Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 45

By Small Beer Press

May: gone. June: gone. July: moving fast. Here are gods, snakes, death, and demons. On the lighter, crunchier side: carrots and apples. Twice a year this zine slips out into this world, less internationally than it used to. Maybe I just need to stand at airports and offer it as in-flight reading? Maybe I can persuade an airline to make it their in-flight magazine? How refreshing it would be to pull LCRW out of the seat pocket. Since LCRW only comes out twice a year, that leaves 10 months to be filled in with other zines. Airlines, ping me. We can make this work.

In the meantime, good things are here.

Made by Gavin J. Grant & Kelly Link.

This 2 minute 45 second issue is Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet 45 and is going out in August 2022. ISSN 1544-7782. Ebook ISBN: 9781618732071. Text: Bodoni Book. Titles: Imprint MT Shadow. LCRW is (usually) published in June (. . .) and November by Small Beer Press, 150 Pleasant St., #306, Easthampton, MA 01027 · [e-mail] · smallbeerpress.com/lcrw. twitter.com/smallbeerpress · Printed at Paradise Copies (paradisecopies.com · 413-585-0414). Subscriptions: $24/4 issues (see page 13 of the print issue or PDF for options). Please make checks to Small Beer Press.

Library & institutional subscriptions: EBSCO.

LCRW is available as a DRM-free ebook through weightlessbooks.com, &c. 

Contents © 2022 the authors. All rights reserved.

Cover illustration “Nausicaa” © 2020 by Ashanti Fortson (ashantifortson.com).

Celebrating! Zen Cho’s LA Times Ray Bradbury Book Award for Spirits Abroad and Isabel Yap’s Ladies of Horror Awards for her story “Syringe” and her collection Never Have I Ever. We brought two titles out as ebooks recently: Susan Stinson’s novel Venus of Chalk and Howard Waldrop’s collection Dream Factories and Radio Pictures. RIP Angélica Gorodischer and Geoffrey Goodwin.

Since December 2021 Gavin has been on the couch/working from home (not in the office or shop) with something along the lines of CFS or post-viral fatigue so everything Small Beer has & will be slowed down for the foreseeable future. Thanks to Laura, Kate, Beth, Franchie, Diya, & Jess at Book Moon for shipping LCRW (&c) and running the bookshop like a dream.  We’re switching websites and point of sales systems at Book Moon so your orders and patience are much appreciated.

Please send submissions (especially weird and interesting work from women writers and writers of color), guideline requests, &c. to the address above. Thanks again, authors, artists, readers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Small Beer Press
• Release date: Aug 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9781618732071

Book preview

9781618732071.jpg

Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet #45




Made by

Gavin J. Grant

& Kelly Link.




Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet issue number 45, December 2021. ISSN 1544-7782. Ebook ISBN: 9781618732071.

This 2 minute 45 second issue is Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet 45 and is going out in July 2022. Print version text font: Bodoni Book. Titles: Imprint MT Shadow. LCRW is (usually) published in June (. . .) and November by Small Beer Press, 150 Pleasant St., #306, Easthampton, MA 01027 · [e-mail] · smallbeerpress.com/lcrw. twitter.com/smallbeerpress · Printed at Paradise Copies (paradisecopies.com · 413-585-0414).

Subscriptions: $24/4 print issues (best choice: add chocolate). Please make checks to Small Beer Press. Library & institutional subscriptions: EBSCO.

LCRW is available as a DRM-free ebook through weightlessbooks.com, &c.

Contents © 2022 the authors. All rights reserved. Cover illustration Nausicaa © 2020 by Ashanti Fortson (ashantifortson.com).

Celebrating! Zen Cho’s LA Times Ray Bradbury Book Award for Spirits Abroad and Isabel Yap’s Ladies of Horror Awards for her story Syringe and her collection Never Have I Ever.

We brought two titles out as ebooks recently: Susan Stinson’s novel Venus of Chalk and Howard Waldrop’s collection Dream Factories and Radio Pictures.

RIP Angélica Gorodischer and Geoffrey Goodwin.


If you read this in August 2022, go see Richard Butner (NY/NJ) and Robert Freeman Wexler (OH/TX/IL) on tour!


Since December Gavin has been on the couch/working from home (not in the office or shop) with something along the lines of CFS or post-viral fatigue so everything Small Beer has & will be slowed down for the foreseeable future. (Meh.) Thanks to Laura, Kate, Beth, Franchie, Diya, & Jess at Book Moon for shipping LCRW (&c) and running the bookshop like a dream. We’re switching websites and point of sales systems there so your orders and patience are much appreciated.




Please send submissions (especially weird and interesting work from women writers and writers of color), guideline requests, &c. to the address above. Thanks again, authors, artists, readers.

