Vonnie Winslow Crist

*2011 YA Book: The Greener Forest - Top Ten Finalist.

 *2011 Nonfiction: Fairies, Magic, and Monsters published in Little Patuxent Review, Issue 10: “Make Believe,” p.32-35.

Fairies, Magic, and Monsters

Make believe is one of childhood's greatest gifts and, if we're lucky, an enduring part of our lives. From daydreaming and wishful thinking to the imagined worlds of books, television, films, and video games – it's woven into our culture. Make believe is a large and varied universe, but there is a special corner in it where magical beings and miraculous events have thrived since our ancestors first told stories around a cooking fire. And the reasons for the hold of fairies, magic, and monsters on humankind haven't changed much since Homo sapiens stood upright.

Though there might be somber messages hidden in the fairy tales of childhood, we often associate these narratives with warmth and security. Many of us recall snuggling beside a parent, grandparent, or favorite aunt while she read about a fairy godmother helping the uncomplaining and overworked Cinderella. Or perhaps we shared a plate of cookies with our siblings as we heard about the youngest brother who overcomes monstrous creatures and wins the princess because he is honest and brave. Those stories assured us that if we were virtuous, everything would work out. We'd live happily ever after.

The Chronicles of Narnia books by C.S. Lewis and the films based on the series are examples of goodness being rewarded with a happy ending. And not only do Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy save a distant world from evil, they return at the end of their adventures, a bit wiser, to the same wardrobe in a safe English country manor from whence they departed.

Fairy and folk tales also tell us that society needs rules. They're often cautionary stories that warn of dire consequences for misbehaving or not listening to your elders. The punishments, whether magical or commonplace, for unacceptable behavior in the original Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Andersen tales included death, disfigurement, and banishment. Though these might be too harsh for modern tastes, we still feel satisfaction when there's a reckoning. In J.R.R. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings trilogy, Middle-earth is filled with turmoil. Characters are kidnapped, killed, wounded, maimed, and taken over by an ancient evil. But in the end, each is recompensed for his actions and peace returns.

Part of the popularity of the books and films is due to the return to normalcy at the conclusion of the narrative. On the last page of The Return of the King, when hobbit Samwise Gamgee approaches The Shire we read: “And he went on, and there was yellow light, and fire within; and the evening meal was ready, and he was expected. ” Despite broken rules and terrible events, ordinary life resumes...

*2011 Poem:  Penelope published in EMG-Zine, Dec. 2011- Top Ten Finalist.

Penelope

I long to catch lightning

as it swarms through airspace,

to cage a smoldering ribbon

with interlocking fingers,

to unravel its blazing fabric

one flossy strand after another

like a tapestry which must remain

as unfinished as our love

each daybreak, though I weave

my years away.

I would scheme with sea hawks,

knot a burnished message

to each spindly leg, and bombard

the dome of night with spectacle.

Then far-off, you

would tilt your silvered head,

sway with sudden vertigo, and, compelled

by chiming of unspeakable desire,

alter your travel plans, sail your ship

straight-away to my harbor.

But this morn,

like two thousand before,

seems earmarked for suitors and handiwork.

Still, I listen

for the telltale commotion

and wear patience, virtue like garlands

about a brow full of maiden's dreams

as I prowl the seawall,

search the horizon for sails,

study the undertow, and curse

all heroes.

*2011 Short Story - Science Fiction/Fantasy: Blood of the Swan published in While the Morning Stars Sing, 2011 - Top Ten Finalist.

Blood of the Swan

There was blood on the snow. And not far away, an arrow and feathers. But Jorund knew it was not the blood of a human, for it was from his bow that the arrow had soared. It was his arrow, carefully whittled from a tree branch and feathered with gull's plumes that had pierced the flesh of the swan. And now, Jorund trudged through the winter forest in search of the wounded bird.

He knew to eat of swan's flesh was taboo, but he was hungry; and the bird had looked well-fed. Besides, there was no risk of being discovered with a wounded swan, for he was alone. Utterly alone.

But this hadn't been the case as recently as yestermorn. Four days ago, his best friend, Vali, and he had been sent into the snowy forest by their village chief to find a nature spirit. Though the likelihood of locating her before hunger, cold, or beast put an end to them was slim, he and Vali had shouldered their packs and hiked away from the family dwellings, animal pens, stone meeting hall, docks, and boats of the village of Egil.

