Killed Me, My Father He Ate Me: Forty New Fairy Tales and xo Orpheus: 50 New Myths. She is an Associate Professor of English at the University of Arizona in Tucson, where she teaches fairy tales and creative writing.

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      Book preview

      Fairy Tale Review - Kate Bernheimer

      This Book Belongs To:

      FAIRY TALE REVIEW

      The Blue Issue

      EDITOR

      Kate Bernheimer

      ADVISORY BOARD

      Maria Tatar, Harvard University

      Marina Warner, University of Essex

      Jack Zipes, University of Minnesota

      COVER ART

      Born by Kiki Smith

      DESIGNER

      J. Johnson

      FAIRY TALE REVIEW

      www.fairytalereview.com

      Electronic edition © 2015 by Wayne State University Press, Detroit, Michigan 48201. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without formal permission. Manufactured in the United States of America. Originally © 2005 by Fairy Tale Review Press.

      The Blue Issue (2005) 978-0-8143-4170-4

      FAIRY TALE REVIEW is devoted to contemporary literary fairy tales and hopes to provide an elegant and innovative venue for writers working with the aesthetics and motifs of fairy tales. How can fairy tales help us to go where it is we are going, like Jean Cocteau’s magical horse? We hope to discover. Please know that Fairy Tale Review is not devoted to any particular school of writing, but rather to original work that in its very own way is imbued with fairy tales.

      Child of the pure, unclouded brow

      And dreaming eyes of wonder!

      Though time be fleet and I and thou

      Are half a life asunder,

      Thy loving smile will surely hail

      The love-gift of a fairy tale.

      —Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass

      FAIRY TALE REVIEW

      The Blue Issue

      ANNOTATED TABLE OF CONTENTS

      KIM ADDONIZIO

      Ever After

      The loft where the dwarves lived had a view of the city and hardwood floors and skylights, but it was overpriced, and too small now that there were seven of them. It was a fifth-floor walkup, one soaring, track-lighted room. At the far end was the platform where Doc, Sneezy, Sleepy, and Bashful slept side by side on futons.

      JOSHUA BECKMAN & MATTHEW ROHRER

      Four Stories

      Gravediggers held her while her brother bludgeoned the elfin child in the boathouse. When darkness is justice’s only way of responding, then we’ve clearly lost. This child I buried was delivered of a saddened countrywoman, just nineteen.

      AIMEE BENDER

      Appleless

      I once knew a girl who wouldn’t eat apples. She wove her walking around groves and orchards. She didn’t even like to look at them. They’re all mealy, she said. Or else too cheeky, too bloomed.

      MARY CAPONEGRO

      Carrion Comfort

      She wore a white dress. He broke a glass with his foot. There were symbols everywhere. There was feasting and dancing. They capitulated to tradition: took a trip, bought a house, set up its keeping.

      JULIE CHOFFEL

      Rapenzelus Goldilocksii

      She said she liked hair.

      It’s how she found in him a shelter. Small from far away

      and big up close.

      MONICA FAMBROUGH

      Girls Will Be Girl Scouts

      White girl, we raided your locker and got your paper peonies

      And your panties the color of a skylight on a cloudy day.

      SARAH HANNAH

      Two Poems

      A pregnant woman can’t afford to laugh off

      Superstition. March, she pads cautiously along the river.

      She is startled by the sudden pronouncements

      Of crocuses, a hand of them lighting all at once.

      BRENT HENDRICKS

      Hansel

      He decided to do it anyway—walked out the door

      and dropped his first memory at the driveway’s edge.

      NORMAN LOCK

      13 Tales

      Each morning when he woke, he found that his papers had been worked on during the night. His affairs were being put in order—no matter how he tried to resist it, this settling of accounts.

      STACEY RICHTER

      A Case Study of Emergency Room Procedure and Risk-Management by Hospital Staff Members in the Urban Facility

      Subject 525, a Caucasian female in her early to mid-twenties, entered an emergency medical facility at around 11 p.m. presenting symptoms of an acute psychotic episode. Paranoia, heightened sensitivity to physical contact, and high volume vocal emanations were noted at triage by the medical staff. The subject complained of the hearing of voices, specifically a chorus of amphibians who were entreating the subject to pretty please guard the product from the evil frog prince.

      MARJORIE SANDOR

      The White Cat

      In the stories you liked best as a child, my love, there was always a terrible repetition of tests. The hero, in order to win a wife and make his fortune, set out full of confidence to retrieve some object not even precious to himself.

