Once Upon a Time: New Fairy Tales Paperback

Lifting the Distinguished Service Cross from its nest, she weighed it on her palm.

“Ma’am?” Watson put her hand on Margaret’s arm. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to give it back to him,” Margaret said. Cocking back her arm, she threw it. It flew in a high arc over the lake, glittering like a meteor in the sun until it disappeared into the waves.

??

Visit Cinda Williams Chima online at cindachima.com; follow her on Facebook (www.facebook.com/CindaWilliamsChima) or on Twitter @cindachima. She also blogs intermittently at cindachima.

blogspot.com.

For more information on folkloric monsters, including those specific to the Lake Erie/Great Lakes region, Chima suggests: The Storm Hag of Lake Erie:

? americanfolklore.net/folklore/2010/07/the_storm_hag.html ? www.examiner.com/article/the-lake-erie-storm-hag-demonic-siren-of-the-great-lakes The Wraith of the Creek:

? americanfolklore.net/folklore/2011/08/wraith_in_the_creek.html The Nain Rouge (Red Dwarf of Detroit): ? www.unknown-creatures.com/nain-rouge.html

The Black Dog of Lake Erie:

? thecabinet.com/darkdestinations/location.php?sub_id=dark_

destinations&location_id=lake_erie

??

? 116 ?



?

My favorite fairy tales are the terrifying ones. I first read Grimms’

Fairy Tales at the age of five; no adult seemed to realize how many nightmares were in that book. I loved “Bluebeard” more than anything else, particularly the moment when Bluebeard’s bride drops the key in the blood. Such a simple accident, yet with great repercussions.

I based my story, in part, on the Russian fairy tale “Sivka Burka.”

(You can find a version here: www.artrusse.ca/fairytales/sivka-burka.

htm.) This is the premise: The father became ill, and he ordered his sons: “When I am dead, bring me bread to my grave three nights in succession.” Horrifying! I tried to imagine what sort of a man would demand such a thing, and what sort of bread would be best for a dead man.

Kaaron Warren

?

? 119 ?





Born and Bread


?





Kaaron Warren


There was once a baby born so ugly her father packed his bags in fury when he saw her.

“Who did you lie with, the baker or his dough?” he called over his shoulder as he left. Already he was planning to surprise his girlfriend who always smiled when she saw him and asked for nothing.

“Only you!” the mother called back. She held her baby in a soft brown blanket, though she had to lean against the wall for support.

The baby was as heavy as a calf and the size of the award-winning pumpkin at the fair five years earlier, a pumpkin that had never been matched before or since. Yet the baby had slid out sweetly, like dough through a piping bag.

And yes, she was pale, pasty, and fleshy.

“Don’t leave her in the sun,” Mrs. Crouch, the cruelest woman in the village said. “Or you’ll have a loaf of bread for a daughter.” (In her defense, her husband spat brown juice wherever he stood, beat her with a stick when he felt so inclined, terrified the children with ghost tales, and never, ever spent a dollar when a cent would do.) Still, the mother loved the daughter very much, especially once she learned how to laugh. Chuckles bubbled out of her like the froth in fermenting yeast, and anybody close by couldn’t help but join in.

She was so gentle and sweet they called her Doe, and that suited the way she had grown to look as well, like well-risen dough waiting to be baked into bread or sweet rolls.

? 121 ?

? Born and Bread ?

Children loved to make her laugh, because her whole body quivered with it and it was beautiful to watch.