The Dark Issue 75: The Dark, #75

By Y.M. Pang, Clara Madrigano, Ernest O. Ògúnyẹmí and Nelson Stanley

Each month The Dark brings you the best in dark fantasy and horror! Selected by award-winning editor Sean Wallace and published by Prime Books, this issue includes four all-new stories:

 

"Lace, Comb, Apple" by Y.M. Pang
"The Screaming Tree" by Clara Madrigano
"Yahoo Plus" by Ernest O. Ògúnyẹmí
"Brief Lives" by Nelson Stanley

• Language: English
• Publisher: Prime Books
• Release date: Jul 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201381776

Book preview

THE DARK

Issue 75 • August 2021

Lace, Comb, Apple by Y.M. Pang

The Screaming Tree by Clara Madrigano

Yahoo Plus by Ernest O. Ògúnyẹmí

Brief Lives by Nelson Stanley

Cover Art: Embrace by Zhirui Wang (Insist)

ISSN 2332-4392.

Edited by Sean Wallace.

Cover design by Garry Nurrish.

Copyright © 2021 by Prime Books.

www.thedarkmagazine.com

Lace, Comb, Apple

by Y.M. Pang

There was nothing here but swirling grey fog, and me. The laces around my waist were cinched so tight I could hardly breathe. A comb threaded through my hair, and in my hands I held an apple.

For the longest time I sat in the haze, listening to silence.

Then, footsteps. Your face swam into view, all golden hair and emerald eyes. You spoke:

"Mirror, Mirror, on the wall,

Who is the fairest of them all?"

And because you were the first person I’d ever seen, I said, You, my lady.

You were scarcely more than a girl then, all laughter and dreams, your words an ever-flowing stream. You spoke of your maids, Gerda and Aili, how they always laced your dress too tight but made up for it with their endless servings of gossip. You spoke of festooned trees strung up in the new year, and how you feared the candles decorating their branches would set them alight. You spoke of hunting trips to the Wild Forest, and how your arrow brought down a boar that had evaded even your father.

I couldn’t see any of this. My only window to your world was that small oval of glass, through which I could see your golden tresses and carefree smile—and sometimes, when the light was perfect, faint shapes of your bedchamber. Your canopy bed, coloured a light purple, and the bookshelf filled top to bottom.

Will you read to me? I asked one day.

You giggled. A mirror, asking me to read? Father would never believe me if I told him. Not even Gerda and Aili will.

Then don’t tell them, I said, because even then, that felt important. Will you read to me? Please?

You sat down, and opened a book. Your voice was almost a song, as you read about knightly adventures and festive weddings.

I pressed my hands as hard as I could against the glass separating us, but it wouldn’t give. I hammered my fists against it, raked my nails across its surface. Bent over your book, you didn’t see me, and didn’t seem to hear me either.

You never knew how hard I’d tried to reach you.

"What do I look like?" I asked you once, tugging at the comb in my hair.

You giggled, and said, My reflection?

I dropped my hand and sighed. You seemed to understand my disappointment, for you added, Well, if I stare really closely, I can see a cloud of grey smoke. And . . . yes, you have eyes. Beautiful red eyes.

Ah, I see. I wondered if my only possessions—the laces, the comb, the apple—were mere illusions. Maybe I, too, was fog.

"Mirror, Mirror, on the wall,

Who is the fairest of them all?"

At the sound of your voice, I lifted myself from the fog. You. The answer was automatic now.

Once I drew closer to the glass, I realized you weren’t wearing your usual smile. Your eyes were red, as if you’d been crying.

I guess that’s why that king chose me, you muttered. Father said he really liked my portrait.

What’s wrong? I asked.

I must marry the King of Argaull. And I must leave in a fortnight.

That’s great, I said. Because in all the stories you’d read to me, marrying a king was a happy ending.

But you only shook your head, more tears gathering behind your eyes. But his lands are so far away, and I don’t know when I’ll be able to come home again. He is almost my father’s age, and has a daughter by his past wife already. Do you think she’ll like me, Mirror?

Of course she’ll like you. Everyone likes you.

That’s not true. But you smiled through your tears. I’m glad you think so, though.

A slow horror dawned on me. If you are to leave for a faraway land, does that mean you’re leaving me?

You leapt to your feet and threw your arms around me—or rather, around the glass that separated us. No, never! I’ll take you with me, even if that means leaving everything else behind.

It was the closest we’d come to an embrace. I leaned against the glass, and would’ve cried with you if I had any tears.

Fog. Smoke. Grey.

My empty world, which was all I had during your journey. I had little sense of time, wrapped in satin and wool as I was, unable to see you or your world.

I imagined myself in one of your stories: fighting as a knight, travelling as a tinker, or attending a state dinner as a princess. I wished I could travel as you did, gazing out the curtains of the carriage into towns and villages, at swaying trees with their leaves turning fire-orange in the autumn.

But always, always, my thoughts would trail off and I’d realize I was alone. I could only ever gaze upon your world from the outside. I was helpless without you, lacking even that small oval window when you didn’t unwrap my glass and speak to me.

Days of loneliness. Nights of ennui. Not that my world even had days or nights—I’d simply adopted your language because it was all I had. I tied and untied the laces, combed my hair over and over. Pressed my lips to the white half of the apple, but never ate. That, too, felt important.

I couldn’t stay like this forever. An outsider, eternally at your mercy. One day, I would cross the barrier into your world, no matter what the cost.

"Mirror, Mirror, on the wall,

Who is the fairest of them all?"

I didn’t answer, only dragged myself wearily to the oval where you stood.

I thought you’d forgotten about me, I said.

"Never. The journey took so long, and oh Mirror, I have so much to tell you. It’s so cold here in Argaull, and in winter the snow buries the castle for