It’s been eleven months, two solstices passed, since I first posted the theme announcement for Soft Star Magazine’s sixth issue, Solstice. Over the following months, I received and shared stories of light and darkness, cycles of change, and the inevitable passage of time. I also received several beautiful submissions of visual art that captured those same themes, which I tucked away with plans to incorporating them into Issue Six’s print edition.

Spring then summer came and went, and now in autumn, as the nights grow longer and another solstice draws near, Issue Six’s print edition remains unpublished. It’s been a particularly busy year for me — a promotion at work, planning and hosting a wedding — and unfortunately, Soft Star got a bit lost on the back burner. So the other day, I finally made the decision that I will not be publishing Issue Six: Solstice in print after all.

However, I do want to share the issue’s stunning visual art pieces with you. You’ll find them below, each accompanied by the artist’s byline and some words about the piece’s connection to the issue’s theme. I hope you’ll enjoy them as much as I did, and maybe they’ll inspire you to re-read Issue Six online.

And just like a regular print issue, I’ll also include a table of contents of the written pieces here:

Poetry

October Song by Hope Joseph

The Human Museum by Kate Wylie

Solstice I and Solstice II by Erica Vanstone

Grizzlies by Nicholas Trandahl

burning is a beautiful song by Willow Gatewood

Visitor by Spencer Keene

Fiction

Snip Snap Dragon by Mara Davis Price

The Planet Eaters by Alyssa Jordan

Family Tree by JH Tomen

A Lady of the Lake by Korinne West

Nonfiction

Modern Attempts at Ancient Celebration by J.A. Norman
(winner of the Solstice Essay Contest)

The Light Starts Winning Again by Courtney Welu

Issue Six: Solstice | Visual Art

Meike Hakkaart, known as Art of Maquenda, is a Dutch artist inspired by the wild, the macabre, and the deeply human. Her work embraces life’s raw honesty, exploring themes of death, decay, and the beauty found in taboos. With a style that weaves nature, folklore, and emotion into haunting yet intricate pieces, she reflects the cycle of life and our deep connection to the natural world. Passionate about the strange and wonderful, Meike’s art invites viewers to connect with the untamed and the unseen, celebrating nature’s dark and delicate balance.

From Meike: “Just as the solstice marks a turning point in the year, this piece delves into themes of power, mortality, and nature’s reclamation. The stag, adorned with the severed heads of kings on its antlers, represents the fall of rulers and the inevitable triumph of nature over human constructs. It embodies a cycle of dominance and decay, where even the mighty are brought low, feeding the endless rhythm of renewal. Through this, The Trophy Hunter invites viewers to reflect on the impermanence of power and humanity’s place within the greater cycle of life and death.”

Amelia Clark is a freelance graphic designer and illustrator with a focus in comics, publishing, and fantasy vignettes. She cultivates her inspiration by reading, playing RPGs & video games, and venturing into the woods.

Amelia is a long-time Soft Star contributor and a personal friend of mine. This piece was directly inspired by Mara Davis Price’s short story in Issue Six, “Snip Snap Dragon,” in which a family partakes in a strange ritual on the winter solstice, leading to a violent and total transformation.

Both Andrew and Richard are returning artists to Soft Star Magazine.

Andrew is a self taught visual artist who also has interests in learning new languages and singing. I chose “Untitled” for Issue Six because of its interplay of light and darkness and its allusion to change and cosmic cycles (the phases of the moon).

Richard’s artist bio: “Had four kids but now just three. Zen and Love.” I selected “Image 45” for this issue because it reminded me of flame: the flickering winter solstice candle, the midsummer bonfire, the destruction and renewal of great change.

Eliza is another returning Soft Star contributor. She is an illustrator with a love for folklore, nature, outer space, and all the little things that make life magical. She loves drawing whimsical worlds and creatures, and loves taking inspiration from folk tales, the natural world, and her dreams. When she isn’t crafting new illustrations, she can be found enjoying the outdoors, reading, or caring for her cats.

From Eliza: “On a starry full moon night, a small group are gathered at a small stone circle to dance around a bonfire. The people are intentionally a very small, barely noticeable part of the painting in comparison to the sea, misty cliff side, and especially the night sky, to try to capture how we as humans are dwarfed by the grandeur of nature, and how that calls us to celebrate and sometimes worship it, especially in early pagan cultures.”

Sterre is an illustrator and designer who I came across on Instagram. Like Meike Hakkaart, I reached out to her directly to solicit a submission for Issue Six: Solstice. I was drawn to her illustrations of woodland animals, which aligned well with Issue Six’s theme of natural rhythms and cycles. The two pieces above were especially perfect fits, evoking the mysterious yet steady nature of the night sky, the phases of the moon, the cycle of life and death, and our place within it all.

Another piece from Sterre; this one tied in well with summer solstice pieces in the issue like “Solstice I and Solstice II” by Erica Vanstone and “Family Tree” by JH Tomen.

Jessi hails from the cornfields of the Midwest and has, somehow, found her way to the swamps of Southeast Louisiana. She is an artist, poet, Antiquarian, singer, and baker.

Here’s how Jessi describes “Just after dusk”: “A liminal space, a home stuck between it’s life as a keeper of families to a cold, broken down shack just waiting to finish rotting.” I loved this photo’s contrasts: not quite evening, not quite night, both deep blue and vibrant yellow, a house forgotten but not yet gone.

Thank you very much to every single contributor to Issue Six: Solstice. I really believe it’s a beautiful issue of Soft Star, even if it will only live online.

From today onward, Soft Star Magazine will be on an extended hiatus from accepting submissions. I hope to return in the future for Issue Seven, when life has slowed down a bit. For now, enjoy Issue Six, and enjoy next month’s solstice.

Until next time,

Miranda

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The morning sun had barely crested over the snow-capped mountains when another visitor bounded up the lane, snowshoes flinging a fresh dusting over the very spot Elle was trying to shovel.

“Good madam,” this one said, his bravado diminished by the huffing and puffing punctuating every word. (Another one from the lowlands, then. Altitude gets ‘em every time.) “I am searching for the Lady of the Lake.”

“You and everyone else,” Elle replied wearily. She had run out of coffee beans yesterday, and this shoveling was taking forever, and maybe ice is just water but it’s the worst kind of water because it just gets in the way. “Why do you want her?”

He seemed surprised that she would even ask. “Why, for the glory, of course!” he exclaimed. “For the blessing of the Grand Sorceress, that I may be given an Excalibur to make the world a more righteous place!”

She tried very hard not to roll her eyes, but ultimately failed. “Let me guess,” she said, propping her shovel up in the snow and leaning down on the handle. “You just searched the internet for ‘lady of the lake, grand sorceress’ and it gave you my address.”

“Er,” he said. He fidgeted and nearly tripped over his snowshoe. “Quite.”

“If I have to call about getting that removed again, I swear to god,” Elle grumbled under her breath. To the bumbling idiot in front of her she explained slowly, as if to a toddler or perhaps a manager in a business meeting, “So I’m the lady of the lake for Grand Lake. Lowercase l’s. You’re looking for the Lady of the Lake, capital L’s. You’re not going to find her in Colorado.”

“Then where is she?” the poor misguided fool demanded. “Where is the real Lady of the Lake?”

“I dunno, dude,” she said with a shrug. “Wales, probably? Ask a scholar, not me.”

He blustered, but ultimately turned (this time actually tripping over his snowshoe) and ambled back down the winding road. She resumed her shoveling. “Real” lady of the lake, she scoffed internally. As if. These dumb adventurers don’t even know what they’re talking about.

She got the drive shoveled, and got the snowmobile out — no point in unearthing the car yet — and she made her way down the winding path and into town. Out here in the Rockies, tiny towns such as hers had their waves of tourism every winter and summer, and currently the snowbirds were flocking in. But aside from the visitors, it still had that small town charm, and — more importantly to the local lady of the lake — not too many residents who knew her and would try to strike up conversation on sight.

She parked the snowmobile haphazardly outside the diner-cafe-welcome-center combo, and headed inside before the wind chill could finish eating its way through her coat. A rush of warmth and coffee-scented majesty washed over her, and she sighed in something like happiness.

“Elle!” called a voice behind the counter. “Was wonderin’ if I’d see you in here soon.”

“I’d rather be at home,” she said, making her way over and leaning her elbows next to the register. “But I’m out of beans.”

“My favorite tragedy, if it means a visit from you.” The shop proprietor set aside the stack of receipts they were fiddling with and grinned at Elle. “The usual?”

“Yes, please.”

“Coming right up.” With a cheerful wink, they turned the little screen her way to complete the transaction, and vanished into a separate room, where the loud screech of an espresso machine could be slightly muted from the rest of the shop.

Elle paid for her coffee (Rayne had already rung up an extra bag of whole beans, bless them) and took a seat at an empty table nearby to wait. The place wasn’t too crowded for being the middle of the day. There was a couple eating sandwiches at another table that Elle recognized from the ski rental place further up the mountain; there was one guy she didn’t know finishing off his own coffee across the room, probably a tourist. She probably should go say hi to the ski rental people. Her grandmother would have chided her for poor manners.

But, well, Elle wasn’t in a sociable mood, and her grandmother wasn’t here, so she sat, waiting and watching the snow lazily fall outside.

Finally, Rayne called out her order. Elle pushed back her chair and went back to the counter, almost snatching the to-go cup out of the barista’s hands before they could finish saying “enjoy.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Rayne,” Elle said, remembering at least a little bit of manners.

They gave her another grin. “Anything for our favorite local lake witch.”

Elle rolled her eyes. “For the billionth time—”

“I know, I know, you don’t do that anymore.” They laughed. “For how reclusive you are, though, you’re not helping your reputation…”

“Thank you, Rayne,” Elle said sternly, turning away and walking to the door. “Goodbye, Rayne.”

“Bye, Elle!” they called after her, cheerfully unconcerned with her bad moods.

As she hesitated at the shop’s front door, readjusting her scarf and coat before going back out into the cold, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. That tourist who had been finishing off his cup had stood, presumably to return his dishes, but he seemed to be watching her. Elle ignored this. Rayne and their dumb comments…

However, she’d barely gotten one leg swung over the seat of her snowmobile before she was stopped. “Excuse me?”

Elle looked up to find, sure enough, the same guy from inside. He was Black, with a stack of neatly-trimmed tight curls of hair, a yellow knit sweater layered under a worn denim jacket, and round glasses frames that were fogged up from his breath. Had he run out here to catch her? He was beaming at her, though, bright and easy and cheerful. (Everybody in this town was far too chipper for so chilly a day.) “Did I hear right in there? Are you the lady of the lake?”

Rayne and their dumb comments! Elle thought again, but harder. “I’m off duty,” she said to the tourist-adventurer-whatever.

“Oh. I was just wondering if I could ask you a few questions—”

“No thank you,” she cut him off. And without waiting for another reply, she cranked up the snowmobile and sped away back home.

She was freezing by the time she pulled back up at her cabin and its neatly shoveled drive. It wasn’t too big, but it was homey and worn in like a favorite pair of socks, and Grand Lake was a very short drive away — walking distance, in good weather. The cabin had been in Elle’s family for generations, though she’d only been living there by herself for the last few years or so.

She trundled up the drive and through the door, sighing as the warmth enveloped her once more. Taking off her rapidly melting boots by the door, she unearthed herself from her many layers and took some time to get a fire going in the fireplace. Once that was done, she headed for the kitchen. Her to-go coffee had cooled significantly from the drive back and sitting while she worked, but she could just throw some ice in that one and use the bag of beans to make a fresh—

Except she’d left the beans at the cafe. Elle groaned. “Fine,” she said. “Fine. One of those days.”

Resigning herself to another trip out in the cold, Elle pulled her coat off the rack once more. Before she could finish putting it on, however, there was a knock at the door.

Why is the universe out to get me today? Elle thought. She pulled the door open, already saying, “Whatever you want, I’m not interested—”

“Brought you your coffee,” said the tourist-adventurer-whatever from before. Sure enough, there he stood, the top of his head dusted with snow like powdered sugar on a pastry and a bag of coffee beans held outstretched in one hand. He smiled widely. “The barista saw me talking to you and asked if I’d bring them your way, since you left without it.”

“We’re gonna have a talk about them just handing out my address to strangers,” Elle grumbled. Somewhat hesitantly, she took the beans. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Aw, don’t be mean to Rayne. I can be very persuasive!”

“First name basis already?”

“What can I say?” he said. “I’m good at making friends. I’m Theo, by the way. Theodore Sorley.” He stuck out his hand, which Elle did not take. She was not having this sunshine energy right now, not today.

