by R. L. Naquin
“Snow Kissed”
Fairy tales are the truest stories I know. When I was a kid, someone gave me an enormous book of fairy tales. I read most of the stories over and over under the covers with a flashlight when I was supposed to be asleep. “Snow Kissed” is very loosely based on the Hans Christian Anderson story “The Little Match Girl.” Something about the original always struck me as so beautiful and tragic, and it stayed with me my entire life. Not only do I still have that book today, it has an entire shelf of friends to go with it.
Wren flew through the trees with no other destination but away.
She ran blind, and her lungs labored against the assault of frigid air she gasped with each step. Her feet, clad in boots far too large and stuffed with burlap to fill the holes, chuffed through the deep snow, leaving behind a trail even the town drunk could follow.
The cold, the damp, and the signs she left in her wake were nothing to Wren. Her only thought was away.
In another time, another place, Wren might have had fancy dresses to wear. Her hair of sun-lit gold might have spilled down her back in perfect curls held in place by colorful, satin ribbons. She might have had handsome suitors plying her with trinkets and sweets to win her favor.
This was not another time, another place. This was now. This was here.
Wren scavenged or stole whatever scraps of cloth she could find to protect herself from the cruel northern winters. When her body began to change, her hips and breasts beginning to round and soften, the miners took notice. They reached to touch the soft, yellow ringlets, snatching bits of sunshine to keep them warm through the brutal winter. Wren retaliated with a sharp knife, hacking and sawing until nothing remained but a head of hay stubble, far too short for even the cheeriest of bows to brighten.
Despite her self-mutilation, she could still have her choice of suitors—if she didn’t mind the coal-smudged fingers of men more than twice her age. There were no trinkets or sweets to be had, but they were quite willing to ply her with lumps of fool’s gold and beads strung together on deer sinew.
Wren broke through the trees at the edge of the lake and could go no farther. She leaned against a tree to catch her breath, and the cold bit her ears and cheeks. The scrawny woolen coat she wore gave little warmth, but she drew it closer around her thin shoulders.
Her lungs ached with the effort of trying to warm the air wheezing in and out of her chest. She slid to the base of the tree and huddled there, gazing across the frozen lake.
She’d have to go back soon. There was no food or shelter within twenty miles of the small mining town she’d fled. Eventually, she’d have to trudge back to the tiny room behind the bar where she slept. Back to the grasping hands, the careless kicks, the hopeless future. Back to the unfinished beating Stavros was waiting to give her.
It would be dark in a few hours, and they’d come search for her if she didn’t wander in on her own. All it would take for Stavros to remember she was gone was a single spilled mug with no one there to answer his command to mop it up. The men living in Buehler’s Pass were clumsy. It wouldn’t take long.
Wren’s bleak passivity settled heavy on her shoulders. She squinted at the lake, her vision smudged with unshed tears. In the chill, her eyes were reluctant to give up the liquid warmth that would surely freeze the minute it was released.
Through her blurry eyes, the lake seemed to swirl and undulate, though Wren knew that wasn’t possible. It was frozen solid this time of year. There were no waves or currents.
She blinked away her tears, enduring icicles on her face in exchange for a clearer look. The lake still rippled as if teased by unseen creatures beneath its solid depths. She crept forward on hands and knees.
The wind picked up, and mist, a mixture of condensation and dusted snow, drifted across the ice. Wren drew closer to the edge as the drifts twirled and danced in puffy clouds and shapeless faces. The formless figures gathered and became denser, then turned to ice crystals, spinning about each other in the air. When the mist and snow were gone, all that remained were shimmering, icy fish.
They swam above the lake, drifting with the air currents, nudging and jostling, darting from one side to the other. The setting sun shot through their crystal bodies, sprinkling prisms across the clearing.
Wren gasped and clapped her hands with joy. She had never imagined anything so lovely.
One tiny creature, no bigger than Wren’s index finger, broke away from the rest and swam toward her. It hesitated at the edge of the lake, then fluttered its fins and crossed into the clearing, where it hovered inches from Wren’s nose.
Wren held her breath. From this close, she could see every crystal scale in detail, each gill-fold a dark slash through the clear body.
The fish regarded her with golden eyes, then pushed forward to nudge first one cheek and then the other. Warmth spread from her melting tears across her face and thawed her frostbitten ears. Heat swelled and moved through her, down her arms and legs to her stiff fingers and toes.
For a moment, there was darkness. Then the light returned.
Wren found herself in a small cabin with a crackling fire. No longer was she huddled in a drift of snow. She sat cross-legged on a rug of woven cloth scraps, her gingham dress billowing around her like a fabric cloud. A harmonica played, and she looked up to find her Papa dancing around the small room. He wasn’t sad like he had been before he died.
She craned her neck to watch him and realized the rocking chair next to her was occupied. Wren sat at Mama’s feet, while Mama darned socks and bounced her head to the music Papa made. Mama’s cheeks were rosy and plump, the way they had been before sickness had eaten her away and put her in the ground.