The Rattling Seed

Anna O’Connor

Walking back from Rhona’s flat along the dark road, Theo’s left leg still felt strange beneath him. Like he’d borrowed it from somebody else. He thought of his own flat, another half-hour’s walk away, where Jacob and his girlfriend were probably trailing their giggles down the hall. He pictured them with fondness as he paused to check his phone: past midnight, no more buses. The noise of an engine rose to a keen behind him and a taxi sped into view. Each car that passed was like a little drama, told again and again. The long, taut ring of approach, the sudden plummet of sound. Maybe he should just call an Uber; he toyed with the extravagant idea as the taxi’s lights shrunk away. The night had a sharp, cold edge to it, as though if handled carelessly it might draw blood. But Theo found that, cold and leg and all, he was not in a hurry to get home. He started walking again.

A lift in the wind made him pull his jacket together, and as he worked at its buttons he listened to another car approach. This one, however, didn’t pass—it pulled up beside him, the hungry sound of its motor hanging in the air. Theo stopped. He watched the passenger window roll down. Faint, pop-ish music. A young man leaned into view.

You are hurt, said the man, in an accent Theo didn’t recognize. But he was bad with accents, after all.

Hurt? he said. No.

You were limping.

He looked down at himself.

I will drive you, said the man.

I’m not hurt, said Theo. The stranger watched him with eyebrows drawn together. He looked only a year or so older than Theo, and he had a pale, serious face, with dark eyes set nearly at its outermost edges. Theo hadn’t realized he’d been limping; he frowned.

The young man shrugged and turned to look out the windshield, but his car continued to idle at the curb. Theo felt a tug in his chest. When he left Rhona’s he’d been filled with a raw, sad affection, and the thought of reaching his flat to be left alone with it made him anxious. He waited for the stranger to speak again. Wanting to be delayed. Wanting something to happen.

I am going to the woods, said the stranger.

Oh, said Theo.

It’s the night of the Rattling Seed, he said, drumming a thumb against the steering wheel. He turned to look at Theo again. Do you celebrate?

Theo shook his head. The concern on the man’s face deepened.

Would you like to go with me? he asked, faint music still pulsing behind his voice.

To the woods?

Yes. It’s the night of the Rattling Seed, the man repeated. We should all be celebrating.

His narrow room was waiting for him. Its empty, unmade bed. He thought of Jacob and Sasha’s closed-door laughter, and of the neglected emails from his family in the States. Through the intermittent clouds of his own breath, Theo considered the stranger.

I have some things I should take care of at my flat.

But his cheeks were flushed with cold from his walk, and he felt, maybe, a little masochistic—like he was being hounded by a shapeless half-pain, and if he could force it to finally show itself he might at least know what to make of things.

What things? said the man. What things so late at night?

Oh, fumbled Theo, retracing his thoughts. Laundry. But although he couldn’t quite unpick what is was that nagged at him, he sensed how it stood plainly on his face. The stranger began to transfer some debris—Tesco receipts, a copy of The Guardian with the crossword half-completed—from the passenger seat into the back seat. Another car sang past. He could feel every spot where Rhona had kissed him. Little cool bright marks down his neck and shoulders. The man leaned against his seatbelt to open the door. Theo climbed in.

What is your name? asked the stranger while Theo struggled with his seatbelt buckle. The car had pulled away from the curb, and as the man spoke his wide-set eyes remained fixed on the road.

Alex, said Theo, enjoying the sudden superstitious impulse. What’s yours?

Hm, said the stranger.

They sat without speaking. The white dotted line flickering in the windshield seemed to spark a kind of weightlessness in Theo’s chest. It was a long time since he’d been in a car. Sitting in the passenger seat reminded him of being very young. He found that he felt either very safe, or so powerless it felt as peaceful as safety. He abandoned the buckle.

My name is Eugene, said the stranger. What happened to your leg?

Oh, said Theo. I broke it. Back in January, hiking.

You are American? A student?

Yes.

Your leg is healed?

Yes.

You fell? Hiking?

Yeah, said Theo.

It still hurts?

No. It just feels a bit funny without the cast.

Hm, said Eugene.

Theo settled back into the creaky leather seat, watching the flash-flash-flash of the dotted line where it vanished against the windshield’s edge. You must’ve been ready to burn those crutches, Rhona had said as she poured the wine. The two young men sat in silence, only the radio humming between them. The city rose on either side of the road, but they did not meet a single red traffic light as they sped along. Soon the buildings began to grow lower and sparser again.

Flash-flash-flash. The crutches were made of metal and rubber, but it hadn’t seemed worth reminding Rhona of this. They still leant against Theo’s bedroom wall; he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of them. They’d seemed to develop personalities—distinct ones, right and left—over the last four months. He had kept this to himself.

The night is cold, said Eugene. This can be very bad for bones.

It’s alright. Really, my leg doesn’t hurt.

We will build a fire.

Theo nodded and shot a glance at Eugene, who continued to stare ahead.