“Nice to meet you, Theodore Sorley. Thanks for the delivery. Goodbye now.” She tried to close the door, but he stuck a Converse-clad foot into the doorway before she managed. Who even wears high tops in the snow? Tourist behavior.

“You’re the lady of the lake,” he repeated. “Of Grand Lake, I mean. I’ve been looking for one for ages!”

This gave Elle pause. The fact that he even knew that there were multiple ladies of multiple lakes was more than basically anyone else who’d come to her door could say. Still, she was skeptical. “Okay?”

“I’d hoped,” Theo said, “to tell you what I’m looking for, and see if you’d grant me a boon. Or at least point me in the direction of whoever can help me.”

Elle actually considered it, probably because he asked politely in normal language and not by pretending to speak like a Knight of the Round Table, and that in and of itself was shocking. Still… “I'm not in the habit of entertaining strangers’ flights of fancy just because they know the right words to ask me,” she said.

“What if I bought you coffee first?”

Elle gave him an unimpressed look, hefting her bag of beans in one hand.

Theo frowned. “What if… I bought you coffee tomorrow?”

Elle sighed. “Then I'll consider it tomorrow.” She closed the door before he could respond, then stood there and counted her breaths until she was sure he had left.

She went to the kitchen to put the coffee beans away, and a quick peek through the curtained window showed a tall, gangly figure walking away down the lane. Elle breathed a sigh of relief.

Finally alone and spared an extra trip outside, she went to the kitchen to get some hot coffee made. The kitchen was cramped with aging appliances she didn’t use, but Elle was bad at getting rid of things. It’s why everything in the cabin was more or less how Elle’s grandmother had left the place before Elle moved back.

She had not moved back to be Grand Lake’s next “lake witch,” no matter what the locals thought. And she was getting so weary of everyone walking up and assuming that she had.

“It’s not what’s-his-name’s fault,” she muttered to herself. “You could have left as soon as affairs were settled, you know.” She filled an ancient kettle, a pretty little thing enameled with retro flowers and vines, and set it to boil. She stared at it as the slow, dull roar of heating water began, knowing she was being ridiculous. Stupid adventurers. Stupid Rayne. Stupid, stupid lake.

Once refueled and caffeinated, Elle retreated back to the sitting room and pulled out her latest project — a quilted blanket that she was embroidering for her step-sister’s new baby.

It was easy to get lost in the repetitive motions of embroidery. The sun was already fading for the day but the fire was high, and she didn’t have anywhere else to be. Unfortunately, while Elle could more or less zone out while crafting this way — another leaf here, another decorative swirl there — that meant her mind could wander to things she’d rather not think about.

Like watching her grandmother open the door to visitors just like Elle had today, inviting them into the kitchen and making them tea. Listening from the other room until, inevitably, Gram would ask them to come back at six o’clock, and take them out into the cold once Elle’s mom was home. And then, after little Elle had been put to bed, hearing the clattering by the door as Gram returned and built back up the fire despite the late hour.

When Elle would ask questions back then, Gram would just pat her hand. “I help people,” she’d say like it was obvious. “Since I have the power to, it’s my responsibility.”

Halfway through embroidering a pine forest, Elle sighed and put her needle down. She fished in the basket of loose notions for her thread scissors, one of the pretty old ones shaped like a heron, and snipped the end of the latest tree’s thread. As she put the blanket down, standing and stretching, she stared into the fire.

Gram wasn’t around anymore. And Elle wasn’t going to make her same mistakes.

Besides, that guy probably wouldn’t even come back. Why should he? He’d given her zero indication that she was going to help with…whatever he wanted.

Yeah, Elle thought as she tidied up and prepared for bed. He isn’t even going to come back.

• • •

At ten o'clock sharp, there was a knock on Elle’s door. She opened it to see none other than Theodore Sorley, in his denim jacket and Converse, his glasses fogging up as he smiled and waved. “Hi again.”

“You again,” Elle said flatly.

“Me again!” He bounced a bit on his feet as he spoke, probably because he was absolutely not wearing enough layers for how cold it was. He stuck out his hand, which Elle now noticed was holding a coffee cup. “Here, a bribe.”

“At least you’re honest.” She debated refusing, but ultimately took the cup. “You’re here to bother me about a boon again, aren’t you?”

He had the decency to look sheepish. Rubbing the back of his neck, he said, “Well, hopefully not bother…”

“Every indication I have given you so far is that I don’t want to hear it,” Elle pointed out.

“I understand. I guess…” He trailed off. “Um, do you, like, charge for your time or something? I don’t actually know how this is supposed to work.”

Huh. And he’d seemed so informed before. “How did you even learn about me?” Elle asked.

“Internet forums,” Theo replied, like this was a normal thing. “I mean, not about you specifically. But, like, about the lady of the lake thing in general.”

“Of course,” she muttered. “What a grand new millennium we live in.”

“Do you need some help shoveling snow?” Theo looked around, still bouncing. “Or something. Like, obviously, my mother raised me right, and I’d never presume to ask you for help for nothing in return. I’m, uh, a bit short on funds right now, but I can do whatever!”

Elle squinted at him and his constant fidgeting. “You're clearly not used to the weather.”

“Nope. I’m from Houston.” He beamed as bright as the hellish summer sun must be in such a place. (For all her complaints about Grand Lake, there were worse places to dwell than up in the mountains. Thinking of the humidity alone down south made her shudder, never mind the heat.) “But I’m sure I can figure it out.”

Damn this southerner and his affable yet determined nature. She wasn’t getting rid of him easily, she could already tell. “Shovel the drive,” Elle finally said, “and get me some firewood. Then I’ll hear you out.”

Theo gave her a mock salute, though perhaps the exaggerated excitement was to hide the way his shoulders slumped in — relief? Either way, he said, “You got it!” and scampered off after grabbing the shovel she kept by the door. She hadn’t even had a chance to tell him where to get firewood.

With a sigh, Elle went back inside. He said he’d figure it out. Good lord, why was she even entertaining this? She should have sent him away the first chance she got.

But, well — maybe she’d been thinking about Gram too much. She’d always been a little disappointed in Elle for not following in her footsteps, as it were. Elle had always claimed she didn’t care. Maybe she did, a little.

She had to give Theo credit — he was determined, and not entirely in an annoying way. Usually, when supplicants came by to beseech the lady of the lake for a boon, they were annoying about it. They made their wish, which upon refusal became a demand, which upon dismissal became a haughty “Well, I doubt you could have helped me anyway.” It happened to Elle with unfortunate frequency, and every time she kind of understood why her grandmother had mostly just gone with it. Less headache that way.

Theo, on the other hand, came by for three days straight to shovel her drive, chop her firewood, and bring her coffee from town. After that first day, he didn’t even ask again if she’d help him, not even when he’d reported in at the end of the day and she hadn’t invited him inside to chat about it. He just appeared again the next morning with a smile, and set to work. Elle studied him from the window, sometimes, when he was flailing about with the shovel, elbows going every which way as much as the snow did. He didn’t seem to be pretending or impatient, either — he’d walk by sometimes and she’d hear him whistling along as he worked. He genuinely seemed unperturbed that Elle may just be using him for free labor.

So finally, on that third day, when he came back to the front door to report completing all his tasks, she sighed and waved him inside. With another glaringly bright smile, he thanked her about five times as he unlaced his snow-crusted high tops to come in.

“So how does one become a lady of a lake anyway?” Theo made himself right at home at her kitchen table, elbows and all, and wasted no time.

Elle busied herself with putting the ancient kettle on the stove. (She wasn't a tea person, clearly, but traditions were traditions — nothing for it.) “Step one, be a lady,” she said as the tap ran. “Some of us come by it easier than others, but the lakes don't seem to be especially picky about how you get there.”

“Right on,” Theo said.

“Step two,” Elle went on slowly, turning the knob until the gas burner caught and settling the kettle on the precarious prongs. “Get chosen by the lake in question.”

“Chosen?”

She sighed. She had nothing left to do with hands, so she moved a salt shaker around like it was in the way. “Something happens that leaves a mark on you. I, uh… I almost drowned as a kid. That seems to be a usual story.”

Theo nodded, his face scrunched up in serious contemplation over this. He didn't offer any meaningless platitudes, though, just asked, “And then?”

“Step three. Get taken advantage of by every sucker who thinks they deserve the right to change the world.” The kettle began hissing. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Theo answered, his default cheer returning. “I get the feeling most people you’ve helped have been… less than grateful.”

Elle saw her grandmother in her mind, coming back home day after day well past dark, soaked to the bone and pale as death. She waved the memory away along with the steam from the kettle, and turned her attention to finding mugs. “You could say that.”

“They say the Lady of Lake hands out Excalibur only to those who are worthy,” Theo went on. “But like… it’s not the real Excalibur, right? Like a sword can’t actually fix most modern problems, even if it was magical. So what do you really do?”

Into the mugs went the teabags. Elle’s grandmother preferred to use mint, but Elle hated mint tea, so she kept a mediocre herbal cinnamon around. “Real Excalibur,” she scoffed. “It’s debatable whether or not Excalibur was real, anyway. Or King Arthur, for that matter.”

“You’re literally a lady of the lake.”

“Yes. That part’s real, clearly.” Elle poured the hot water over the teabags, blinking against the steam in her eyes. “Look, I wasn’t there in, I don’t know, 500 A.D. or whenever… maybe it was real, maybe it wasn’t. But the Lady of the Lake — she was real, whether or not Arthur was, and the proof of it is that I can do the same thing. Somebody comes along with a noble quest. I go to the lake and come back with something they need to complete it.”

Theo took the mug from Elle gingerly when she handed it to him. “So I’m hearing that I’m not getting a sword,” he said.

“Like you said,” Elle agreed, “swords are rarely the answers to modern problems. But we still call it Excalibur, because…” She shrugged. “It’s like… creative shorthand. Collective human knowledge has power, and everyone knows the legends. It’s easier to start there and call it that. Anyway, I haven’t agreed to help you yet.”

He hummed, taking a sip of tea after blowing across the top to cool it down. “Fair enough.” A pause as he swallowed. Then, hesitantly, he added, “I don’t get the vibe that you do this job… willingly. Even if a lake chooses you… don’t you get to choose back?”

Elle plopped down in the chair across from him once her own tea was ready. He would go straight for the proverbial jugular, wouldn’t he. “Sort of,” she said slowly. “It’s… complicated.”

Theo nodded and kept drinking his tea, not pushing.

This is how he manages to get information out of someone, isn’t it, Elle considered. Not pushing. It was kind of annoying of him, but also refreshing. Maybe that’s why she was honest.

“There’s multiple of us,” Elle said, recalling the first and only time Gram had explained all this to her, shortly after Elle’s near-drowning. She remembered shivering, wrapped in several blankets by the fire, as Gram rubbed her back and put a cup of mint tea in her trembling hands. “Ladies of the lake, I mean. But that power wears on you. The more of us there are, the more the responsibility can be spread around, in theory. Less for one person to do means less physical strain over time. So, no, nothing is forcing me to do this job. It’s just kind of a moral responsibility.”

Gram’s voice sounded in Elle’s mind again — “I help people. Since I have the power to, it’s my responsibility.” — but this time it was followed by Elle’s mother’s screams, that day they’d had to fish Elle out of the lake and force the water from her tiny lungs. “If you want to throw your life away, that’s your choice. You are not doing that to my daughter!”

They’d moved to Denver. Elle spent her whole adolescence and most of her young adulthood away from Grand Lake, and Gram, and the magic of it all. She only came back to bury her grandmother, and deal with the cabin, when the toll of so many lake excursions left Gram too weak to fight off pneumonia.

Elle had to agree with her mother. Just because you are able to help someone doesn’t mean you should — and you certainly shouldn’t risk your life for someone who only sees you as a means to an end.

She very much didn’t want to be having this conversation right now, but Elle had agreed to hear him out. “Anyway. What’s your deal?”

For the first time, Theo’s cheerful demeanor seemed to fall away. “It’s… hmm.” He frowned and bit his lip, not meeting her eyes anymore. “It’s kind of complicated. A family thing. I, uh…basically, I need something that will help me bring people back together.”

“In what way?” Elle asked. “Emotionally? Physically?”

“All the ways, I guess,” Theo said.

When he uncharacteristically did not elaborate, Elle sipped at her tea. It didn’t really matter if she knew specifics — part of Elle’s magic was that she would create whatever would help, regardless of how much she was informed beforehand. So Theo being a little cagey wasn’t actually an issue. Besides, it was almost a relief that he wasn’t tripping over his words, desperate to justify his actions and wants, like people so often did when talking to a lady of the lake. Simple was best. Owning up to what you’re asking.