Jorund clenched his jaw as he thought of the reason for their search. A wasting sickness was taking the lives of Egil's children. Smid, their village chief, wanted the services of a healer more skilled than the local woman who usually tended to wound-mending and midwifery. Rumors abounded that a nature spirit with limitless healing powers lived in the woods to the north of Egil. And so, he and Vali had been sent into the northern wilds with nine day's supply of food and a warning not to return until they found the healer.

They'd departed Egil without argument but also without blessings, for Smid forbid the worship of any god. Once clear of Egil, they'd knelt and sent a prayer up to the Sky Father for safety and success, since both of them had younger siblings suffering from the wasting sickness.

Luckily, both of them were young, strong, and good with a bow and arrow, and so the first two days had passed quickly. The sky had been clear, the air crisp, the path they'd chosen across the landscape easy to walk. Then, yesterday morning, Vali had taken a shortcut across a stretch of blue ice and fallen through into the river.

Jorund was sure he saw a dark figure near his friend in the water. He was certain it had been the Grim. Before Jorund could stretch a branch to him, Vali had been washed away from the hole in the ice. Jorund had run alongside the river, calling his friend's name. But without air, he knew a man drowned within minutes. Still, he'd walked downstream for the rest of the morning hoping to see Vali shivering on the riverbank. He'd found no one.

Jorund had retraced his steps, paused at the spot where his friend had slipped through the ice, and said a prayer to the Sky Father asking him to welcome Vali to the Summerlands. It wasn't until hours later that he'd realized Vali had taken most of their food with him to the bottom of the river.

But at least I have flint and blade, a leather sleeping bag, bow and arrows, and woolen blanket, thought Jorund as he followed the blood splatters in the snow. Though those things would do him little good if he didn't find food and shelter soon.

His grumbling stomach refocused his thoughts on the swan. It had been flying between the tree branches, sailing low, preparing to land when Jorund loosed his arrow. The cry the creature had made when wounded had been like nothing he'd heard before. It had sounded almost like a frightened child. He shivered. Jorund rarely pitied his prey, but the swan's cry had chilled the marrow of his bones.

He stopped walking. Though the falling snow muffled noise, he thought he heard someone calling. He veered from the path and pushed his way through a thicket of brambles. The voice grew louder as he neared a rocky outcrop. The swan would have to wait. Anyone lost in such weather would freeze to death. And freezing wasn't a pleasant way to die.

Jorund had witnessed the execution of a thief by freezing. The condemned had only been a boyfourteen summers old, maybe fifteen. He'd begged for leniency, as criminals often did. Smid had listened while he gulped a mug of warm ale and gnawed on a hunk of deer meat. He'd even nodded encouragement. When the lad had finished his explanation and apology, Smid had shrugged his massive shoulders and shouted, Take him.

The guards had done just that. They'd dragged the crying boy to the shore and tied him near the tideline. The frigid waves had washed over him again and again. Eventually, the salty water left a thin layer of ice on his body. The lad had screamed for awhile, and then, he'd grown silent. The next day when the guards untied his body, Jorund had seen the horror of death frozen on the young thief's face. Jorund wished there'd been a way to save the boy. But he knew the cruel nature of Smid, and had Jorund intervened, he'd have been tied down next to the thief.

Jorund could clearly hear a voice now. It sounded like a woman or maybe a child. At the base of a large boulder about fifteen strides in front of him, someone dressed in a blood-stained white cloak laid sprawled in the snow.

Help. Help me, please.

I'll do what I can, promised Jorund as he knelt down. He reached for the white cloak, ready to pull it back and examine the stranger's wound when a small hand grasped his wrist.

Not here. My home isn't far. It'll be warmer there, said the stranger as she turned her head to look at him.

Jorund found himself speechless as he looked into the golden-brown eyes of a young woman...

To read the rest of "Blood of the Swan," you can order the complete story from:

While The Morning Stars Sing, ResAliens Press, 2011. Revised version of Blood of the Swan appears in The Greener Forest - http://coldmoonpress.com/quickbuy.html

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2010 Poem: Raven published in EMG-Zine, Sept. 2010, http://tinyurl.com/vonnie-raven

Raven

Day implodes, vanishes

in a red O.

Lone raven paces

on cottonwood bough above

a browning lawn that rolls

down to chokecherry and sumac.

She holds the secrets of night

under her wingfeathers,

guards that knowledge

with claw and blood,

obeys no man,

choosing hunger over servitude.

Raven caws our names

in raucous voice, abandons tree

in an explosion of black

and swallows the moon.

Leaving us fumbling

in dark confusion while she,

hunter of the olden lands,

flies away sky free.

by Vonnie Winslow Crist

2010 Short Story - Science Fiction/ Fantasy

Weathermaker

by Vonnie Winslow Crist

May glanced over her shoulder at the closed door. She tipped her head in the direction of the heat vent and listened for the muffled sound of her parents' voices. She smiled. They were still downstairs in the kitchen. Confident that she wouldn't be bothered, May stretched out on her stomach and squirmed under Papa Chang's bed.

The space under the box-spring was only about twelve inches high, so May was thankful she was slender and small-boned. She clicked on a small flashlight and stuck it between her teeth, which freed her hands to search for the loose floorboard. She slid her palms along the dusty oak floor and crawled toward the head of the bed. May sneezed twice, dropping the light both times.

Frustrated, she took the flashlight out of her mouth, shined it on the floor. Where are you? she muttered as she ran a fingernail along the joint where one piece of flooring abutted another. She sighed. There was no hint of a secret compartment. She ran a fingernail around a second board. Nothing. She sneezed again. The flashlight dimmed slightly.

I know you're... Before May could finish her sentence, she felt the third floorboard from the wall lift slightly as her fingernails traced its edge. Yes! May pried the board up, reached inside the small wooden compartment attached to the side of a support beam. She didn't know if Papa Chang had built the secret box above the first-floor ceiling and below his bedroom's floorboards, but as a child she'd seen him tuck a book swaddled in red fabric in it several times.

Why do you hide the book? May had inquired the first time she'd caught her grandfather concealing the silk-wrapped bundle.

Because it's magical, Papa Chang had answered with a wink.

Can I read it, too? she'd begged.

Not yet. Papa Chang had patted her head. It's written in Chinese, though I've made some notes in English. When it's your turn to take care of the dragon, then you may read it.

But I help you, now, she'd reminded her grandfather.

Yes, but that's not the same. When I'm no longer able to honor Lung, then you must do so. Papa Chang had taken her hands in his, looked into her dark eyes, and added, No one else in this family believes except for you and me, so it is up to us. When I am gone, the book is yours.

Then, he'd stood up and brushed the dust from his knees. But tell no one about the book. Not your mother or father. Not your brother. Not even your friends. Promise me.

I promise, May had declared, and she'd kept her word.

And I'll keep my word tonight, she told Papa Chang's spirit as she skinched out from under the bed.

Six months had passed since her grandfather's heart attack, six months had gone by since anyone had visited the dragon, and their county had been six months without a drop of rain. May worried that her shirking of dragon-duty was responsible for the drought. But certain the solution could be found in Papa Chang's book, she sat cross-legged and undid the wrappings.

Her fingers tingled when they touched its dark leather binding. The leather was ridged in a diamond-like pattern and softer than she thought it would be. When she opened the cover, she saw that the volume was indeed written in Chinese. The characters were small and exquisitely rendered in black ink. As she flipped through the pages, she spotted her grandfather's notes. May hoped the words she needed were translated.

She leaned against a bed post, turned back to the beginning, and began scanning the pages one by one. When she located Papa Chang's translations, she read them. Often, her grandfather had begun to translate a section, then stopped mid-sentence as if whatever he'd been looking for wasn't there. And much of what was in English seemed mundane. But every now and again there'd be something interesting: Deaf dragons are kiao-lung. Kioh-lung are dragons who can hear. or Dragons are fond of roasted swallows.

She'd leafed through nearly half of the book when she finally found what she was searching for: Supplications and Deals with Dragons. The fourth translated supplication was the one she needed. May marked the page with a couple of loose red threads from the silk cloth, then stuck the book and flashlight into her waiting backpack.

After sneaking out of Papa Chang's old bedroom, May jogged down the stairs and strolled into the kitchen. Her father was reading the paper at the table and her mother was putting the finishing touches on a casserole for the next night's dinner. May went to the refrigerator, took out the milk, and poured a quart of the cold liquid into a glass jar.

Her father lowered the paper. It's been months since your grandfather wasted milk on his imaginary dragon. Why are you bothering to go down to the pond, tonight?

I promised I would.

Well, you've certainly taken your time getting...

Charles, May's mother said in her doctor-in-charge voice. I don't think there's any harm in May wasting a little milk once a month. She rubbed her forehead, then continued in a more normal tone, If nothing else, the stray cats will appreciate it.

Thanks, Mom.

May glanced at her mother, noted her lips were pressed tightly together. She supposed Mom missed her dad, too, though neither of her parents had talked much about Papa Chang since the week after the funeral.

Her grandfather's ashes had barely been spread on the surface of Willow's Watch Pond when life for the rest of the family had returned to normal. Her brother had flown back to New York to continue his residency at one of the city's biggest hospitals. Dad had resumed teaching Anatomy and Physiology at the University. And Mom continued to work extra hours at the hospital whenever she got the chance.

I miss Papa Chang more than anyone else, May thought as she stepped out the back door and hiked toward the pond. She hurried across the lawn. The night was full of lightning bugs blinking all around her and cicadas singing in the trees.

May was so lost in thought she almost missed the trail leading down to the small slate patio her grandfather had built near the edge of Willow's Watch Pond. As she stepped onto the proper path, she stumbled on a loose rock and nearly dropped the Mason jar of milk.

Careful, she said to herself. It was a long up hill hike to the house, and she didn't want to have to make it twice.

A few minutes later, May reached her grandfather's patio. She knelt, set down the jar of milk, and opened her knapsack. She took out a blue-chip enamelware bowl. It clinked as she placed it on the slate. She heard a splash from the pond. May chewed on her lower lip, scanned the watery green surface in front of her. There were dragonflies, water spiders, and the occasional venturous minnow visible, but no cow's ears or stag's horns.

She shrugged her shoulders. It had probably been nothing more than a frog spooked from its lily pad by her presence, though the dimming light made it difficult to see clearly for more than fifteen to twenty feet.

May picked up the quart jar of milk. Her hand shook ever so slightly as she unscrewed the metal lid, tipped the jar, and slowly poured the cool, white liquid into the enamelware vessel. She tried to forget vengeful mythical beasts, and focused instead on filling the bowl. Though the milk sloshed back and forth and splashed a bit as the last drops dribbled in, none washed over the sides onto the slate. She exhaled slowly. Spilt milk showed disrespect.

May swallowed hard. Milk was only the first step in luring a dragon. She grabbed the slumped over knapsack she'd lugged down to the pond, rifled through its contents, and removed a stick of incense, an incense burner carved from a pinkish stone into the shape of a reclining dragon, and a book of matches. She lit the incense and set it beside the milk bowl.

The selection of the incense had been difficult. She'd never paid attention to which scent Papa Chang had used. When May had searched through her grandfather's wooden storage chest this afternoon, she'd found several kinds: cinnamon, sandalwood, patchouli, and ylang ylang. She'd decided on sandalwood.

Lung, May called. I ask for your help. She blew the thin line of drifting smoke in the direction of the water. Lung, she repeated. There's a drought, the plants are dying and the earth turns to dust.

Lung, she called for the third time. Your pond has a spring, but many lakes, streams, ponds, and rivers are drying up.

If there was a dragon in Willow's Watch Pond, Lung was not its full name. But Lung was all May could remember. Papa Chang had known the full names of all kinds of dragons--May did not. She did recollect that all the dragon names her grandfather had used contained Lung.

A loud splash came from the shallows to her left. With her flashlight, she surveyed the shoreline and water surface. She spotted some cattails across the pond swaying, heard loud rustling from that direction, and then, the light reflected off of a pair of eyes.

Geeze! she exclaimed, and immediately dropped the light. As she fumbled in the dark to retrieve it, May realized the glowing eyes still peered at her from between the cattails. Even without her hand-held light, they shimmered an orangish gold--just the color she imagined a demon's eyes would be...