      KIKI SMITH

      Six Prints

      DONNA TARTT

      From Barrie to Stevenson

      My great grandmother was born in Mississippi, in 1890, and lived in Mississippi for the whole of her long life. But her own grandparents, who died long before I was born, were Scottish, and vestiges of this Scottishness still survived in her nursery talk.

      SARA VEGLAHN

      Two Poems

      I was this once:

      a sparrow refusing supper

      my small fevers making small steam

      A little engine

      flying up

      MARINA WARNER

      Rapture

      Picture this: a field of flowers . . . No, picture this: a meadow in spring, with young girls in flower . . . Better still: spring, a flowery meadow, young girls gathering flowers, pulling petals one by one, chanting, ‘He loves me, he loves me not.’

      KATE BERNHEIMER, FRANCINE PROSE, KIKI SMITH, WENDY WEITMAN & JACK ZIPES

      Transcript of the Panel Discussion from Retelling Little Red et al: Fairy Tales in Art & Literature Gramercy Theatre, NYC

      KATE BERNHEIMER

      Editor’s Note

      Contributor’s Notes

      KIM ADDONIZIO

      Ever After

      The loft where the dwarves lived had a view of the city and hardwood floors and skylights, but it was overpriced, and too small now that there were seven of them. It was a fifth-floor walkup, one soaring, track-lighted room. At the far end was the platform where Doc, Sneezy, Sleepy, and Bashful slept side by side on futons. Beneath them, Happy and Dopey shared a double bed. Grumpy, who pretty much stayed to himself, kept his nylon sleeping bag in a corner during the day and unrolled it at night on the floor between the couch and the coffee table. The kitchen was two facing zinc counters, a built-in range and microwave, and a steel refrigerator, all hidden behind a long bamboo partition that Doc had bought and Sneezy had painted a color called Cherry Jubilee. The kitchen and bathroom were the only places any sort of privacy was possible. To make the rent they all pooled their money from their jobs at the restaurant, except for Dopey, who didn’t have a job unless you counted selling drugs when he wasn’t running them up his arm; and Grumpy, who panhandled every day for spare change and never came up with more than a few wrinkled dollar bills when the first of the month rolled around. Sometimes the rest of them talked about kicking out Dopey and Grumpy, but no one quite had the heart. Besides, the Book said there were seven when she arrived, seven disciples of the goddess who would come with the sacred apple and transform them. How, exactly, they would be transformed was a mystery that would be revealed when she got there. In the meantime, it was their job to wait.

      When she comes, she’ll make us big, said Sneezy. He had the comics section of the Sunday paper, and an egg of Silly Putty, and was flattening a doughy oval onto a panel of Calvin and Hobbes.

      Oh, bullshit, said Grumpy. "It’s about inner transformation, man. That’s the whole point. Materialism is a trap. Identifying with your body is a trap. All this shit—Grumpy swept his arm to indicate not just their loft but the tall downtown buildings beyond the windows, and maybe more—is an illusion. Maya. Samsara. He shook out the last Marlboro from a pack, crumpled the pack and tried a hook shot into a wicker wastebasket by the window, but missed. He looked around. Matches? Lighter? Who’s going for more cigs?"

      She will, insisted Sneezy. She’ll make us six feet if we want to be.

      She can’t change genetics, you dope, Grumpy said.

      At the word dope, Dopey’s head jerked up for an instant. He was nodding on the couch at the opposite end from Grumpy, a lit cigarette ready to fall from his hand. The couch had a few burn holes already. One of these days, Doc thought, he’s going to set the fucking place on fire, and then where will we be? How will she ever find us? He got up from the floor, where he’d been doing yoga stretches, and slid the cigarette from Dopey’s stained fingers. He ground it out in an ashtray on the table, in the blue ceramic water of a moat that circled a ceramic castle. From the castle’s tiny windows, a little incense smoke—sandalwood—drifted out.

      She’s not an alien from outer space who’s going to perform weird experiments, Doc said. He hunted through the newspaper for the Food section.

      Where is she from, then? Sneezy said. Sneezy was a sixteen-year-old runaway, the youngest of them. From the sweet credulousness of his expression, you’d never know what terrible things he had endured. He’d been beaten, scarred between his shoulder blades with boiling water, forced into sex with his mother

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