“A family thing, huh,” she mused. Theo looked up at her questioningly, but said nothing, letting her think. That, too, was refreshing: maybe her role was to help people who wanted to save the world, but usually people didn’t actually care about the world they were saving as much as they did the prestige and power it would require to do so. But someone’s small, personal world, well —

She set her tea aside, unable to stomach more of it. Standing, she said, “All right, well, thank you for your help the last few days.”

Theo hesitated, then stood up too. For the first time the smile on his face looked forced. “Well, I can read the room,” he joked. “No worries. Thanks for hearing me out, anyway.”

No protests. No offended derision or desperate pleading. That finalized the decision Elle had already made. “Meet me at the coffee shop tomorrow,” she said as he followed her to the door. “I’ll give you my answer then.”

Hope, and that familiar grin, returned to Theo’s face. “Really? I mean, um, yeah, sure. Tomorrow, then.” He waved excitedly, already turning to go as she shut the door and bolted it behind him.

She watched him go back down the lane through the window, wondering why on earth she was even entertaining this. But she knew the answer, deep down. With a sigh, she looked to the clock on the wall — still a couple hours of daylight left. — and grumbled to herself, “Should’ve waited and made him do it.” But she went outside, and began to clear her car of snow, hoping she wouldn’t need to jump the battery.

After that, she puttered around the cabin, gathering up supplies and leaving them by the door before sitting down next to the fire once more, the quilt in her lap. She was almost done with the embroidery, and she wanted to have it finished before she did anything crazy.

Just in case.

She pulled out her heron-shaped scissors, and got to work.

• • •

It was mid-afternoon when she climbed into her thankfully still-functional car and headed for town. Theo was waiting exactly where she’d first seen him, three empty cups and two books on the table in front of him. At the sight of her, he sprung up and rushed over. “Hi! Oh, can I get you anything? My treat.”

“Something hot,” Elle said. “And get it to go.”

When it became obvious that Elle was not going to be forthcoming — right about the time Grand Lake itself came into view — Theo finally asked, “So…you’re helping me? Or are you, like, I dunno, gonna sacrifice me to the lake or something?”

“If I sacrificed every annoying southerner who rolled up and demanded my help,” Elle replied, “I’d be several felonies deep in prison by now.”

Her answer did not seem to put Theo at ease.

Still, he followed her as they parked and walked toward the lake. “Uh, Elle?” Theo asked when she came to a stop and crouched down to untie her boots. “What are you doing?”

“Getting in the lake,” Elle said, kicking off her shoes.

“It’s the middle of winter!” Theo exclaimed. “You’ll freeze to death!”

Elle shrugged. “Hopefully not.” She peeled off her coat and scarf next and, in just her base layers and wool socks, headed for the water.

Theo was too shocked for a minute to react, and when he finally pulled himself together, Elle was already wading into the shallows. God, she hated this part. The icy cold halted her in place at first, but she kept going. She could feel it, now, the first little glimmer of power in her chest. Long ago, the lake had carved out a place in her. That same little piece was sighing in relief to be home.

“No, Elle,” Theo called out, panicking. He hovered at the shore, the water lapping at his feet. “It’s fine. You don’t have to—” He tried to take a step forward into the lake, probably thinking to drag her back to shore, but in a moment the sky grew dark and stormy, and a fierce gust of wind pushed him back. “Elle, stop!”

“Sorry,” she said. “This is what it takes.”

The water surged up to her knees, biting cold. The wind howled.

“No,” he repeated. He braced himself against the buffeting gale, managing to stay upright in place. “No, if that's the cost, I'm not asking. Nothing is worth—”

Theo started coughing as the spray kicked up by the wind caught in his lungs. Elle watched as the water rose around her, feeling detached as the lake whispered.

“Exactly,” she said, knowing her voice would carry to him, though she didn't raise it. “You didn't ask. You wouldn't believe the amount of people who stumble into something powerful, and make their demands without caring about the effects on those around them. You care, Theo. And that’s why I’m helping you.”

Elle breathed slow, drawing the cold deep into her lungs. She was submerged to her waist now. “For Excalibur you did seek me out,” she said, old words of power surging up with the tide. “For the power to do right you have entreated. The lady of the lake has judged you worthy, and you shall have what you need.”

She saw Theo’s eyes widen behind mist-speckled glass. She saw his mouth open to cry out, but no sound reached her before the water fully overtook her.

There was dark. There was cold. There was nothing.

And then there wasn't.

The bright copper of old magic began in the center of her chest and radiated out to every extremity. On instinct, she inhaled — heedless of drowning, for she had drowned before, and the lake had made its home in her, and would not harm her again so easily. She reached out her hand. She couldn't feel the water, or even really herself; but she could feel past the water; past the boundaries of Grand Lake, Colorado; past the solemn silence of the Rockies and toward something deeper, older.

The same ancient something that was used, centuries ago, to give a certain king a certain sword. More than a sword — the power to change the world. Elle’s own words echoed through the water. Excalibur. Excalibur.

Legends were, after all, a powerful creative shorthand.

From the ancient cold of the world’s creation she borrowed a strand of light, pulling it loose and letting it wind itself around her. Then she worked her alchemy. It was second nature, the weaving; like the familiar repetition of embroidery, stitch after stitch, something coming into being almost before you even notice it happening. Time slipped away. Push in. Loop around. Pull taut. Again, again. Over and over until before you know it, there’s a tapestry in your lap.

When it was complete, she snipped the end of the thread and let go.

Immediately the water crashed away from her, spilling out her mouth and pouring back into its natural container. Sputtering, Elle gasped, the oxygen deprivation and chilling cold hitting her all at once. She stumbled as her footing on the lake bed faltered with the rushing waves, and her head went fuzzy as she nearly blacked out.

Theo was there, keeping her upright and pulling her to shore.

“I always forget,” she mumbled, teeth chattering, “how absolutely miserable that part is.”

“Elle!” Theo half-yelled, his voice a cracked and hysteric thing. “Jesus Christ, what the hell were you thinking?”

She deigned not to answer that. (A lady of the lake never reveals her ways.)

At least his yelling helped her brush off the lightheadedness. After limping back onto solid, mostly-dry land, Elle shook Theo off and gathered the bundles she’d left behind. A change of clothes, a thermal blanket, a small army of hand warmers. As she moved to put one in her still-dripping pocket for the walk back, her chilled fingers touched a burning warmth.

Elle pulled out the new object, blinked, and laughed.

“Of course yours would be so literal,” she said, holding it out to Theo. He stared at it before taking it gingerly into his hands.

It was a small copper key, the ridges already worn, the head of it shaped into a flat facsimile of a sword’s hilt.

“Where does this go?” he asked, turning it over in his palm. It must have only burnt her because her fingers were so cold; if it caused Theo any pain, he showed no sign of it.

She raised an eyebrow at him, and turned to head back to the car. “Surely you know what I'm gonna say,” she tossed over her shoulder.

Theo shook his head, a wry smile forming on his face, and he jogged to catch up. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “That's my job to find out.”

“Brilliance at work. Crank up the car, would you? Get the heat going.”

“You got it,” he grinned, “Lady of the lake.”

Elle grumbled and curled up in the front seat, heedless of the lake water soaking into the cushions. But for all her grumpy demeanor, him calling her that felt… nice.

It had been a long time since she’d done her work and could call it good.

Theo drove them back to Elle's cabin, and he didn't ask before putting the kettle on. Elle took a warm shower, bundled up in her thickest wool sweater, and joined him at the table for tea. The warmth began to seep back into her limbs, and with it, a deep exhaustion.

“What are you gonna do next?” she asked with a big yawn.

He chewed the corner of his mouth before taking a long sip. “Not sure,” he said. “I spent so long looking for all the clues, I didn't really consider how to piece them all together once I had them.”

Elle sipped her own tea — okay, maybe the cinnamon kind had rights — and said, “Maybe your quest will take you somewhere warmer.”

“Ha!” Theo leaned back in his chair, eyes twinkling. “Sure hope so.” Then he paused, studying her. “Maybe I'll end up back here sometime. In the summer, or spring…”

“Tourist behavior,” Elle muttered. “There won't even be snow for you to shovel.”

He laughed. Elle tilted her mug toward him pointedly before he could say something else. “Whatever you do, you’ve gotta sort out your own issues first. I won’t be held accountable for whatever you’ve got going on, key or no key.”

“That’s fair…” Theo propped up his outrageous elbows on the table, bracketing his mug and using his hands to hold up his chin. “Are you gonna do more lake lady things in the meantime?”

It was her turn to take a long sip to think before she spoke. “I don’t know. I’m certainly not going to be handing out boons to any idiot who can do an internet search. But…” She shrugged. “It was kinda nice to help again,” she admitted. “I guess. Fulfilling or whatever.”

Theo beamed at her.

“Shut up,” she said before he could say something annoyingly optimistic.

He laughed and took their empty mugs to the sink.

Elle tolerated a prolonged hug from Theo when he finally decided to leave, though she did disentangle herself and pointedly reach past him to open the front door and shoo him out. This put them both face to face with a stranger, a middle-aged man with fogged-up glasses perched on a round nose who was huffing and puffing from exertion, his hand raised to knock. The three of them blinked in surprise at each other.

The man collected himself. “I am seeking the Lady of the Lake,” he managed to say around his panting. “Pray tell, wherefore might I find her, that I may beseech her for aid?”

Elle and Theo shared a look. With a roll of her eyes, she said, “I’m gonna let you handle this one.”

Theo laughed and went out the door, throwing his arm over the man’s shoulder. As Elle shut the door behind him, she heard him start to say, “Okay, man, I’m gonna clear up a few things for you right now. So there’s the Lady of the Lake, right, but there’s actually like multiple ladies of multiple lakes…”

Elle was left once more in her cabin, a familiar stillness and quiet settling over the place in the wake of Theo’s leave. She went into the kitchen to begin her morning routine, but as she made her coffee and lifted her mug to her lips, she realized, “Ugh, I’ve got to call and get them to take my address off that stupid internet search…”

And so, the lady of Grand Lake shook her head and wandered off to find her phone.

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The Elders swarmed around the center of the village, their metal skin glowing in the heat of the forge. A massive storm had ripped through the region in the night, and they’d no doubt be eager to repair the walls of the dome. The glass cap over the village hadn’t broken, thankfully, and sunrise was just visible on the edges of the water. The sky was a perfect blue, with a patch of wispy cirrus clouds turning peach, their ends like fish hooks.

Torif watched the clouds from the hill at the dome’s edge. Gramps had been a fisherman, and he’d taught Torif all the clouds — and what they meant for weather. It would be a beautiful day it seemed, and a perfect one for finding treasure. Honestly, though, even if the weather hadn’t been good, he’d made his decision hours ago. Listening to the final howls of the storm, he knew he wouldn’t be able to wait another day.

“I don’t think you should do this, Torif,” his family’s robot said beside him. “There are set days for wandering with your school. It can be dangerous on the marsh.”

Torif ground his teeth, forcing himself to look at the stupid creature. The robot had a bulbous white body with a mushroom cap head, his legs like metal sticks jammed into the bottom. He probably couldn’t stop Torif, let alone catch him with those stumpy things. He wasn’t even sure Tin Can would be able to fit through the gap in the dome’s grates. He imagined leaving the bot behind, a blissful day on the marsh without his endless yammering advice.

“I don’t have to listen to you, Tin Can,” Torif said, turning toward the grates. The Elders had just reopened them after the storm, and the stream gurgled as it passed through the ancient metal. “You aren’t real.”

Tin Can sighed — a strange sound considering his inhuman voice box. Still, Torif could hear the clanking of his metal legs, knowing he was being followed.

“We’ve been over this, Torif. I’m family. I have generations’ worth of things you need to know.”

“Like what?”

“Like a map of the marshes, for one. Do you even know where you’re going?”

Torif stuck his tongue out at the robot before turning back to the grate. Sparing one last glance for the Elders — and finding no one watching him — he yanked on the giant metal slat, opening it another foot so he could slip through.

“Your… grandfather would want you to listen,” Tin Can said, making Torif freeze.

He whipped around, jamming a finger in the robot’s face.

“Don’t talk about Gramps,” Torif hissed.

“Torif, I’m —” Tin Can started, but Torif was already gone, slipping through the grate.