Every detail was as it once had been. Coffee bubbled in its dented tin pot over the fire. Old Tom slept curled beneath the table, his orange fur sleek and shining in the flickering light. The cuckoo clock above the mantle tocked out the minutes until the next time the tiny figures inside would emerge for a momentary, merry dance.
Mama set aside her darning and took up a wood-handled brush. She sat forward in her chair, smiling, and ran her fingers through Wren’s hair before pulling the brush through in long, comforting strokes. Her hands smelled of soap and freshly baked bread.
“Almost bedtime, little bird,” she said.
“One last song first,” Papa said. He bent and kissed the top of Wren’s head, ruffling her hair and eliciting a small noise of protest from Mama.
Papa stepped away and played another song, this time a quieter tune, somehow sad in its slow notes. Mama resumed brushing Wren’s hair, laying it neat again.
Wren closed her eyes and listened to the fading strains of the melancholy song. Mama’s brushstrokes became lighter until they stopped, and the smells of bread and soap and coffee drifted away.
When she opened her eyes again, Wren was alone and cold in the clearing. The lake was motionless and solid, and the air above it was still and empty. Light was fading.
Wren made her way back to the town and slipped into the bar without anyone noticing she’d been gone. Later that night, she dropped a plate, and Stavros remembered her again, along with the beating he’d left unfinished.
She took the beating and those that came after without complaint. In her head and her heart, she was in a little cabin filled with love and warmth. The blows were no more to her than the background noise of a handcrafted cuckoo clock, tocking out the time.
After a week, the memory faded, and she was again firmly rooted in Buehler’s Pass, where she was stuck scrubbing stains from wooden tables, and fumes from the lye soap burned her eyes. It was early morning, and the miners had all come and gone—their bellies filled with cold venison stew and hard bread. There would be little business until evening when they returned from their day of digging.
Stavros was out. There was no one to stop her. Wren pulled on her clunky boots and her thin coat and hiked back out to the lake.
It took much longer than it had when she ran there, and sh
e was even colder than before. She squatted beneath the same pine and waited, watching the frozen lake.
Before long, the surface roiled and tossed, mist rolled in, and the dancing ice fish appeared. They looped and spun and darted like a mass of sparkling jewels lit by the blazing sun.
Wren stepped to the edge and waited.
A single fish, no bigger than the length of her hand, broke away from the rest and came toward her. It nudged her frozen cheeks and kissed them with its lipless mouth. Braver now, Wren dared to reach for it and stroked a finger over its glassy skin. The fish seemed to purr like a cat, and it nudged her hand.
Wren looked into the bottomless golden eyes, and the clearing around her went dark. When light returned, she found herself in a garden lit by Chinese lanterns of every color. Tiny lightning bugs flitted in the weeping willows and sparked from the neatly trimmed box hedges. The air was thick with honeysuckle and roses.
Blue satin fell around her in a party dress the likes of which she’d never seen, and her head was heavy with ribbons and curls. She stood to the side and watched the revelers dance to the strains of a lively tune played by a small group of musicians on a bandstand. Wren tapped her foot in time and sipped punch from a crystal cup she found in her hand.
The song ended, and the musicians took up a quieter song. The partygoers pulled closer in a more intimate dance.
“May I have the last dance?” A young man stood before her, his manner shy and hesitant. He bowed and put out his hand. His eyes were the same deep blue as Wren’s magnificent dress. She took his hand and allowed him to pull her to the dance floor.
They danced together, their steps in perfect harmony, his hands fitting around her as if made to be there. For the duration of the song, Wren gazed up into those eyes and basked in the adoration she found there.
As the song faded, he loosened his hold and stepped back, his cheeks flushed. He regarded her for a moment, then seemed to make up his mind. Taking her back into his arms, he leaned in and kissed her.
She was surprised but not unhappy at the sudden move. She closed her eyes and drank in the feel of his lips pressed against hers, the taste of fruit punch on his tongue, and the smell of his ironed shirt. It lasted an eternity and only a second. The kiss became less insistent, then faded entirely.
Wren opened her eyes.
She was alone and cold in the clearing at the frozen water’s edge. The lovely fish had gone. Stravros was surely looking for her by now.
Halfway through the woods, Wren heard a gruff voice calling for her. Stavros moved through the trees with deliberate steps. When he found her, he cuffed her ear.
He captured her arm and pulled her toward town, but she couldn’t keep up with his much larger steps. She stumbled in the snow.
“Lazy, sow,” he said. “I’ll not have it.” He kicked her ribs with his heavy boot.
Wren felt something tear, and pain spread through her body, thick like the smell of honeysuckle and roses. When she pulled herself to her feet, one hand clutching her side, she smiled at the music only she could hear.
This time, the memories sustained her for nearly two weeks. Like the others, they eventually faded and left her alone again, surrounded by cruelty and want.
