Letter From The Editor - Issue 68 - April 2019

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Issue 57
Leaders Taste Better
by Stephen Lawson
Good Fairies
by Megan Lee Beals
The Buried Children's Club
by James Edward O'Brien
IGMS Audio
After the Matilda Briggs Went Down
Read by Alethea Kontis
InterGalactic Medicine Show Interviews
Vintage Fiction
The Warm Space
by David Brin

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Good Fairies
    by Megan Lee Beals

Good Fairies
Artwork by Nicole Cardiff

We are not born. We do not grow. We abide in the somber places of this world, where time has no meaning and magic may thrive. And there are rules of conduct for these places which all good fairies know.

I was no good fairy. The rules did not live in my blood, though I did my best to compensate. I hid in my work, content to let the others enchant the creatures who strayed into our apple grove, until my place at the edges of our grove was remarked upon, and I became a part of their games.

A human child was toddling through the undergrowth. Its shoes were soiled with apple mush, and it stank of soap and rot. I was stroking the back of a worker bee and sampling her pollen, to distract myself from the tittering fairies that swarmed around its head.

"Skin as smooth as mushroom caps!"

"Hair as black as nightshade!"

Nonsense. "Nightshade" comes in a prolific variety of colors from potato to eggplant and none of it looks like hair. I frowned and hid myself among the coneflowers as the others flitted about like lightning bugs. My people fancy poetry, but it doesn't fancy them.

They were chanting the first part of the rules, "strayed from the path, strayed from the path," which brought the child into our jurisdiction, and I could feel their eyes and laughter pointed at me, right when I was hoping to go unnoticed.

"It's your turn," they said.

"I'm busy."

"We are immortal and time has no meaning in the apple grove. Do your busy bee work yesterday."

I raised protest, but their lights blinked away and they were gone, vanished into the bark of a tree or a wisp of fog, leaving me alone with the bipedal thing that tumbled through the grove. I crooked my finger and directed a poor little honey bee out from under the creature's foot before she was crushed, then I took a deep breath and counted my worries down from ten.

Fine. I knew one day I would have to be the ice cold fairy queen and lead astray some little boy. We all do it eventually, but I'd been hoping to avoid it for another thousand years. Long enough for the time outside the grove to eat up that highway that appeared three hundred queen bees ago. My companion under the coneflowers filled her sacks with pollen and buzzed away, going about her job. I had a job to do, too. And because the rules do not come naturally to me, I had to find the notes I'd left in the knot of a birch tree.

Traditional Aesthetics re: Fairy Queen

Achingly Beautiful

Lots of Angles

Smile full of Knives

Eyes made of Ice


Maybe wear a dress

I looked down at my teensy bare feet, brown skin gone gray at the soles with pollen and dust, knees shiny with beeswax. Under the word "dress" I had sketched a figure that might have been myself, covered shoulders to soles in a smudgy charcoal shroud and wearing a crown of antlers. It looked . . . complicated. I didn't care to waste much energy glamouring up an ice queen for one little boy. Not with autumn encroaching all around us and the bees woefully understaffed.

I was willing to manage tall. At least taller than the boy in the grove.

As per the notes regarding Entrance, I flitted across his field of vision, let my gold light catch his eye then wink away, so he knew something magical was about to happen. Just as his back was turned to the mile marker I stepped into the heart of the grove at a towering four feet six inches.

And I forgot what I was meant to say.

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