It was impossible. Maddie had known it was impossible the second she saw that poor kid stumble into the courtroom, shaggy hair in his eyes and handcuffs encircling thin wrists. The evidence the prosecution had brought up was laughable. Accusations using enough logical loopholes to make her eyes cross, spewing lies dripped in vitriol and bitterness.

But the jury wouldn't change their mind. Arguments and stone-cold facts did nothing against the wrath of the mafia.

It wasn't the kid's fault, and Maddie was pretty sure the Commission knew it. He had managed to stumble across the Columbo underboss on his way back from school, and a few poorly-timed questions later, it was clear that he had too much information. His uncle was a top police officer. They couldn't take the risk, not now, when Giuliani was hot on their trails with lawsuits.

It was an impossible case, an impossible trial, and it would be impossible to convince the jury to vote innocent. But Maddie had never been an easily deterred woman.

"I'm telling you! If we just-" Rose cut her off with a sigh, clapping a dark hand against her right shoulder. She was sympathetic to the boy, Maddie could tell, but her family's livelihood depended on doing what the mafia said. Her husband and two kids couldn't survive without her.

"We gotta stay safe, honey." Her voice was kind but firm. "You know what they do to folks like us? Anyone who goes against them? They'll shoot us up."

Antonio raised an eyebrow at the two of them, clearly unimpressed. "Stay quiet." His salt-and-pepper hair was messy from how much he had been running his hands through it, but no one dared mention it. His quiet disappointment was far more intimidating than any anger Maddie could stir up. "Some wiseguys might be listening."

The whole group seemed to freeze at that, the slang term bringing attention to the weight of the situation. Maddie groaned, exasperated already. Maybe her sister was right. All this jury work was doing was making her more pissed off than she usually was.

“Listen, they’re not as powerful as they used to be. Why can’t we just…” She trailed off, searching for something to say. She hated how inarticulate she got in stressful situations. “I don’t know. Get a protective order or something?”

Noah shook his head, the most movement he’d shown in the past few hours. Maddie always worried he’d somehow died without any of them noticing. “S’ impossible,” He responded, his Southern drawl heavier in his exhaustion. “They got guys in the high courts too.” She frowned, hating how right he was. She’d heard about the juror who’d gotten run over ‘by accident’ after he voted in favor of an anti-Genovese politician.

The cold, bitter sting of defeat was starting to edge at her heels. She’d had this debate time and time again with them, and it never seemed to work. It was always too risky, too impossible.

Rose, seeming to pick up on her despondency, gave her a slightly melancholy smile. “Someday, you know. It’ll all be over.” Maddie nodded, blinking frantically at the sudden wash of upset that was threatening to overtake her, and sat back down in her seat. Another day, another innocent person convicted. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised.

There was a quiet knock at the door. Ollie stood up first, the best-fit man to deal with the ever-changing temper of who came to fetch them after their deliberation, but with a confused frown on his pale face. It had barely been ten minutes.

A woman stepped into the room, fluffed-up blonde hair and bright red heels. She looked nervous.

“My apologies for the interruption, but, uh… Judge Wilson has told me to inform you that the trial is off.” Varying levels of shock and confusion spread around the room. Maddie felt a small seed of hope begin to bloom in her chest. “There’s something going on with, well— you’ll probably hear it best from the news.” She turned back down the hallway, the twelve jurors at her feet, and stopped where a TV was mounted on a low-hanging bookshelf.

BREAKING NEWS, the caption read. MAFIA COMMISSION TRIAL INDICTS 11 ORGANIZED CRIME LEADERS.

“Holy shit,” Antonio mumbled, and Maddie couldn’t help but agree with the sentiment. Excitement lit a fire in her chest and she pulled Rose into a tight hug, grinning wider than she’d been able to in a long time.

Maybe some things weren’t as impossible as they seemed.

A snapshot of misery from a world of wretched fairytales.

There once was a forest, full of looming pines with tattered bark. If you crossed the eastern river and climbed the steep slope behind it you could see a small villa, not much more than a dozen houses and a trading post. It was fraught with icy weather year-round, just northern enough to get the chill of the poles.

One pitch-black December night, two young siblings lay awake in bed. They were twins, matching in mind and mischievous nature, and they were bored with the stuffy shelter. Their father, the villa’s blacksmith, had told them never to leave the house past sunset. Mother Winter roamed around in the later months, he had said in a low whisper. She would wreak pain and misery on their meager little town if they challenged her.

Theo, the elder by a scant few minutes, told her brother that this wasn’t true. Papa wasn’t afraid of anything. He must have been trying to scare them. She pulled off the thread worn covers and peeked out the window, breath fogging the frost-bitten glass. Prying open the latch with a soft creak, she slipped out and landed safely on the ground. Noah, more hesitant but loyal to his twin, waited a moment before following.

“Come on, to the forest!” Theo urged with a quiet hush of words, running off into the distance, her boots leaving clear imprints in the ankle-high snow. The two were the same age, but Noah was smaller than his sister, thin and wide-eyed in a way that made him look younger. He struggled to keep up, stumbling over his own feet until he could barely see her beyond the trees.

It was dark. And cold, for that matter, even though the two of them had donned their usual winter gear in a show of oddly-mature awareness. But the sun’s fall had brought about a shadow unlike that of the frosty evenings, seeping into Noah’s bones as he called out for Theo to wait. She gave no response. Frustrated, he continued running, sure that she would stop when she realized he wasn’t able to match her pace. Her footprints were the only guidance he had, the lack of light limiting his vision drastically.

He had paused for breath, leaning against a large pine, when he heard Theo cry out. The town had disappeared behind him long ago, and a glance upwards proved that it was snowing once again. Their footprints would be covered in no time. But Theo hadn’t sounded like she wanted him to catch up. She sounded like she was in pain.

He ran further into the woods, his heart pounding in his chest. Minutes passed and eventually, he reached a clearing, the towering trees giving way to cold, starry skies. Theo was lying in the snow; face-down and still as death. He dared not approach. There was a woman behind her with sallow skin and ragged hair, her sharp gaze trained on Noah. Her tattered dress trailed behind her despite the lack of wind, an ancient garment that he remembered only from the stories Nana told before she passed.

Noah was a quiet boy, but he wasn’t oblivious. He met the woman’s gaze. “Mother Winter?” She said nothing, but extended a gnarled hand and beckoned him to come closer. He did, clenching fists by his sides so he wouldn’t have the urge to check on Theo. Mother Winter seemed mad enough already.

“I must destroy this town,” She said simply, her voice little more than a wisp of air. “But you are the first one who has recognized me in centuries.” Her dead eyes were sad, somehow, and he dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Who do you want? I can save one, bring them to the Northern city.” She let him think, his wide eyes darting to the sky above, then to his sister lying in the snow.

His face was calm, accepting. “My sister, please.” The choice echoed into the clearing, and before he could continue, the wind began to pick up around the three of them. Some life had returned to Theo’s pale cheeks already.

Mother Winter stared at him for a long moment, her eyes an eerily pale shade of blue under the light of the stars. Howls of movement through the air brought snowflakes tumbling past him, but for once the cold brought no misery. “Take my hand, child. I will teach you what to do with this kindness of yours once the blizzard has passed.” He shuffled closer and did so, pressing an apologetic kiss to his twin’s cheek. She would be happier in the city.

The dark ring of trees faded to white as the snow and wind intensified, and Noah closed his eyes. The last thing he saw before falling to unconsciousness was Mother Winter before him, her eyes icicles gleaming like stars, a small smile tugging at the corners of her weary face.

Genre: Fantasy/Folklore

Age Range: 12+

Word Count: 820

Author: Kingsley

Hook: A book of wretched fairytales, fraught with struggles and half-happy endings.

Why This Project? It gives the publisher the ability to work with the currently written stories and give guidance for future additions, and the twist on the well-known fable genre is sure to grab the audience's attention.

Synopsis: A collection of short stories written from a darker perspective of fairy tales, both reconstructs of old classics and completely new originals.

Target Audience: Teens/adults

Your Bio: Heya! I'm Pheobe, just your average city-dweller typing away on my trusty computer most hours of the day. The pandemic has given me a bit more free time to work with, so I've decided to see what I can do writing-wise. I hope my ideas are to your liking! Thanks for sending out this opportunity.

Look around you.

See the people, see the world. A spinning ball of magma coated in a fragile rock crust. On it, we stand. We scream and we kill and we breathe and we hurt.

Somewhere, sirens are ringing in the distance.

We try to ignore the sirens. We smile, we laugh, we shatter behind closed doors. The shield, bronze and gold and endlessly battered, stays intact.

Close your eyes.

Close your eyes and breathe.

1, 2. 1, 2, 3, 4.

Open them and see something different from what you saw before. Calm the beating of your heart, the irregular thump of painful living, and still the shaking of your hands.

Look at the trees. See the ocean, hear the breeze. Hear the sirens off in the distance, a little louder now, but somehow less terrifying than before.

Their warning is solid, ever-present. Your hate will not make it fade.

Look at the people around you. See their beauty. They are sculpted rock and clay breathed life by the embrace of nature, the silent call of hope. They are sometimes smooth, sometimes rough, painted in an endless array of colors that paints the world with identity and meaning.

They are not your enemies. Say that one more time and breathe.

It’s ok.

This is not perfection. That’s ok. We will live, we will march onwards and sing the song of the future in off-key harmony.

Close your eyes and see what has been burned. Fluttering paper and sacred bodies in the physical. Hearts and memories in the metaphorical. Neurons will not repeat their patterns forever, they will fade like the rest of us.

Nothingness is inevitable, and that is why our life is only as beautiful as we make it.

I cannot tell you what to do, and so I won’t. I think you know it very well already.

I love you. I would fall from the skies for you. Take that as you will, wrap it up tight and hold it until the end of your days or throw it into the nearest churning lake.

Look around you and see what you have. See the beauty of this broken world, shattered and torn to pieces time and time again. It stands despite it all.

As the sirens draw near, I ask you:

Will you stand as well?

My mother told me I was like the sun.

She smiled back then, all soft crimson lips and half-closed eyes. I remember I used to look at her with a sort of reverence when she let her hair down. It was smooth, dark auburn cascading down pale freckled shoulders, and when she was in an especially good mood she’d let me braid it.

My father told me I was like the moon.

He didn’t drink back then, but I’m not sure if I remember a time when he didn’t spend long hours at the office. Where my mother’s spoken simile was a compliment, his was an exasperation, the result of me spending long evenings away in the city. I took the insult and forged it as my own.

My girlfriend says that I’m like a star.

She smiles like it’s a blessing and drinks tea instead of bitter whiskey. Her hair is tightly coiled ebony, and her skin is painted in smooth hues of bronze and gold. She’s never been a fan of similes, though, so I ask her why; the words spilling out of my lips before I can second-guess them.

“Because you’re my light in the night sky.” She answers; as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. I giggle at that, my cheeks flushing a pale rose, but the way my arms are tightly wrapped around her betray the pang that echoes through my chest.

She hums a half-familiar song as we sit there, and I find myself looking out the window of our small studio apartment. The sky is a deep indigo, all remnants of sunshine having dipped below the horizon hours before, but I can see a precious few dots of light above the pollution of the city.

“I think you’re Betelgeuse,” I say, my voice a sleepy whisper, and she smiles softly in return.

“Then you’re Bellatrix.” She runs a hand through my hair, watching the stars slowly fly by overhead as my eyes drift shut. “That way we’ll always be holding hands.”

#fiction #romance