Late one night, after all but a few of the men had taken their stench and their filthy, grabby hands back to their camps, Wren saw Stavros in earnest conversation with one of his more repugnant regulars, Lester Greeley. She inched closer, wiping the table nearest them so she could listen.
Stavros glanced her direction and looked away, dismissing her. The men haggled for a bit—over what, she wasn’t sure. They shook hands, and Stavros remembered she was there.
“Girl,” he said. “Finish up and get your things. This is your last night here.”
Wren was confused for a moment. For one, she had little in the way of things. She finished wiping the tables before fully understanding what had transpired.
When she was done, she went and got her things, as she had been told to do.
And then she ran.
Wren flew through the trees with no other destination but the lake.
In the darkness, the woods were unfamiliar. The branches snagged her coat, and rocks tripped her feet. She ran as far as her lungs could carry her before she collapsed, utterly lost and alone.
The forest was silent. It offered no suggestions.
Her breath heaved out in puffs and sobs. She couldn’t go back and live with Mr. Greeley. What little safety she had working for Stavros would be gone. She couldn’t go forward, either. The woods were too large and dense to see, even by the light of the waning moon.
She bent her head and tucked her knees to her chin, rocking and thinking.
After a time, she felt rested and calm. Running was no help. She rose and picked her way through the trees, feeling her way as she went, her eyes straining for anything familiar.
Wren walked for hours. The moon moved across the sky above her, making it easier to see. At first, the cold was unbearable, but soon she ceased to feel her fingers and toes.
More than once, voices in the distance called her name. She ignored them. They stopped after the first hour. The men were unwilling to lose themselves in the darkness.
Wren sat in the snow to rest. Bathed in silver moonlight, she closed her eyes and listened to the wind brushing against the needles in the pines above her.
When she opened her eyes, the fish were all around her. In the near darkness, they glowed a tranquil blue and left trails of light in their wakes.
They darted and floated, danced and swirled. One, no bigger than the length of Wren’s forearm, broke from the rest and came closer.
It kissed her cheeks and regarded her with its luminous golden eyes.
Wren held out her hand and stroked the fish, feeling its satisfied purr vibrate through its glassy scales. Another fish wandered over and dusted her with fishy kisses. Soon, ice fish both large and small swam to her through the air, surrounding her with a shimmering sapphire aura.
They touched her arms, her fingers, her ears. They kissed her eyelids, forcing them closed.
When she opened her eyes, she stood in a meadow. The sun shone bright and warm. She wore a simple white frock, tied at the waist with a blue ribbon. Her arms and feet were bare and unencumbered. The air was thick with bees and the smell of sweet hay and lavender.
She rose to her feet. In the distance, three figures approached, one of them waving wild arms at her. The figures grew larger, and she recognized Papa as the one hailing her.
Wren flew through the grass and into Papa’s waiting arms. They toppled over, laughing. She and Papa pulled each other up, nearly falling over in their shared mirth. She kissed Mama’s cheek, which smelled of soap and freshly baked bread.
She’d forgotten three had come. The third person coughed, and she turned away from touching Mama’s hair to see who it was.
His eyes were blue, and she basked in the glow of their adoration.
“No last kisses,” he said. “Only kisses that last.”
He took her in his arms, and his kisses engulfed her, warmed her, and surrounded her in safety and love.
~*~
The search party found Wren the next day, an hour after sunrise. Her small body was stiff, lying curled on its side in the center of the frozen lake. Her lips were pulled up in a contented smile. If she hadn’t been so blue from the cold, she would have resembled a marble angel.
Her hand rested partially open, as if cradling something precious.
In her palm lay a single sliver of ice, no bigger than the length of her index finger, in the curious shape of a fish.
“Cast Off”
Pink toes curled within cozy depths
are absent.
Knitted tubes of sweat-soaked cotton
tucked inside for safekeeping
live elsewhere now.
A twin once shared its journey,
but no more do they keep their secrets,
whispering beneat
h a dusty bureau,
spying from a lightless closet
Past its prime, it lays alone.
Crinkled leaves and powdered glass,
escaped hubcaps and tired gum,
a crumpled candy wrapper crammed inside
give no witness to the tale of its downfall
from blissful days of running and dancing
to this weary existence as roadside refuse.
Perhaps as a joke,
it was plucked from a protesting foot
and hurled from the bed of a moving pickup.
Or creatures from another world,
using futuristic firearms of death,
dissolved the human wearer
leaving one lone item behind.
Likely, it was the work of a witch,
bent and sour,
a sack draped across her hump
as she trudged through town
leaving items of clothing on her path—
a warning for children to eat their broccoli.
Until the street sweeper drones through town
and carries it away in the darkness.
“Distressed Denim”
This story was an entry for the Summer 2010 Writer’s Weekly 24-hour Short Story Contest. The writing prompt came in at noon on that Saturday, and we had until noon the following day to send them the completed story. “Distressed Denim” won first place. Here’s the prompt I had to use: