Black Swan, White Raven: A Modern Collection of Fairy Tales
Ellen Datlow, Terri Windling
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
A stellar assymbly of many of today's most creative and accomplished storytellers has gathered around the tribal fire to embroider well-worn yarns with new golden thread. Black Swan, White Raven revisits the tales that charmed, enthralled, and terrified us in our early youth - carrying us aloft into the healthy, beating heart of cherished myth to tell once again the stories of Rumpelstiltskins and sleeping beauties, only this time from an edgy, provocative and distinctly adult perspective. The themes and archetypes of our beloved childhood fiction are reexamined in a darker light by 21 superb teller of tales who deftly uncover the ironic, the outrageous, the enigmatic and the erotic at the core of the world's best-known fables, while revealing the sobering truths and lies behind "happily ever after."
leased in her name. In her name exclusively. Legally. Now the divorce is final, the custody suit settled. Mostly in her favor though of course the father, the ex-husband, has certain visitation rights. But now the children are in her care beneath a roof provided for them by her, by the mother. By this woman who is astonished with her unexpectedly fierce, possessive love for her children, like a lioness’s for her cubs. She who had not seemed to herself as to others an inordinately maternal woman.
each errand pleasurable in itself. This is our life now, our life, the three of us in Edgewater, New Jersey. Where the children’s father, when he came every third weekend to take them away, Friday morning to Sunday evening, was an outsider, a temporary visitor not at ease as in the city in the old life. After the post office was the dry cleaner’s, then the video shop another time to rent Pocahontas, then Oleander Farm at the outskirts of town, where there was apple slush, cinnamon doughnuts, a
scenarios presented no mysteries, only endlessly dull recriminations. Secondly, and more importantly, if these children were found guilty and executed, the wealth they had taken from the old woman’s cottage would become the property of the town, which in effect, meant it went into the pockets of the Bürgermeister, since he controlled the town’s coffers. “Constable, is there any reason why I shouldn’t pronounce sentence immediately?” “Please yer honor,” grated the constable, “they said it was
was. He sure kept more of my money than I did. I started thinking pretty seriously about heading out to the East Coast. Maybe they needed shamuses out there. The old woman showed up one afternoon while I was on the phone to Mapes at the bank about letting me slide a little on the loan for the Packard. She was a knobby creature, I guessed Italian or Greek. Nose like a hawk and eyes as hard as pinballs; dressed in early Puritan. She carried a black leather handbag on her arm not much bigger than
I approached. He scrambled down from the buckboard with a quickness I could not have imagined and took my bags from me. “Morning, Sister Violet,” he said, lifting his hat with one hand while the other hoisted my bag into the buggy’s hold. “Thank you so much, Brother Caleb, for helping me in my time of need,” I answered. I gathered up my skirts, raising the hem well above my ankles and calves as I prepared to climb up onto the buckboard. Brother Caleb took me by the waist to help me and I heard