Immediately, he was greeted by a world of color, his eyes struggling to take it all in. It was easy to forget how much light the glass dome blocked. This was like one of those paintings on the forge walls the Elders liked so much, the marsh made up of swirling blues and greens. Far in the distance, he could just make out the crags of the metal mountains, their empty shells covered in vines. It was… beautiful.

Torif closed his eyes, listening to the wind. It shook the endless cattail groves, whispering to him. He pretended it was Gramps’s soul — his real soul — calling him to find the marsh’s secrets. After all, it was Gramps finding an ancient gear while fishing that got his parents into the copper guild. You could find anything out here, an endless magic of opportunity. Of course, even their work with copper hadn’t been enough to earn real medicine from the Elders — medicine they could have used to save Gramps. But he would find more treasure. And he would never, ever let that happen to someone in his family again.

Unfortunately, there was another noise ruining the music of the wind. Behind him, there was a distinctive clanking noise, which meant Tin Can had managed to squeeze himself through the grate.

“Goodness, child,” Tin Can said, sounding out of breath despite his lack of lungs. “You know, I had to remove my frontal LED to squeeze through. It’s no way to treat —”

“Not now,” Torif said, holding up a hand. “I only have four hours before my parents’ shift is done. If you’re coming, you can’t slow me down. And, if you can’t do that, I’ll push you in a bog and see how well you float.”

“Very well,” Tin Can said, raising his metal palms in surrender. The bog bit always seemed to work on robots. They most certainly couldn’t swim. Of course, knowing that, it seemed a bit foolish to put their village on the edge of the marsh, but no one ever asked Torif.

They started off over the isthmus, following the land where it snaked between the sprawling wetlands. Thankfully, Tin Can didn’t talk anymore, because Torif had to pay attention. There were all sorts of things that could kill you out here. Sinkholes, snakes, even something called the “Interstate,” which sounded more or less like a whale with giant, gaping jaws. Still, he had to keep his eyes out for treasure too. After a storm was the best time to hunt, and already there were signs that the landscape had changed in the night.

Ahead of him, there was a bed of cattails with gouges through it, as if something had scraped the ground as the wind sent it flying. Looking to the north, he kept trying to spot the Old Man, a low-slung tree nestled into the hills. But as he stared, he finally realized — it was gone. The entire thing must have been torn out by the roots and flung into the wind. Torif stopped, unsure what to do. Should he run back and tell one of the adults? He’d seen other trees destroyed, of course, but never the Old Man.

“It’s alright,” Tin Can said, putting one of his metal claws on Torif’s shoulder. “I’ll let the planting team know when we get back.”

Torif met the robot’s eyes, expecting another know-it-all look, but there was none. Torif nodded, heading back into the brush.

They walked for a long while after that, though they didn’t see any treasure. Finally, they reached the foothills, where piles of square stone formed mounds. They were hard to climb, broken and misshapen as they were, but Torif had scaled worse. Surprisingly, Tin Can didn’t complain as he started up. The robot simply climbed after him, crawling from block to block until they reached the top.

Stars, what a view. They weren’t even that high — hardly a quarter as tall as the metal mountains — but even so it felt like he could see everything. The coastline stretched to either side, the water of the Deep Lake seeming to merge with the marsh. And yet, you could sense the difference in their power. The storm may have been gone, but tall waves came in one after another where they slammed into the shore. He could just make out his village’s dome in the distance, the Elders visible as they crawled around making their repairs.

“Creeeeeaaawwwwww!”

Torif looked up, seeing a white bird floating overhead.

“Good luck, that,” he said to Tin Can. Birds were awfully rare, and if he was seeing one so soon after a storm, it must mean the gods had blessed this outing. As always, Tin Can had been worried for nothing.

“Do you know what kind of bird that is?” Tin Can asked, the scopes on his eyes humming as he focused.

Part of Torif almost wanted to say yes. He could still remember the walks he used to take with Gramps, the afternoons out on his little fishing boat. He’d taught Torif everything he knew — and way more than the silly school days the Elders made him sit through. Still, he couldn’t think of Gramps without picturing him dying. He turned away, setting his jaw.

“No. And I don’t need you teaching me nothing.”

“Anything,” the robot corrected, sighing.

Torif rolled his eyes, pointing out at a nearby thicket of trees set against the swamp.

“We should check there. They say roots are good at holding stuff.”

“What do you think you’ll find?” Tin Can asked.

“I dunno. Maybe a gear like Gramps did. Did more for our family than the stupid copper guild has.”

“Maybe. Might be dangerous, though. Lot of sinkholes in that swamp.”

“Who cares? I gotta pull the fish from the hook, you know?”

The robot actually laughed, so Torif shot him a look.

“Sorry. I just used to hear that saying a lot growing up.”

“Robots don’t grow up,” Torif scoffed. “They’re built.”

“I guess you got me there. Still. Do you remember your great-grandmother? She used to say that all the time.”

Torif nodded, though he only vaguely remembered his great-grandmother. Still, he felt like he could hear her laugh in his mind when he really tried. Everyone had called her Saucy, and they said her laugh could echo clear across the bogs. Had Tin Can known her well? The robot had been in his family for generations, part of what his teachers called “The Great Reserve,” whatever that meant.

“Well, what do you think that phrase means? Cause I’m not sure it means you should go hunting in the bogs.”

The part of the phrase Torif had quoted was just a snippet. The full thing was: “the sun is setting; pull the fish from the hook.” But it was fairly obvious, wasn’t it? Death was just around the corner, and you had to do everything you could with the day you had. After all, he’d already lost Gramps. Who would be next? Ma? And how could he hope to save her without finding treasure?

Still, Torif said nothing. He could tell the stupid old robot was baiting him, and he wasn’t about to slip into the trap.

“I was… with your grandfather the day he found that gear,” Tin Can said carefully.

It smelled like a lie, like when one of the great marsh beasts had slipped into a bog and rotted. Still, there was no story he loved hearing more than the day Gramps found the gear.

“The Deep Lake had been choppy that day,” Tin Can continued, realizing Torif wouldn’t stop him. “Our boat was like a leaf rolling in the wind. Your grandfather was exhausted from working his oars, though he refused to give up. As you know from the Law of the Elders, catching nothing meant eating nothing. But just when he was about to give up, his line got a bite.”

Torif found himself nodding. This was his favorite part. The fish had been a demon from the deep, a flailing mass of teeth and scales.

“You remember,” Tin Can said, flashing his creepy little metal smile. “Well, your grandfather fought the fish for an hour, until they reached a stalemate. The fish was growing weak, but so was your grandfather, and he’d need enough strength to row back to shore.”

“Why didn’t you just row the boat then,” Torif spat, finally knowing he’d caught the lie.

“I… needed arm repairs,” Tin Can said. “Do you want to hear the rest or not?”

“Fine,” Torif said, rolling his eyes.

“Well, just then, the sun set, making the Deep Lake turn the most beautiful orange. And as the light cut across the water, your grandfather could see the fish — really see it. And he knew it was over. You see, the saying isn’t about squeezing tight, it’s about letting go. There will always be tomorrow.”

“But that’s dumb. If you have a fish on the line, you should take it. Tomorrow you could die.”

“Exactly,” Tin Can said, chuckling. “Torif, people always die. But before that, they live. Your grandfather watched the fish swim away, and only because he was really paying attention, did he see the fish swim into its hiding hole. And you know what was glittering next to it?”

“The gear,” Torif said with a groan, annoyed he’d walked into the robot’s trap anyway.

“We’re of the… nature to die, Torif. Just like fish are of the nature to swim. But before you get there, you can really look. You can see things a fish would never see. You can see the entire world.”

Torif looked out at the full sweep of the marsh. Like most of the advice the robot gave, it was terrible. The story with Gramps didn’t even make sense. You were supposed to look but not look? And if you did look, you were supposed to just see a gear laying there? It was nonsense. Still, as he looked, the whirling greens and blues seemed to make sense to him. And that thicket to the south was calling to him. He would find treasure there, he just knew it. He walked off down the hill, not waiting to see if Tin Can followed.

By the time he reached the bottom, he couldn’t hear the robot’s clanking. He looked up, finding Tin Can only halfway down the slope. Perfect. It would be a while before the flat-footed bag of bolts bothered him. Torif headed in the direction of the thicket, moving quickly over the moors. Already the sun was above the dome, and he needed to get home before his parents realized he was gone.

Walking for what felt like an eternity, he finally reached it. It was hard to tell at first — the marsh looked all the same once he’d left the hilltop. Still, eventually, little trees started to appear. They grew thicker until they twisted into knotted mangroves, their roots forming islands in the swampy pools. Torif climbed through them, using the trees for footholds. After a storm, treasure could be swept up in the wind and waves, where it would be lodged between the roots. Just last month, Akil’s mother found a shiny microchip out here, something that earned their family a month living in the heated houses by the forge.

Torif moved slowly, his eyes scanning the murky water. Occasionally, he’d see a flash of something moving, and he’d recoil, worried about snakes. But the worst ones only came out at night, right? Of course, it could be something worse, some creature from the deep. Still, he pressed on. Sweating, his hands starting to blister, he climbed through the mangroves. If only he could —

A sharp crack, a root giving way beneath his foot. In an instant, Torif was plunged into the swamp, shockingly cold water all around him. He tried to kick, but he no longer knew where the surface was. Underwater snares began to grab at him, threatening to pull him deeper. It felt like he was coiled in a giant snake. And then, it hit him. He was going to drown. Just like Great Uncle Peron. Worst of all, Tin Can would be right. He wasn’t blessed by the gods. He was a fool. Stars, he —

Torif broke the surface, gasping for air. He kept kicking, but soon, his feet found nothing but air. He opened his eyes, blinking through the sting of brackish water to find he was back on land, a narrow strip of soil near the mangroves. Next to him, laying on his back, was Tin Can. The robot looked tired, its eyes glassy as it looked up through the twisted canopy.

“You saved me,” Torif said, his teeth chattering.

The robot’s eyes swiveled, spinning as they struggled to focus.

“Torif,” Tin Can said, as if just remembering his name. The robot looked back at the sky. “Emergency reboot. 7-112-3-99-553-48773-356-1-3-0037-9.”

A clicking sound came from inside his head, and then his eyes finally returned to normal.

“What did I tell you?” the robot said slowly. “About coming down here?”

Then, the robot stood as if nothing had ever happened, its joints leaking water. He offered Torif a hand, pulling him to standing.

“Let’s go. Climb on my back.”

Part of him wanted to refuse — though more out of embarrassment now than anger. After all, the stupid bot had saved him. Still, his legs felt numb from falling in the water. He probably couldn’t walk back if he wanted to. Instead, Torif nodded, putting his arms around the robot's neck as he was hoisted up into a piggy back.

As they walked, he felt the robot’s back heat up. Soon, the wind against his wet clothes didn’t sting so much. In fact, the pulsing warmth made him feel like he could fall asleep.

“Torif,” the robot finally said, the words feeling more like a dream. “Do you understand now?”

“Understand what?” he mumbled.

“The saying. About letting the fish go.”

Torif blinked his eyes open, though his eyelids still felt heavy.

“No,” he answered honestly. “I… failed. And now today was pointless.”

“I’d hardly say it was pointless. Just look around you. I mean, we saw a bird today. That’s gotta be worth something.”

“It ain’t worth medicine,” Torif said, trying to bury his face back in the metal plates on Tin Can’s back.

“Well, it’s certainly not worth dying in a swamp either.”

They were quiet for a while, the only sound the squelching of the robot’s feet in the mud, in sync with the rhythmic swaying of his back.

“Torif, have you ever seen one of the big boats? The kind that sails up from the metal mountains once a year?”

He grunted in reply. He wasn’t a baby. Everyone knew about the big boats. They came and picked up the copper his parents spent all year smelting.

“It’s easy to think we’re like those boats. They point their noses north and go exactly where they want. But we’re just little row boats. We get knocked about by the waves. But… we also get to float. We get to take it easy. Enjoy the coastline, see a bird sometimes. Rowing harder won’t let us go anywhere special. We just have to float.”

“And the medicine?”

“Sometimes you’ll earn some. Sometimes you won’t. But it doesn’t change where we end up. It just buys us more time for rowing. Do you know why the Elders saved us?”

“To find treasure?”

“And what about the Great Reserve?”

“What, a bunch of bots? Uh… no offense.”

“We’re here to spread wisdom. Human wisdom. The Elders saved us because human life has value. Even if it doesn’t lead anywhere. Sure, they ask us to collect things, but that’s only because things of value are so rare now. But they collect those things to keep this village going. A village full of life. You have to live, Torif. That’s the point to all of this. You… think your Gramps would want you chasing treasure in a swamp?”

