Black Swan, White Raven: A Modern Collection of Fairy Tales

Black Swan, White Raven: A Modern Collection of Fairy Tales

Ellen Datlow, Terri Windling

Language: English

Pages: 223

ISBN: 2:00218928

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."

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violent and continued for so longe that I hid my-selfe in a corner. “Woman,” sayz a Voice. “What are you a-crying for?” “Oh!” sayz I. “Are you the Pharisee?” A small black thinge. Hairie. Legges like jug-handles. Face—not a bitt handsome. It had a long blacke taile—at which I waz much surprised. Irishmen have tailes Deare a quarter of a yard longe (as I thinke is commonly known) but I never hearde before that Pharisees have them. “Are you a good Pharisee or a bad?” sayz I. The Pharisee,

her reach, followed by crashing fits of despair. She lost weight and hair. Her face became pinched and drawn. Mirrors, which had always been allies, became enemies. She would stiffen at the sight of herself, eyes filled with condemnation and longing, lacking the strength to turn away. I, too, lacked the strength, to turn away from her. My dear and once beloved Vexing. As her star fell, so did mine. I took to spending time in the cottage, which had become a refuge for me. The trees and birds and

In the night, in the insomniac night where sudden shadows loom gigantic and in the next instant vanish, much is exaggerated, Judith knows. Thinking Not Holly, don’t be ridiculous. Not my daughter not now not ever. In the corner of her eye seeing, not seeing. What is it?—a vehicle parked in the dunes. Headlights off. On a beach trail amid tall rushes, whipped by the wind. She refuses to acknowledge it, will not be alarmed. The vehicle might be abandoned; if anyone is in it, probably they’re

her breast with his mouth, his hand moved between her legs. He knew how to touch her already. He kissed her other breast. “Like that,” she said. “Just like that.” Her body began to tighten in anticipation. He kissed her mouth. He kissed her mouth. * * * * He kissed her mouth. It was not a hard kiss, but it opened her eyes. This was not the right face. She had never seen this man before, and the look he gave her—she wasn’t sure she liked it. Why was he kissing her, when she was asleep and had

rose hips, running his tongue over the slender, waxy surface of the bulbous tubes. Biting them off at the sepal, he savored the sharp tartness as he chewed the fibrous fruit. When he swallowed, the wind blew through the thorns like a sigh. The hermit was right, Olaus. Weeds don’t part for other weeds. The aches in his body became less insistent. His eyelids felt heavy, and his head drooped forward from fatigue. He looked at the bloodred thorns poking into his chest and legs. Cane that gripped

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