We've a treat for you now: two new poems by Beth Cato. The first – So Old – is an interesting take on a Mad Max-style dystopia, while the second – The Border Cowboy at the Border – is something I've never seen before: a Western meets the Fae mashup. And it works! 

Nebula-nominated Beth Cato is the author of both the Blood of Earth trilogy and The Clockwork Dagger steampunk fantasy duology from Harper Voyager. Her website is http://BethCato.com


So Old
by Beth Cato

my grandma's so old
she remembers back when
people actually drove cars around
they didn't just sit here, rusting

she says people used 
to starve themselves to lose weight
how crazy is that?

and people had their trash
hauled away and expected to never
ever see it again
they certainly never dug through it
like we do
to find useful stuff

people were sure stupid back then
no wonder 
most of them died in the war


The Border Cowboy at the Border
by Beth Cato

some folks reckon you need an invite
to cross the border to Fairy Land
the cowboy knows that ain't so
either a human is kidnapped
dragged kicking and screaming
over that line
or they're a fool who deserves what they get

he considers the wall across the prairie
weathered stones stacked to his shoulder
a peculiar sight, where nary a rock is found
these stones don't look right, either
they darkly sparkle like they been rained on
though yellow grass crackles underfoot

a hole's been punched through the wall
like God laid down His mighty fist
shards about like they been dynamited 

the tracks of the cowboy's cattle herd
go straight through that gap
to the misty, accursed place on the far side
he had figured hill trolls did the thievin'
but this hole in the wall--it ain't like them
nothin' about this feels right

but what's a cowboy without his cows?

he sighs as he dismounts
to lead his skittish mare by the bit
she's smart enough to fight him
as they cross that shattered boundary

today, the cowboy's the fool

We've a dark fantasy story for you now, that will leave you feeling a little uneasy. The author is Alice Godwin, who was born on the island of Van Diemen’s Land now known as Tasmania, which she describes as a Grimm’s fairy tale sort of place. She has won a few awards and has had over 30 short stories published in magazines, anthologies, and literary journals in Australia and overseas. You can find her on social media at
https://www.facebook.com/AliceGodwinAuthor/
and https://twitter.com/mermama1


Dísablót
by Alice Godwin
 

Deep inside the forest where the wild mistletoe grew, covering the naked birch trees like wispy gowns, August wrapped the cloak tightly around Yvette’s shoulders as they joined the other revelers. Fiery torches on long poles flickered as they drank the hot mulled wine in silver goblets. Her very first Ærra Jéola and she was excited. Everyone wore masks; her fiancé August’s was a realistic wolf with silver teeth and glittering whiskers, a family heirloom, Yvette knew, representing their crest and their name. Yvette’s mask was pale gold set with tiny rubies, a stylized face, part human, part fawn, ethereal and fairytale like, a present from her soon-to-be husband. Jugglers and acrobats cavorted between the trees disappearing into the darkness and reappearing like mythical, shadowy creatures.

At some prearranged signal the wandering musicians stopped playing and everyone gathered in a circle. Breaths came out as frosty vapor and the snow sizzled as hot ash fell. Two stood in the centre, a hooded man with a menacing mask of twisted sticks and a woman all in white, from her hood to her boots, even the mask that covered her entire face, was dazzling white with gold and green whirling patterns. She was a Dís, the Goddess in the form of a wild snowstorm that covered the ripening buds of the trees as they slumbered, waiting. She decided how long winter would last and if you would wake to breathe in the spring air.
 
They sang a duet, his voice deep and sonorous and hers, high and haunting. The language was archaic and although Yvette didn’t understand the words, she intuitively understood its meaning, sacrifice and love/life torn apart and trampled. Tears came sliding beneath the metallic mask and turned to ice on her skin.

As the final harmonies echoed into the night, a girl in a scarlet cloak carrying a white rabbit walked out and presented it to the cloaked woman. The woman held its struggling body above her head before pressing it to her chest, where it calmed. Yvette was staring into its bright eyes when a crimson stain exploded across the animals’ body.

A blackened chalice caught the rivulets of steaming blood as it poured out. When the chalice was full the man began walking around the circle, Yvette watched in horror as the chalice was presented and each person raised their lips to it and drank.

“No.” She whispered.

“You must. You don't have a choice.” August’s tone was hard. “It's just an animal. You love rabbit stew. There is no difference.”

“I'll be sick if I drink it.”
“No you won't. It will just taste hot and salty.”

Now the two were in front of them and the chalice was against her lips she reluctantly allowed the warm liquid to fill her mouth.

Yvette stared at the woman whose white robes were splattered scarlet. Her white-gloved hand still held the dripping knife.

The night had bleached into ivory slashed wine-dark red.

Crimson snow. Amber flames.

Yvette felt herself spinning, falling.

She knew those amber eyes within that mask, August’s sister.

He’d not mentioned that she would be here. Or that she would be in that role She looked at the other revelers, was it her imagination but they are all seemed to be staring at her?

Under the ancient juniper trees, August kissed her, his tongue inside her mouth; all she could taste was blood.

She couldn't get the animal’s eyes out of her head; it was as though it was trying to tell her something crucial.

In the middle of the night, waking her from her sleep, the meaning became icy clear.

Run.

Run away.

As fast as you can.
 
 
 
Notes:
Dísablót:  blót, sacrificial holiday that was held in honour of the female spirits called dísir in pre Christian Scandinavia & Northern Germany.
Aerra Jéola: midwinter ancient German festival