Part of him bristled at hearing Tin Can talk about Gramps again, but he couldn’t seem to fuel his anger anymore. Not in a heap of wet clothes. Not after the bot had pulled him from the swamp.

“I guess not,” he forced himself to say.

“I don’t think so either. He loved you, Torif. And he would have given up a thousand days of fishing just for one more day with you.”

Torif felt tears coming, so he pressed his face closer to the metal, until it made marks on his cheek from the exterior fastenings between the plates. Just as he finished crying, though, the robot stopped.

“We’re here,” Tin Can said. “Why don’t you get some fresh clothes before your parents come home?”

Torif nodded, climbing down as Tin Can led the way back into the village. Luckily, none of the shifts were over yet, and no one saw him as he scurried toward their hut. Inside, the breakfast fire still had a few embers. Still, it felt like the cold was in his bones, his skin clammy. He may never walk the swamps again.

As he emerged from his room, the wet clothes hidden beneath the bed, his parents finally arrived. Tin Can had climbed onto his pedestal, plugging himself into the power cord the Elders ran out from the forge.

“Torif!” Ma said, pulling him into a hug. “How was your day?”

“Fine,” he said, though he clung to Ma like a little kid.

“Good,” she said, playing with his hair. “Were you nice to Gramps?”

Torif looked over his shoulder, where the robot’s pedestal was surrounded by death masks. Thirty in all, they were all the ancestors of his family the Elders had uploaded into Tin Can’s data chips. The newest one, the plaster barely dry, was of Gramps. For so long, he hadn’t wanted to believe. Hadn’t wanted to accept Gramps was stuck in a dumb old bot. But… maybe he really was. After all, not just any old robot would dive into a swamp for him. The Elders most certainly wouldn’t.

Tin Can — or… Gramps — gave him a wink, the robot crossing his arms over his chest as he went into charging sleep.

“Yeah,” Torif said, smiling. “We had a good day. We let the fish off of the hook.”

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Tonight, we are celebrating Darrell’s favorite night of the year…THE WINTER SOLSTICE!

We received the message on December 21, eleven days before Darrell stopped breathing. One last winter solstice, one last Christmas, one last New Year’s. He announced on December 29, “Today is the day unless Great Spirit wills otherwise.” It took him until January 1 to die.

Darrell believed in the importance of specific days; would have loved dying on New Year’s, a brand new beginning in a marvelous new life, one very far away from here.

His most special day was the winter solstice. He liked the summer solstice and the equinoxes, too, liked anything old, anything to do with the alignment of the stars and the planets and the rotation of earth around the sun. He liked dream interpretation and astrology and tarot and totem animals and anything that made him feel the connectedness of the universe, the incredible cosmic reality that runs underneath the surface of everything.

The unified field, as David Lynch would say.

When Darrell died, I felt as though the world had never experienced a loss quite like it. The universe felt so empty without him and no one knew what they had lost. Darrell Emmel was singular; he was not just my uncle, not just my substitute grandfather. He was a spiritual teacher, a visionary, a wealth of knowledge and creativity and momentum, and even though we knew it was coming, it still felt sudden and raw. Two months after his cancer diagnosis, he was dead.

David Lynch and Darrell were both creators of powerful dream worlds and strange visions. Lynch was ten days younger than Darrell, and died almost exactly a year after him. In the outpouring of public grief, my grief became less lonely. Anyone who knew and loved David Lynch and feels the absence he left behind must understand, at least a little, what losing Darrell Emmel is like for me.

The winter solstice was his special day because of the darkness and the light. On December 21, it’s been getting darker and darker for half of the time it takes for the earth to loop around the sun, and finally we arrive at the apex. The darkest night of the year, the darkest night of the soul.

After tonight, Darrell told me, years and years and years ago — another lifetime ago, maybe — bit by bit, day by day… the light starts winning again.

He pumped his fist in the air in celebration. Nothing could be more exciting to him. The gradual return of the light. I feel as though I’ve been in the dark since he died and I’m not sure how to get the light back. I am perpetually stuck in the darkest night of the year.

He would tell me that I’m not stuck, I’m anything but stuck. The winter solstice is something to celebrate; lingering there is a privilege. Tomorrow, whenever tomorrow may be, the light starts winning again.

Where are you? I ask him in a dream. And why did you have to go?

He doesn’t answer me, but he visits me often. When he appears in the night, I feel a momentary brightening, but it slips away so easily in the morning. I can come up with hundreds of reasons why the Darrell of my dreams is a function of my imagination rather than the real deal. He’d tell me to have a little faith, but it was always easier for him than for me.

This past year, the winter solstice kicked off my mourning cycle – of course, I’d been mourning all year, but the intensity burned through the end of December. The winter solstice, his favorite day of the year. Christmas, the last time I talked to him. New Year’s, the day he died.

I don’t know how humans have done this for centuries. I don’t know how they sit with the loss, again and again. There is a hole in the world without him here.

David Lynch would say “Focus on the donut and not the hole.”

Darrell Emmel would say that tomorrow, the light will start winning again. It’s almost here. Enjoy the darkness while you can – the cycle will loop back around again before you know it. The light is always leaving, always returning, and that’s the way of things. Celebrate it.

The light will start winning again. Any day now.

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It held the Earth in its eye
like a shiny blue marble,
Mars dangling from the
lobe of its bright left ear.

Its voice sang in lightyears,
carried airwave melodies
through atmospheres eternal
with thick pockets of time.

Its heart solar-flared with
with each scorching beat,
pumping dark matter to its
starred landscapes of feet.

Its soft gaze captured me
in nets of grey spacedust,
containing the warmth of
a vast universal mystery.

The weight of its worlds
shatters my fear like glass;
I am become a traveler,
Earthless and unbound.

Every week, the planet eaters and their wives would gather for brunch.

They never said their names, so Mal had taken inspiration from her niece’s favorite cartoon: Marvin Mercury, Val Venus, Eli Earth, Mike Mars, Jerry Jupiter, Sammy Saturn, Ulysses Uranus, and Ned Neptune.

A planet eater-in-training (Perry Pluto) stood by the head of the table, pouring mimosas that tasted like flowery youth.

They all wore their best clothes. For the planet eaters, this meant squeezing into human suits. The wives donned dresses and gloves. Mal wore grey to match Marvin, who followed her every move with eyes like smoke.

Across the table, Eli and his wife wore arsenic green. Mal watched as Eli picked oceanic crust from his teeth.

For a moment, she could smell ozone and scorched earth rotting in the air.

They feasted on oysters and persimmons and bread. Platters of figs and plums. Cheese ripened on the wheel. Meaty olives cured in brine. By the time Perry served them custard, Mal felt more than a little ill.

She glanced past the chandelier to the only window in the room. Somehow, she always expected to see grass and sky, but there was only empty space from the void.

Mal clenched her hands so hard that the nails broke skin.

• • •

There was a time Mal had dreamed of becoming an astronaut. For years, she had been glued to a telescope, mesmerized by the glow of distant worlds.

Her dad had brought her every book he could find about the galaxy. Together, they had built a future that would never be.

Mal lived as a hollowed out feeling. Something cored, gutted.

She stayed with Marvin in a farmhouse-style home modeled after her childhood. The first time she saw it, Mal had vomited all over her pretty dress, and slept in the bathroom. From the doorway, Marvin had studied her with eyes that had seen the universe but were devoid of life.

One day, Marvin led her to a room that hadn’t been there before.

It was small and held no furniture. On the floor was a stack of books. A painting of a fruit bowl. A single pebble of sea glass. Treasures Mal would trace over and over again.

Why did you choose me? She whispered each night.

There was never an answer.

• • •

In time, Mal came to learn how the other wives coped with their existence. One collected dust from the jacket of her husband’s human suit. She would filter the particles into separate jars. Sometimes, she tried to guess which planet or star system she held in her hands.

Others journaled or planted or read. Neptune’s wife drank during the day and smoked from long cigarette holders, the kind Mal’s grandmother used to enjoy at dinner.

Whatever it took to pretend they didn’t reap benefits from the dead.

After a while, it seemed as if Marvin was gone for longer periods, and their “weekly” brunches were fewer, but Mal couldn’t be sure—there was no way to track time in the void.

Whenever Marvin disappeared, Mal slept under the bed to keep a buffer between herself and the nightmares. She tried not to think about her family, what their last moments must have been like.

What became of them.

• • •

Were there still stars in the sky? Mal often wondered.

It dawned on her slowly, this new layer of horror: She couldn’t remember the name for it. The device she used to peer at the sky and live outside her body.

The thing her father worked hard to buy for her.

How long till she could no longer recall their faces? Did their noses really bend like that, or were their eyes a different color?

Mal slipped under the bed and gripped the carpet fibers. Instead of dreaming, she repeated their names out loud to the dark.

• • •

Perry became an official planet eater over white truffles and duck liver. Beside him sat the newest wife. Like the rest of them, she wore gloves and a dress, but hers changed color with the light, reflecting pale blue, yellow, and red.

Mal met the woman’s vacant stare.

For a moment, she remembered it so clearly. The crunch of wood over metal. Screams and blood and dust. History dying on the tip of their tongues.

They were locked into this existence till the sun burnt out, or until the planet eaters tired of them. Mal no longer knew which one would come first.

Still, she hoped.

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​​”...Why must every winter

grow colder, and more sure?”

— Jennifer Chang, “The World”

When you look at someone, you can only look into one eye at a time. That’s how Isaac first noticed the change: he could see both of his brother’s eyes completely, all at once.

The earth turned on its wide wheel and the days grew short and coarse. When it didn’t snow, the stars looked brighter against the heady dark. Everything in the winter felt sharp, as if the wind was dragging its long nails down your back, stinging your cheeks with quick, harsh smacks.

Wayne let the cold bite him. He sat downstairs in the wingback chair and didn’t bother propping his feet up on the ottoman. A single light was on — the old lamp on the table next to the chair — casting warm amber light around the living room. The hairs on his arms were standing at attention, bristling in the frigid air. He wore a thin cotton shirt.

Soft noises sounded from the kitchen: the distinctive pour of liquid into a glass, brief, perhaps two fingers of whiskey. His parents kept the good spirits in the dining room, so Wayne knew it was his mother’s cheap liquor, taken from the freezer and drunk with abandon. He knew the burn of it, and his throat itched.

Wayne was fourteen; he shouldn’t have been able to discern the smoothness of a whiskey. But he knew it all the same. Mostly he knew the complex flavors of a good brandy, as he’d had years to take apart each note. They bought the same brandy in town every December and yet it tasted different every year.

The wind whistled outside, and the house creaked on its foundation. When the wind blew, you could feel it gusting straight through the house, even with a fire burning. The heating was spotty at best, so they had to build a fire most every day. It was the boys’ job to go out and cut the wood, if they didn’t buy enough. They never bought enough.

Wayne looked down at his hands. They were splintered, chapped; he’d chopped wood earlier that day, and his gloves were threadbare now, worn down from heavy use. He didn’t have the heart to tell his mother that he needed new ones, and that his coat was getting too small, and that his boots were becoming waterlogged in the shin-high snow. He knew that the money could be put to better use, and he could bear the cold.

He always bore the cold. Even in the summer he could feel its presence, could hear the hush of a blizzard on a hot and quiet day. Wayne believed he was obligated to feel it, after everything.

Tonight they would take their turns with the brandy and breathe blue fire in the dark. And Isaac would change again.

Wayne had always been a smart boy, always astute. He first sensed the difference in his brother four years ago, when Isaac was thirteen. Sometimes his pupils got so big it was like they’d been fixed that way, even when staring into the fire. Wayne couldn’t sleep in their shared room for the sounds Isaac was always making; long, pained grunts and groans, like he was fighting something off in his dreams.

The changes started on the day of the first snow and increased from there. The chill in the air no longer wavered; it stuck. Wayne still wore his long johns underneath his clothes, but Isaac had started to refuse them. He always seemed too hot, and his skin just about burned to touch.

That was the year his parents decided to allow the boys to drink the brandy with them. They always drank it ceremoniously on the shortest day, the very longest, most interminable night: the winter solstice. Back in those days, his parents would drink often in celebration, and the ritual that year had been filled with laughter and playful ribbing when the boys couldn’t handle their liquor.

But when Isaac’s retching turned violent, bloody, Wayne somehow knew they’d reached a precipice. His transformation was fulfilling itself like a prophecy coming to pass. Wayne watched the blue flames lick at his brother’s lips, watched him swallow, watched the fire trail down his throat into his belly and burn there like a red-hot coal. And then Isaac really did transform, right before their eyes.