To read the rest of "Weathermaker," you can order the complete story from:

Dragon's Lure Legends of a New Age, Danielle Ackley-McPhail, Jennifer Ross, Jeffrey Lyman, eds. Dark Quest Books, 2010, p 27. Revised version of Weathermaker appears in The Greener Forest - http://coldmoonpress.com/quickbuy.html

 *2011 Book Cover: The Greener Forest-  Top Ten Finalist.

*2011 Magazine Cover:  Rock Castle -  Top Ten Finalist.

*2011 Artwork: NIngyo published in The Greener Forest, 2011, p.29 - Top Ten Finalist.

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 2010 Artwork 

 Wizard published in Aoife's Kiss, December 2010, p.17. To view a larger version, buy a copy of the magazine from: http://samsdotpublishing.com 

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NonFiction Article

Talking Victorian Bouquets: Tussie Mussies

  by Vonnie Winslow Crist

Long before the birth of Great Britain's Queen Victoria, bunches of flowers were given as gifts to friends and sweethearts. The bright colors, perfumed foliage, and earthy feel of a spray of blooms and leaf fronds was a way of connecting with someone special. But during the Victorian Era, interest in floriography or the language of flowers turned Tussie-Mussies from loving gesture into an art form.

Originally, a Tussie Mussie was a small nosegay or posy of blossoms and greenery. Sometimes spelled tuzzy-muzzy, the term is a combination of two words. The first, tuzzy, is the Old English word for knot of flowers. The second, muzzy, is a name for the damp moss wrapped around the stems of flowers to keep the blooms fresh.

During medieval times, small bouquets of fragrant herbs wrapped in swatches of cloth were carried by both men and women to combat the odors of open sewers, farm animals, and a population that bathed infrequently. Held in the hand and pressed to the nose when needed, these aromatic nosegays were also believed to act as disinfectants. Posies of hyssop, rue, wormwood, and other odoriferous plants were even thought to ward off the Plague. Little bundles of herbs were also placed near judges in courtrooms to protect them from the diseases carried by the prisoners.

Many people of the Middle Ages thought if they carried sweet-smelling posies, they would remain healthy. They strewed boughs of pungent herbs upon the floors of their homes for the same reason. To satisfy the demand for healthful herbs, the woodland fairies of that era must have worked overtime to bless enough leafage and florets.

But Victorian Tussie-Mussies weren't just attractive nosegays, they were living letters. Each piece of plant material included in a Victorian posy conveyed a message. And these messages were based on complex symbolism from the mythology, religion, folklore, and medicinal uses of plants from many cultures...

Today, a Tussie-Mussie with a welcome note propped nearby is a wonderful surprise waiting in the spare room for a house guest. These knots of flowers also make fun party favors placed on the table beside each luncheon plate. Just make sure to attach a card with an explanation of the meanings of the flowers.

Do fairies like Tussie-Mussies? Why, of course! There's no better way to communicate with nature spirits then in the language of flowers. So gather some herbs and flowerets, make a tiny nosegay, and tie it together with a length of ribbon. Next, write a letter with the meaning of your Tussie-Mussie clearly stated. Then, leave letter and posy in a sheltered garden spot or nestled amongst the roots of an oak tree. Nearby fairies, elves, and sprites are sure to send thank you blessings your way...

To read the complete version of "Tussie Mussies," you must order a copy of the following publication: Faerie Magazine, No. 20, Spring/Summer 2010, Kim Cross, ed., PO Box 26452, Gwynn Oak, MD 21207, p 51,  http://faeriemagazine.com 

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This poem was previously available online in Sea Songs - Hibernal 2009 Issue. Sea Children was voted among the top 10 poems of 2009 in the Preditors & Editors Poll.

  Sea Children

sea star

tan pentacle

skimming across the strand

witching us with water magic

sea rune

finback

swift, silver-skinned

catches bright glint of sky

nudges the pod, nurtures us both

o whale

flounder

flat sand-sleeper

forever looking up

we grimace, gulls and terns chuckle

dead fish

high tide

cold, hungry green

swashing the sunbathers

shivering, we flee its sharp teeth

sharkwave

water

salty moonchild

rushing from birth to death

our blood answers when she beckons

Mother!

(c) Vonnie Winslow Crist

All rights reserved.