by Christy Hartman

I grate a teaspoon of nutmeg into the bowl; preparing Finn’s favourite cake is a rare reprieve from my burden. Winter-fever picks off more villagers daily, snuffing them like Mass candles after the Saints are beseeched. 
 
My throat is raw, eyes red-rimmed from hours wailing for wee Orla Murphy. Finn had slouched on the cottage’s porch with the other men. Futility and grief hung thick in the air. The women inside met my keening with their own cries. My vigil only ceased when the child’s spirit drifted through the open window. I retreated to my home, hidden beyond the mist.
 
I’m reaching into the oven when despair’s veil descends again. I shrug on my cloak and succumb to the pull, wild hair flowing behind me, untamed as the river that dragged me under, sealing my fate. Back then I was Clodagh, devoted fiancé; now I am only Banshee. 
 
I feel his essence fading as I approach the cabin, his fear twisting into me. Fever radiates through the open door. My should-have-been mother-in-law kneels at Finn’s bedside. I writhe above the cabin; my guttural screams shake the walls. When his tortured body finally succumbs, his soul soars past. I give chase, crying out as he slips from view, into the fog shrouding the moor. 
 
Cloves and cinnamon scent the air around my house. I pause at the window. Finn is there. My Finn. I weep with self-serving relief. Crossing the threshold, I am eternally reunited with my love.

* * *

Christy Hartman pens short fiction from her home between the ocean and mountains of Vancouver Island Canada. She writes about the chasm between love and loss and picking out the morsels of magic in life’s quiet moments.

by Gabbi Grey

​She leads me down a dark alley. The smell of urine overwhelms, but I’m focused on her. She squeezes my hand, undoubtedly sensing my apprehension. I’ve never been to this side of town.

Rumors abound about it. Stories are shared. Whispered.

The door says Employees Only, but she pounds. The sound reverberates off the walls.

I cringe. I trust her with my life. But will this venture cost me that life? The promise, though. The lure of salvation. Of redemption. Too powerful to resist.

As the door swings open, a little man is revealed, his white pasty skin a direct contrast to my dark.

I hesitate, but she pushes me inside to follow the creature of the night. I straddle the chair he points to. My breasts squish against the cold padding.

She sits next to me, pressing a kiss to my temple.

I bare my back and the man fires up the ink gun. The pain is excruciating, but less than the fire that caused the burns. She whispers in my ear. How she loves me. How brave I am. How she doesn’t care about the scars.

I’d bear a thousand more to hear those words from her. I’d enter a thousand more burning buildings to save a wretched and ungrateful feline if she would hold me.

Magic ink.

A promise I didn’t believe.

The pain is transforming. The ink is taking hold. Tightened skin loosens. I feel my scars disappearing. Fading into nothing, replaced by beautiful ink. Healing ink.

For her I will do anything. To bask in her love, I will endure anything. And this particular anything is working. Is curative. Is transmuting.

The gun is silenced, and he wipes off drops of my blood.

She tilts my head and kisses me deeply.

Passionately.
​
Promising an eternity.

***

Gabbi Grey, a USA Today Bestselling author from British Columbia, dedicates herself to her fur babies and manages a government job while writing LGBTQ-focused contemporary romances. She also writes m/f romances as Gabbi Black and Gabbi Powell.