Wayne’s mother was still drinking in the kitchen by the time his father came home. That’s something she did often now, drinking. Only when she drank these days, she did it grimly, and it was clear she was not celebrating anything.

His father stomped the snow off his boots on the front porch before entering the house. His broad cheeks were made ruddier by the cold, and he shook snowflakes from his long, black hair. He nodded at his youngest son, then made his way into the kitchen.

There was no conversation between his parents, and from his vantage point in the wingback chair, Wayne could not see into the kitchen. He imagined them revolving around each other like distant planets, careful not to touch and crash. He heard another glug of whiskey being poured, and did not know whether it was for his father or his mother, until he heard the same sound repeated, into a different glass.

The solstice had come again. The change would happen again. They all knew it and so their mouths were all set in thin, hard lines. Wayne thought of going into the kitchen for his own drink but remained rooted in his chair, the goosebumps still stiff on his arms.

Isaac had still not come in. But the sun would set shortly; he’d come along soon.

Wayne had always dreaded the time of year when the days began to shorten. He liked to be outside until late; he liked to play with his brother in the dead leaves, gathering them up into piles to plunge within. He liked summer. He liked when the snow finally melted in the late spring, when the robins returned and the birdsong resumed and he couldn’t remember when it had ever stopped.

Now the summer never seemed long enough. Now, the daylight whittled away at a tortuously slow pace as they crept closer to the start of winter. Gone were the endless summers of his youth, when the days seemed to stretch on forever, and night felt blessedly brief. Now the winter would assert its dominance again.

He knew, logically, that the days would only get longer after today. But that, too, was an achingly slow process, and winter nights in the grasslands were oppressively long.

The only thing he liked about the winter was the sky. The sunsets were often magnificent, bathing the world in soft pink and golden tones, punctuated by pale banks of snow. And at night the moon seemed to burn, and each star announced itself with its own smoldering. He could pick out constellations and bring them to the attention of his brother. Together they’d seen a thousand shooting stars dart across that sky.

Now Wayne did not bother to get up and see the sunset. He knew it was beautiful by the way the light drifted across the floorboards. But he did not want to see.

Isaac came inside, at last. His cheeks were redder than their father’s and his hair was much more black. He didn’t take off his bulky coat. Instead, he spotted Wayne in the wingback chair and gestured to him.

“Come outside,” he said.

Wayne, in his confusion, stood and dressed methodically in his winter clothes. Thin boots, worn gloves, too-small coat that left his wrists exposed. He pulled on a woolen hat his mother had made; it didn’t cover his ears.

Together they walked out into the waning light. Everything was blue; even the snow that blanketed most of the front yard had taken on the color. No crickets sang and no bird chirped, the silence of inside the house mirroring the rest of the world.

Isaac led Wayne down the stairs and walked him into the yard before planting them both there, where the flowerbeds used to be. He wrapped his arm around his brother and tilted his head up to the sky.

Wayne did not want to see the sky. He didn’t want to see what he once loved, spread out before him. The stars undoubtedly still glittered. But he didn’t want to know.

“You used to ask me what it felt like,” Isaac said, his voice clear as a dinner bell. “And I always said I couldn’t tell you. But you’re grown enough now, I think. Wayne, it feels like terror, and agony, and freedom, all at once.”

Wayne swallowed. His body felt stiff beneath his brother’s arm. Isaac still had a few good inches on him and it felt like he was leaning his weight upon him. But Wayne knew that he could bear it.

They stood out there for a long expanse of time. The world grew dark around them. Wayne kept his eyes fixed on the mailbox in the distance, its little red flag gone rusty from years of wear.

Eventually, the door behind them opened and someone came thunking down the stairs. Their father passed them, not bothering to stop.

“Get in the truck,” he said. His voice was hoarse, as if unused to making itself known.

Wayne and Isaac knew what to do. They pulled themselves up into the bed of the truck, huddling close for warmth. An old, tattered blanket was bunched up into one corner, and they pulled it over their legs. Isaac slung his arms over Wayne’s shoulders again, and lifted his chin once more to the heavens.

The truck shouted to a start. They sped off through the rough-hewn road in the grasses, a path they’d taken a few times before. They were heading west, chasing the dying light.

The cold whipped at the boys’ cheeks and swept their hair from their faces. Wayne’s lips grew dry and he didn’t bother wetting them with his tongue. His eyes were watering, and he feared that water would crystallize into ice.

“You should really look,” Isaac said, keeping his eyes fixed on the sky. “It’s like I can see them all.”

Wayne lifted his chin then, his gaze hesitantly rising to the stars. Sure enough, they were out in full force, sparkling away in their resolute places like he’d always known them to do. A tear slipped down his cheek and he didn’t swipe it away with his gloved fingers.

The truck roared through the prairie. The light was still so far off in the distance and Wayne knew they’d never reach it. It was another of their inane rituals, to follow the light until it disappeared. As if they could keep the change at bay by pretending it would never get dark.

But it did get dark, and soon none of the light remained. From here they could not see their house, not even its glowing windows. Their father turned the truck in one continuous motion and they started barreling back.

The drive home felt much more foreboding, as if Wayne had given up all hope. As if he’d had any to begin with. Maybe that was the problem, hope. Hope for things to change even though they never would. It could drive a man insane.

But he was not a man. Isaac was much closer to becoming one than he, when he was still like this, when he was human. Did he hope? Could Wayne detect some hope in the abyssal blackness of his brother’s eyes? He still looked towards the stars, Wayne supposed. He’d said it felt like agony, but like freedom all the same.

The room stank of alcohol. The bowl had been set out, the raisins and almonds scattered across its surface. His mother poured the brandy, and Wayne wondered how she could see in this weighty darkness. He operated by smell and sound, by the way his hairs still stood on end.

The brandy glugged. The match was lit. And the bowl filled with bright blue flames.

“Here he comes with flaming bowl,” Isaac whispered beside him. Their mother practically hissed at him to stop.

Wayne wanted to be drunk, wanted to tip the brandy back into his own mouth, but he was still stone-cold sober. The brandy would be drunk afterwards, once the transformation had taken place and Isaac had left them again.

His father went first, dipping his hand into the flames and snatching up an almond. He popped it into his mouth and crunched dismally.

His mother went next, choosing a raisin instead and tossing it, still on fire, into her own mouth.

Here is where the rule had been changed. Wayne now went first, before his older brother, purely for the ritual of it. So he could still partake, still feel like he stood some ground in this family. As fragmented as they all were, as silent and as bitter, he still wanted to be a part of this. He stuck his hand into the fire.

It hardly burned. He bore it well. He took an almond and crushed it between his teeth.

They all turned their gazes to Isaac, who stared into the fire with his eerie black eyes. His skin had turned blue in the only source of light. The change was already beginning.

He placed his hand in the fire and held it there for too long a moment, as if it didn’t smart at all. He took an almond. He brought it to his lips.

He chewed and swallowed, and the flame carried all the way down into his stomach. His skin, as if transparent, glowed with its strange blue light.

Wayne watched as the change took over. Isaac pushed his chair back from the table and stood, staggering back. He bent over and vomited, straight into the pail his mother had set out. But it wasn’t vomit coming out of his mouth. He retched blue-tipped white flame, his voice going raw around its edges as if his vocal cords were burning.

After a moment of the violent sound, Isaac straightened and stumbled towards the front door. The family all stood and followed him, watching as his feet began to drag underneath him, hardly able to bear his weight. He was coughing and crying out in an incomprehensible language, something that sounded old and sharp against Wayne’s ears.

The door opened and Isaac burst through it, straight out into the night. A shriek sounded and then all was quiet, all was still until Wayne reached the doorway and stepped onto the porch. Against the blue-black sky he could see his brother’s body soaring upwards. He could almost hear, if he focused hard enough, the flapping of his wings against the incessant wind.

And when he lost sight of his brother, when his vision filled with only stars and moon and darkness, he swore he could see all of it at once.

This essay is the winner of Soft Star’s Solstice Essay Contest.

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I.

Stonehenge. An ancient monument built around 2,500 BC where prehistoric people tracked the movements of celestial bodies and marked the changing of the seasons. After all these years, many of the stones have fallen and been buried by earth. The knowledge of how those ancient people celebrated this monument and calendar is almost entirely forgotten. But even now, when the Summer and Winter Solstices make their appearance, this heritage site allows the public special access to the stone circle. Come midwinter, people from around the world and from all walks of life will flood the monument to watch the sun setting through the great pillars of stone, foretelling the coming of spring.

II.

It’s the third year that we have celebrated Yuletide on the 21st of December — just the three of us, connecting with our ancestors through the darkest nights of the season. Every year, we add to the celebration. Trying to cultivate the spirit of Yule a little more with every passing Solstice. From our research on Solstice celebrations, we learned that eating ham and building a bonfire are common traditions, both for those who celebrate today and back when our ancestors recognized this time of winter. So, last year, we started roasting pre-sliced ham on hot dog sticks. At first it was a joke, but now it has become a tradition.

III.

If you go to the monument of Stonehenge you will learn that the ancient stones likely came from all over the island of Great Britain. Archaeologists were able to identify a specific stone that is only found in Wales, hundreds of miles from the final site of Stonehenge. The prehistoric people valued the site of this monument so much that they dragged massive stones across miles of forests, hills, and rivers so that they could create their everlasting mark on this world. Because of this almost unbelievable feat of faith, strength, and ingenuity, many of the faithless believe the stones were placed there by aliens, not people just like them.

IV.

Thousands of miles and across an ocean from that monument my family sits on canvas camp chairs around an outdoor fireplace. To celebrate the Solstice like many people before us, we finally tried our hand at a “Yule Log,” though it wasn’t an actual log. We didn’t burn it, it wasn’t the largest log in our house, nor did it lie in wait in our home preparing over the year to be burned in ceremony on the Solstice. It was a cake. Not even one shaped like a log, but we did make it look like wood. I think our ancestors would have enjoyed it, regardless.

V.

Last year, on June 19th, 2024, Stonehenge was vandalized. One day before thousands of people came from all over the world to celebrate and worship the Summer Solstice, two people covered the large stones with neon orange powdered paint, protesting against climate change. Although professionals surmise that there was no lasting damage, these people, in an effort to save the future, attacked our past.

VI.

Months later, in the frigid cold, we sit by the light of a dimming fire on the Winter Solstice and read stories. Modern tales and poems of the ancient rituals of Solstice and winter. We forget about the future for a little while and search for stars in the cloudy sky as we listen to the wintery tales. The same stars that shone above Earth thousands of years ago. The ones that gods lived in and that humans worship. The stars that we spend years building eternal monuments to. Monuments that are so significant that we use them as a platform of protest, destruction, and sacrifice. But for now, we sit around a fire chatting with friends and family, looking forward to the sun rising, ending the longest and darkest of all nights.

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i will burn the new year 

along with the wildflower field  
we sowed last spring: ash amends 
the ground and they say january’s  
an apocalypse  

                                        — a word for uncovering 

and fire is undoing. 
flames undress the earth. the 
field will unbecome itself to 
become again.  

i will unbecome  
the self  
we made last fall 
because i am apocalypse  
and burning  
is a beautiful song.

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In the wake 
of an obstacle 
currents taste sweet 
as coconut water 
but I can’t remember 
the name of the man 
in my dream 
grizzly-mauled. 
I hide in brambles 
as it lumbers by 
with scarlet claws. 
One of my daughters fixes 
me a berry sandwich. 
I eat it 
              ravenous. 
                             I am safe. 

I am ready 
              to boast. 

Candlelight 
from somewhere 
twists 
               in darkness. 

I listen
for meltwater.

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Coffee ground interior
I couldn’t have been nineteen much longer
Sometimes particulars will only 
weigh the story down by gravity and time
It could have been spring, or maybe September
Neon green and blue-shock chalk lines 
intersecting at angles, strange and unfamiliar
The facade that creates each face
Perpendicular forces
Wind chimes and turbines
Obsessions with color, barn-owl screech
Another sound I’ve internalized
Another sense I’ve invented
What makes girlhood
What makes anything sacred
Snowstorm turning quick to sleet
What started as a blessing ended with a curse
I can teach you how to speak another language
but you’ll have to close both eyes first

This poem was originally published in the now-defunct Wizards in Space Magazine.

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In the right season
ghosts too fall in love,
and land on their chin laughing
as the ground opens to release more dead.
Late October and whosoever
is in charge of the dead
sleep under the cool breeze of autumn leaves.
The dead will wake to songs
dedicated to their honour.
Late October sunset the unholy
and the holy will dine with the unknown.