What’s the rattling seed? he asked. Trees towered around them. They’d left the city behind.

It rattles once a year, said Eugene. He clicked the turn signal on.

The dirt road they veered onto widened until it became a sort of clearing. Eugene cut the motor and switched the radio off, then stepped out of the car, leaving the driver’s door open and the headlights on. After a moment’s hesitation Theo followed, shutting the passenger door behind him. As he stood shivering in the spring night, the cool, sweet smell of the woods made him feel suddenly small and out of place. And Eugene, it turned out, had been right; his leg ached in the cold. He noticed it now for the first time. He watched the young man unlock the boot; the narrow figure lit redly by tail lights.

All at once, much too late, horror bloomed at his own stupidity. He’s taking out the axe—the knife—the gun— Theo felt his mind peeling away from his body.

Instead Eugene passed him a cardboard box, which he automatically accepted, and which settled against his forearms with a familiar clinking. Atop the box Eugene set a book, its cover just visible in the dull red glare. A book of crossword puzzles.

I can’t do British crossword puzzles, Theo heard himself apologizing. I never know the answers.

They are not for us, said Eugene, shouldering a rucksack. He took out an old camping lantern and lit it with a soft pop, then slammed the boot and stepped around the car to switch the headlights off. Without checking to see if Theo was behind him, Eugene strode forward into the woods, casting tall forms of amber light up the dark trees. Theo hesitated, watching the lantern shrink toward the distance. Then he followed.

His focus became absorbed by navigating the underbrush in the poor, shifting light. The ache in his leg seemed be growing worse; this, and the sharpening weight of the box against his arms, helped to quiet the other parts of his mind. He didn’t know how long they walked for, but after some time the light from Eugene’s lantern spilled into an open space. Theo emerged a few steps behind him and paused. It seemed to be another clearing, but in the darkness it was difficult to make out anything besides the ragged circle of sky. Consciously fighting a limp now, he approached Eugene, who was crouched with the lantern by a fire pit that had been scraped out of the mossy ground. As he lowered the box, the book of crosswords slid off it. Eugene reached for the book and set it aside, then continued unloading firewood from his rucksack.

Help yourself, please, to beers, he said. Theo opened the box and did so, fumbling the cap off with a key from his pocket. As he took a sip, he stared around him. Things seemed to be glinting faintly from beyond the lantern’s net of light. Eugene raised his head and glanced over both shoulders, looking oddly sheepish; he tore a few pages from the book of crosswords, crumpled them, then grouped them in the center of the pit.

Can I do anything? Theo offered as Eugene arranged the wood. Eugene paused to hand him the book.

Will you please make sure there are no torn edges, he said.

Theo obeyed, crouching unsteadily to set down his beer. Who’s this for? he asked, but just as he spoke Eugene struck a match and held it to the nest of paper. The fire rose quickly through the balanced logs, and their surroundings became visible at last. Heaps of broken things dotted the clearing’s perimeter: what must have been hundreds of cracked terracotta planters and earthenware vessels, studded with the bright fragments of drinking glasses, teacups, champagne coupes, glazed ceramic mugs.

Theo started to stand again, intending to investigate, but his leg had gone painfully stiff; he took a seat on the ground instead. He pulled the ankle of his right leg toward him, letting his left lie flat alongside the fire.

What is all that? he asked, crooking his head toward one of the piles.

Eugene gave him a knowing, superior look, but he did not answer. Theo shrugged and picked up his beer again, then began to pluck at the label’s corner with his thumbnail.

How old are you? asked Eugene.

Twenty-two.

Oh, said Eugene. Very, very young.

How old are you, then? he asked, trying to brush away a prickle of irritation.

I am two hundred and thirty years old, said Eugene, importantly.

Theo raised his eyebrows. That’s old, he grinned. He took a sip of beer.

Americans think everything is old, said Eugene.

A sudden clinking noise came from the clearing’s edge. Theo snapped his head around to see something detaching itself from the top of one of the piles, sending fragments of glass and pottery tumbling down its slopes. He sat very still, frozen with sudden panic, and it took a few moments before he recognized the shape of a shaggy, smallish hound picking its way carefully to the ground. He began to cough on his beer. It came toward the fire. Eugene held up a hand, as if in greeting.

Is this your dog? choked Theo.

No, said Eugene. This is Fortuna.

The dog sniffed Eugene’s hand, then began to snuffle at the ground around them. She ignored Theo, but when she reached the book of crosswords she paused. She nudged it with her nose, then raised her head to give Eugene a droop-eyed stare.

Whose dog is she?

She is not anybody’s dog. She has lived here for a long time. Many hundreds of years.

Theo laughed. Is that in dog years? He felt his pounding heart begin to relent. Fortuna gave a great, dusty-sounding sneeze.

There are not such things as dog years, Eugene explained sternly.