I will open my hand
for a gift that can only
drop from the sky.

If ghosts can find love
in the cool October breeze;
then carry me on the wings of fortune.
Love washing my face and feet
with the water that doesn't dry
in summer or freeze in winter.

In one week, our planet will reach a milestone in its orbit: its axial tilt towards our life-giving star will hit its extreme. Here in the northern hemisphere, we will experience the longest night of the year next week, as the north pole pitches dramatically away from the sun and off into cold, dark space. Meanwhile, the southern hemisphere will experience its longest stretch of daylight, bathed in golden light with the sun at its southernmost-possible position in the sky. This moment feels monumental, yet it’s profoundly mundane. It happens twice every year.

So, as that auspicious date approaches, I am excited to announce the theme for Issue Six of Soft Star Magazine: Solstice.

The solstice — in spite or perhaps because of its regularity — is a cardinal date in countless cultures spanning geography and human history, from the Nordic celebration of Midsummer or the summer solstice sunrise at Stonehenge, to the Persian festival of Yalda or the Chinese winter solstice observance of Dong Zhi. The solstice has been a cornerstone of countless cultural and calendar systems — a signal of changing seasons, a liminal space between light and darkness, a reminder of celestial movements and patterns beyond our control.

Issue Six will explore themes of these celestial movements and patterns, cycles of change, liminal spaces, and the passage of time. Submissions may explore dualities between light/darkness and balance/extremes. Stories and art about rituals and tradition are welcome, especially those inspired by folklore!

You can use this collage as inspiration, both visual and thematic, for your submissions:

The submission window for Issue Six will open on Saturday, December 21, 2024 to align with the solstice. Mark your calendars and visit our Submissions page to submit!

As usual, submissions will remain open for about two months (official deadline TBA), and our hope is to publish the print edition of the issue on June 20, 2025, just in time for the next solstice.

See you all on the longest night,

Miranda

Happy December!

I’m pleased to be a guest author for this month’s recommended reading. As a lover of Russian literature, I’m often drawn to stories of the compassionate transversing bleak landscapes, whether physical or psychological. In speculative fiction, optimism is on easy mode when the utopia ceaselessly flourishes and the spaceship rides an uninterrupted course. But what happens when the utopia’s power grid runs on something human or mid-journey the spaceship must ration out oxygen? In my favorite stories, despite the plot escalating all doubts, the characters will continue to believe in an inherent goodness and justice. To me, this is where optimism becomes otherworldly.

Below are three stories where the main characters maintain that shard of sheer humanity. Even more exciting, not all the characters are exactly human, and yet they exude the warmth and relatability characteristic of excellent writing. I hope you get cathartically lost in these stories like I did.

Cheers!

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When I first started Soft Star back in 2022, I anticipated that these Recommended Reading posts would be a more regular occurrence — and unfortunately, I misjudged. However, two years later, I’d like to add another installment to the series to tide you over between issues.

Below, you’ll find two short works of nonfiction that reminded me of Soft Star and its ethos of optimistic futurism. I hope you’ll enjoy them as much as I did. Along with each piece, I’ve also included a couple of links to Soft Star stories that I think strike a similar chord.

Have a suggestion for a future piece of recommended reading? Comment on this post or email me at softstarmag@gmail.com.

Leave a comment

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I am so excited to announce that Issue Five: Frontier is now available in print! Print copies can be purchased from the Soft Star Shop on Ko-fi.

Get your copy of Issue Five: Frontier

This issue contains 6 short stories, two poems, and one prize-winning essay, as well as 15 pieces of full-color visual art EXCLUSIVE to the print edition! Also included are letters from the editor-in-chief (yours truly) and guest editor Korinne West.

I am especially excited because this is the first issue of Soft Star that is NOT being published on Amazon. All copies are being printed in advance via Mixam and mailed directly to you from my home here in Utah. This means that I get to add a personal touch to each shipment, and also that Amazon doesn’t profit from sales of Soft Star!

As a reminder, all issue contributors and all founding-tier members will receive a print copy of the issue for free.

Become a founding-tier member

While you’re checking out the Soft Star shop, consider picking up a mini-zine or a new Frontier-edition logo sticker to add to your order!

I hope you all enjoy the latest print edition of Soft Star Magazine, and thank you so much for your continued support.

Until next time,

Miranda

When I moved from New York to Salt Lake City, Utah in 2022, one of the first “tourist” spots I visited was the Utah State Capitol building. The Capitol functions not only as the seat of the state government, but also as a visitors’ center of sorts for the state of Utah. There was one small exhibit in particular that caught my eye — a display by the Utah Film Commission featuring looping video clips of high-profile movies and television shows filmed in the state.

There was a lot I didn’t know about my new home state at that point, but I definitely hadn’t realized just how many movies get made here in the Beehive State. Utah even boasts the nickname “America’s Film Set.” It also struck me how many of the films and TV shows listed were speculative, and especially works of science fiction.

As I’ve seen more and more of Utah firsthand, I understand why this state has become such a magnet for science fiction films and shows in particular. Part of the reason is simply that Utah’s landscapes are beautiful and diverse, allowing for many different settings to be filmed within a single state, from snow-capped mountains to red rock deserts.

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They say the gorgon lives in a city of salt.

Punishment, for all the wrongs she’s done. Berenike learned of the story long before the King of Thieves says the words — before he challenges her to break into this prison and bring him back a prize. A test, for all the wrongs that she’s done.

“It’s a cursed jail,” she says, resisting the urge to twist at the ends of her black braid. A good thief never shows their nerves. “What is there to steal?” 

The Thief King watches her, a gold coin dancing between his fingers and across his knuckles. Jeweled rings flash against his scarred skin — he’s no royalty by birth. 

“The gorgon’s divine eyes? A writhing snake from her head? A branch from a salted tree?”

Slamming his hand down on the surface of his desk, he traps the gold coin beneath his palm. The sudden sound makes her flinch against her will, and he leans forward to continue. “Bring me something that proves you were there. Something that can’t be forged. Show me that you’re worth this trouble.” 

He means it to be a real challenge, sending her to a place where she can’t falsify the results. Berenike swallows. It’s not her fault that her last plan failed so dangerously and cost him so much, but that’s too close to disrespect to say. She’s worked too hard to impress him to lose it all now.

Instead, she bows her head. She offers up the only answer that’s allowed to her in this room. “I swear that I will.”

They’re not the words she wants to say, and when they leave her mouth, they don’t feel like her own. But in this life, what does?

• • •

It started with an urn.

They came across it in the marketplace — tall and narrow, with a painted floral design. Berenike saw the way her mother’s eyes ate it up, like a sunrise after a rough night. Hungry. Berenike was only nine but she knew the urn cost too much coin, more than they’d have in this lifetime or the next. Her mother moved on, fingers pinching around Berenike’s arm, but Berenike didn’t forget that look. 

Three weeks later, she found a broken vase in the trash heap where she hunted with the other children. It was the wrong colors but the right shape. Cheap clay, but close enough — Berenike saw what it could be. A copy. She cleaned and she painted, and though it wasn’t perfect, it softened her mother’s fists and put a smile on her mouth.

For a time. 

Berenike tried with more vases, then moved onto fancy statues and figurines. Anything that gleamed with worth at the marketplace, she recreated. Anything that might elicit another response from her mother, she copied. Berenike chased after that same reaction, but her mother let the frown drop from her mouth only once more — in her death from the plague four years later.

When the creditors and crooks came to pick over the bones of her old life, it was the trinkets they were interested in. Just like that first vase, Berenike saw what the moment could be. Clever hands, a discerning eye — Berenike took her talent and honed it into a skill, sharp as any expensive blade. Soon, she moved on from ceramics to paintings, to recreating jewelry and falsifying documents for any deal that would have her.

It took her years, until she got herself here: a forger, in a court of thieves.

• • •

Berenike treats the king’s command like any other job. 

She’s copied enough lost artwork, “lost” artwork, and mythical treasures that she has the right connections, each scholar like a plank in her crooked bridge across the city. Digging through old records and leafing through faded texts, she swallows up everything she can of the salt city. All the writings say that the place was chosen for a prison because no stone could be used there — it allowed no memory of the gorgon’s former power. No rock to scrape together, not even a pebble. Just salt, grains and grains of it. 

The directions to find the city are the same whenever she comes across them: Sail due east, between the two bright stars like a keyhole. After the island of Cypress, follow the wild wind.

A wild wind in winter, or spring, or is it at the hint of a storm? It doesn’t say anywhere. Berenike thinks of the hard look in the king’s eyes when he threw down his challenge and decides to figure it out on the waters. She knows how cold it is outside the court. And how dangerous within.

Once she has her map, the rest of the plan falls into place. She taps into favors she’s owed and those always up for a little risk in exchange for a drink or a coin. A crew for the ship that she commandeers from the city wharf — after everything else, ownership papers and seals are easy to forge.

She keeps her long hair up under a faded hat when she talks to the harbormaster, but everyone on board knows who she is.

She’s been winning favors and accruing debts for years, hoarding goodwill like gold. Now is her time to use it.

• • •

Staring at the churning waves from the deck, she tries not to look over her shoulder. What’s behind her in the city is leagues away, although it doesn’t feel like it. Her failures follow her like a rope pulling taught. 

It was a foolproof plan, one that had been executed a hundred times before — no one looks for a thief when there’s nothing there to miss. Using knowledge that she digs up beforehand, she crafts a copy of what she wants stolen and finds a partner to switch it out. The object always holds the story that she gives it. 

The Thief King heard whispers about her skills and tapped her for a special job — a jeweled necklace so rare that the details of its design weren’t well known outside the owner’s walls. Whoever made the forgery would need to finish it on site. High stakes but high reward: an invitation to the Thief King’s trusted inner circle if she succeeded. Worth it, or so she’d thought, even as the iron manacles pinched her skin... 

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“What’s next?” The old cook startles her, her hands clenching tight on the railing when he sneaks up to her side. “Going to ask us to kidnap a harpy or pickpocket a cyclops?” He laughs like rusted steel against the air, too loud away from his kitchen. “Sounds like someone doesn’t want you to survive.”

Berenike glares at him. “Brave of you to sail with me then.”

“I like you, young one. You’ve got a crafty mind.” Before she can roll her eyes at the sentiment, he spits over the railing and grins. “And you always pay your debts.” 

She feels a flush of pleasure and glances around at her crew. They respect her, as much as thieves and criminals can. But it doesn’t matter. 

It’s never enough for her.

• • •

They sail past the coast of Cypress a week later. She almost doesn’t notice the wind change until she does, a warm curl at the back of her neck. 

“Wait.” The navigator keeps them floating straight; Berenike wants to stop him with a hand against his wrist, but tangles them behind her back instead. “Follow that wind.” 

“It won’t carry us,” the boy warns. He’s young, too young, but knows how to read the skies. “It’s not strong enough — and it keeps changing directions.”

That might be true, but this is too: “It will carry us.”

He shrugs an angled shoulder, eager enough to please, and turns the oaken wheel to follow this new plan. Berenike rocks back on her heels, wondering if she looks like him every time she nods and says yes to anyone who asks. She doesn’t have time to think about it. A sudden fog rushes over the rails of the ship like a cloud of dust shaken loose from the sea. It expands to fill the sky around them. The crew shouts curses and orders, but she barely sees them, catching only the black boots of someone as they scale up to the crow’s nest. 

It can’t be natural. That much is clear, and she feels her way to the railing. She doesn’t know what to expect, so she looks for anything. 

“Wait! There!” To the west, she sees a white spire that pierces through the fog, straight into the clouds above. It’s too angular not to be crafted by man. 

When no one answers her, she shouts again. “Over there!” 

They don’t see it. No matter how she calls it out, the rest of the crew sees nothing but the fog. In the end, it doesn’t truly matter — this challenge is hers alone.

“Keep the boat here until the next sunrise,” she orders, already grabbing her supplies and swinging them into the shallow row boat. “And I’ll come back alive.”

She can feel them watching blindly as they lower the boat to the waves, but she keeps her eyes on the spire in the distance. With a swallow like she’s going underwater, she rows straight into the fog.

• • •

It doesn’t last.

Her boat passes two full lengths in the white fog before it dissipates, burned up in a bright sun. Too bright for this time of day, and Berenike squints. 

Not just the spire, she now approaches an island. Brown dirt, baked by the sun, and a few scraggy green bushes pushing their way through: she tracks it all. Beyond that — she gasps. Sheer white walls rise up above her like a cliff. Salt. It’s hard-packed and solid except for the gap of an open gate. 

The small boat scrapes ashore. Stepping into the shallows, Berenike hefts a scythe and a shield into her arms, polished until they shine like mirrors. She feels like a hero in a myth, but they’re always male and murderous.

Climbing towards the gate, she can taste the salt whipped off the wall by the winds; when she steps through it, it’s a different world.

Her leather sandals scuff against the white salt ground, a facsimile of paving stones for there are no wheeled carts or people here. Just looming buildings, their doorways open and the shadows cool within. Pillars hold up nothing but sky, glittering white and sparkling in the sunlight. She can’t help but reach out to touch the one closest to her — the grains of salt are almost smooth underneath her fingertips. One discordant thought rings through her: this doesn’t feel like a prison, but a paradise. 

Shield held high to her chest, she wanders through the beautiful streets until they open out into a square. In the center of the city is a raised platform. There is a roof but open walls, the breeze coming in through loose white curtains. When they part, she catches a glimpse of a deep purple velvet chaise, a blur of a body on top. A nest of snakes that threaten to stop her heart.

One snake lifts its head into the air, like a stalk of wheat caught up in the wind. As soon as she notices it, the snake turns, black eyes fastening on her. 

• • •

“You’re spotted.” The crisp voice carries easily from the body on the divan. “Come here. My eyes are closed…”

Berenike bites her tongue, caught already. Her fingers tighten on the scythe and she wonders what to do now. Stealth was all she had.

“I said, come.” The gorgon’s words have an edge now, slicing through the air between them. “Leave the weapons at the stairs.”

Wind moves silently between the buildings, and Berenike is completely alone. She has no element of surprise, no good odds of winning a fight — what else is she meant to do? Lifting feet that are too heavy, she walks towards the dais. She places her shield and her scythe carefully on the ground before she walks up the stairs to the monster.

The gorgon didn’t lie — both eyes are closed, black lashes like scratches against skin the color of copper left out in the rain, palest green. 

“You’re the first in a while,” the gorgon says, and when she smiles at Berenike, it feels like a threat. Bronze silk drapes the shape of her body, held up with golden pins at her shoulders.

“Others have been here?” It’s strange — there are no stories of that — and even stranger still that the gorgon is talking to her. 

“Of course there have been others.” The gorgon tilts her head. “Now tell me — who betrayed you?” 

Unsettled, searching for solid ground, Berenike arms herself with words. She lashes out with the story she was told. “The only betrayal here is yours. I’ve heard the tale. You were a guard at first, a protector of valuables. Before you went power mad and turned on your master.”

One of the serpents twists towards her, its sharp tongue tasting the air that Berenike breathes out in a rush. 

The gorgon smiles wider in the silence, revealing pointed teeth. “I accept no man for a master, so how could that be true?” 

Reaching up, the gorgon bites gently at the meat of her hand, between thumb and forefinger. A pinprick of blood lands on the table next to the divan, blooming instantly into a bowl of fruits — rich, red persimmons, and oranges that perfume the air, green leaves still attached. “Sometimes you cede your story for life itself,” the gorgon says, resettling herself against her cushions. “I was tired of being hunted, so I built this place instead.”

“You built this?” Berenike looks at the windows and the stairs, and this time she doesn’t think the blight of salt and lack of stone is a taunt. No reminders of the past, nothing forced to be something it’s not… it’s a release. 

The gorgon inclines her head, lifting the fresh fruit to her mouth. “Only a girl betrayed can find it.”

“But I haven’t been—” Berenike begins to say, but the words dry up on her tongue. Because how can a mortal argue with a myth?

• • •

Berenike thinks back over the job… the accomplice? The Thief King, or someone too close to him? Was it some second deal with the necklace’s owner? Half her life she honed her skills, preparing for an opportunity like that one. The plan was perfect. It shouldn’t have failed unless someone made it so.  

It isn’t surprising that the owner expected an attempt to steal the necklace. It is surprising that they expected someone like her — a forger, not just a thief. Berenike hadn’t even begun her work when the guard put a spear against her back. All she held was a partially created necklace based on word of mouth and jeweler’s receipts. The ghost of the object, the cousin of the true thing.  It shouldn’t have been enough to detain her, but it was.  

That they couldn’t find her tools to finish the forgery saved her from the worst of the prison cells. All of the false jewels that she might need were pressed into decorative pins at her shoulders, waiting until she saw which ones to use. A secret no one else knew.

Berenike thought she was following the arc of a story, but this is an ending. 

It doesn’t matter who betrayed her, the result is the same — she can’t explain to the Thief King what went wrong on the job or promise it won’t happen again. There’s no evidence but this, her eyes finally wide open and her sandals scraping against salt.

The Thief King will never fully trust her, never accept her into his inner circle. He’ll make her prove herself over and over: another job, another journey, another chance to be cut off at the knees.

Looking back to the gorgon, Berenike feels herself harden, solidifying into who she is right now. All her life she’s been striving, unfinished. Working for the moment when someone tells her that she’s done enough. No more. This is who she is; it will be enough.

“You were right, I was betrayed. Will you help me?” she asks, because there has to be a reason that the gorgon’s city can be found by girls like her.   

“Will you keep my secret?” The gorgon turns to her, eyelashes black lines like scars on her skin.

“I vow that I will.”

“Vows mean more in my city,” the gorgon says, but she doesn’t say no. Berenike waits.

The gorgon tilts her head as if she’s thinking. A moment later, a crystalline tear slips between the seam of her closed right eye. The gorgon catches it on a fingertip, letting it roll to the salted floor. Light breaks like glass where it hits, blinding, and Berenike watches, hands still at her side for the first time in weeks. 

A silver dagger, as long as her forearm, emerges from the ground. Not made of iron or steel but something different. Something magic. It’s an object that can’t be forged. 

Berenike can give it to the Thief King, and what would she get in return?  The prestige and acceptance that comes with his approval, for the short time that it lasts. Or… she can keep it for her glory alone. She’s done following the lines of another. There’s a whole ship of eager sailors waiting for her out there. With a dagger like this and the right words, she’ll sail back home a legend. She’ll be so renowned that the King’s displeasure won’t matter. No one will be able to stop her.

Stories are malleable; they belong to the telling of it. The gorgon let go of her story to survive. Berenike will take hers back for the same reason.

When they speak of her, she will be the salt and the stone.

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The calf was born on that last day when the TV in the rec room wouldn’t switch from the EMERGENCY BROADCAST and all the sisters sat clutching their forearms through the rough canvas of their robes. The air was like acid on their skin when they walked past the chapel to the barn where the heifer was crying out —  animal sounds of life, brutal and baying. The sister and the novitiate stood side by side at the barn door like a pair of crows in their habits. From inside the cow stared back at them, her black eyes wide and wet. 

The sister, who was old and puckered around the lips, placed a hand on the cow’s side and breathed in deep. She was six weeks into a vow of silence that had brought none of the peace the Mother Superior had promised. 

We are going to have to help her, said the novitiate, and she kneeled in the hay and rolled up her sleeves. She had strong arms and hands that never shook, even when she had said those first vows. The sister remembered the name the girl had taken that day and how she had gazed out past her veil to look upon the crucifix. The blood of it all. The gash in God’s side. The cow’s shuddering breath. The sister with her hands in the mother’s cervix and the way it all felt raw like it did the first calving. Ten years on the ranch and ten years in the habit and it never got simple like she thought it would. I am brittle, thought the sister. I am not going to make it and neither will she. 

The novitiate brushed the hay off her skirt and moved to take the sister’s place at the cow’s back legs. The sister nodded slowly, stood and stepped back to consider the cow again. The world is ending, thought the sister. She wanted to grab the mother by her muzzle and press their foreheads together. Did you know that? That you are not the only one who will die today?

The novitiate’s hands moved skillfully inside the cow as the legs of the calf crested and life began to slowly appear. Feet first. A calf can walk within thirty minutes of its birth. A deep moan left the cow and the novitiate cooed over her, moved to pat her back. He’s coming strong, said the novitiate, and the sister could hear the smile through the scarf wrapped around the girl’s face. Back inside, the others still prayed over the TV set and counted water bottles and canned beans in the pantry. How blessed they were to be here in the barn with the red sun against the dirt where life was still being made. 

The sister was not holy or sturdy, though she had always wanted to be both. A cattle ranch in Colorado had once looked like a door to Heaven. A girlhood marked by suburban saltboxes that smelled like catshit and sweat. Her aunt with the cigarettes in the car and the windows up. Her mother’s house and the stacks of newspapers and her uncle said, don’t crinkle your nose, say please and thank you, and she took her shoes off on the asphalt and let her feet turn black. Her mother who never was one, who had always breathed heavy. The first year on their own they drove through North Dakota, with all the wind turbines and the flat expanse of the land. An inhale came easier there. 

The church had never saved her but it had always been familiar. Even after the fights and the sickness and the skin mottled up the arms, the mother still took the child every Sunday. A pretense of parenthood. In the pews on her knees with the carpet and its specks of red and green. Everyone said the right words then and now too. Rituals to keep them breathing. 

The calf moved in the hay, slick with the water from the mother’s body. He tried to stand. He kept trying to stand.

The novitiate sunk down on her knees, beaming like this meant something. She tugged the makeshift mask down from her face. Her skin was unmarred by the acrid air, her face still pink — not gray like the locals and the older sisters who coughed blood and phlegm into the rows of sinks at night. The sister gestured to her own mask, nodding anxiously for the novitiate to cover herself again. 

It’s just a cloth, she responded. It won’t change a thing. Still grinning. 

The mother won’t make it, said the novitiate. We’ll have to bottle feed him. The sister wanted to laugh. The calf won’t make it either, she thought. She wanted to spit it out, bitter and chiding. She wanted to shed tears for the novitiate’s faith. Instead she nodded. I am going to die silent. I am going to go softly like the mother. And again came the desire to hold the cow’s face, to shut her eyes against the fur of its forehead and listen to its breath go out slow. 

When she was young, on a church retreat, the deacon had taken a busload of kids to a farm owned by a family who walked barefoot through their land. She had watched the man wrangle his herd with a stick of goldenrod. Gentle words. The big beasts, bulls and the rest, all walking strong and soft among the children who gasped at their size. They spent half the day learning how to milk the dairy cows and by the end of it the child’s hands were cramped and withered and she ached for a week. Tense to the heart of her, her body full of cricks and twinges as it was to this day. 

At their feet, the calf started. He had done it — the world’s last victory, standing on shaky legs as he reached his tongue out of his mouth towards the mother. 

Hello. The novitiate shuffled back. There was a moment of knowing as the mother turned her body slow and hurting towards the baby and its wet legs and its head so heavy. A nuzzle and a slow lick across his forehead where a patch of brown fur grew against his white body. The cow shuddered. The cow barely stood. She will go quick and the calf will go hungry because they could not spare milk for the cattle.

Who will remember this, thought the sister. They had built museums and they had brought children to see, to aid in the memory of it — impressions of ancient hands against stone walls and fossils of creatures long extinct. Whole lives dedicated to imagining and re-imagining the worlds in which they lived. Now it is beginning again. A Sunday school question in her mind: Did God make the dinosaurs too? Or will he go out with us? Suddenly the answer mattered very much. 

The calf mewled low at the mother’s body but his legs were already stronger now. The novitiate wrapped blankets around the both of them as the sun went down for the last time and the stars were hidden by the dust and the smog. A third fleece offered to the sister. She had not noticed the tremor in her own limbs. 

We should wait to see if she lets him nurse. The sister nodded, wrapped her arms around herself.  It is not so much that she wanted to be remembered but that she wanted whoever came next to know how it ended. How they spent the last of days bringing life back into this world. They might name that cruelty, or selfishness — or maybe they would be kinder creatures. Call it faith. 

After her mother had died, the sister had been given leave to travel home for the funeral. In the backyard her uncle had sat waiting in his wheelchair, her little cousins buzzing around him. They dragged her to the backyard where the garden had grown wild, and the children tumbled over their own tongues, shot out questions in one long breath: did she know the path in the woods with the stepping stones? Had her fingers ever got all sticky from the tree sap? And the sister said yes, yes, I got it stuck in my hair when I was little. The eyes went big on the little one. You have hair under there? The tallest of the children took a pine needle and poked it to his finger and said, you can catch a bug in this stuff and the body sticks together for-ever. I saw it in a movie. Yes, the sister said. Resin. She walked back with them to the garden with the plastic lawn chairs and the overgrown weeds and the cicadas buzzing loud. Stepped careful on the stone path. Pulled her fingers through the sap on the trees.