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Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 27

By Kelly Link & Gavin J Grant &
Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 27 by Kelly Link & Gavin J Grant &  digital book - Fable

Publisher Description

Excerpts from LCRW #27:

The Wolves of St. Etienne
A. D. Jameson

Lewis couldn’t see the phone very well because the bedroom was dark and his glasses were on the nightstand. He shifted his weight on the bed; kneaded his forehead with two fingers. I must remember to relax my face, he thought. I bunch my face up, and then it hurts. The phone rang again, but Lewis made no move to answer it. He already knew who was calling, and what they wanted.
Instead he looked into the next room, where he could see nothing of the Christmas Tree. The Christmas Tree wasn’t his. He had bought one, a small, neat fir, and decorated it with popcorn, white lights and a star, but it had been taken. Returning to the hotel room late one night he’d found it missing, a different tree in its place, an aluminum one that revolved as its lights blinked on and off. Lewis kept it unplugged, but every time he returned home he found it revolving and blinking. . . .

The Hedon-Ex Anomaly
Jessy Randall

The announcement came over the tubes almost immediately after it started: two whirling dervishes in room 204 of the seventh grade building. They expect the anomaly; it always happens with Hedon-Ex. I’d heard similar announcements several times during my seventh grade year. The only difference was that this time I was one of the dervishes. At that point, despite spinning faster than I knew I could and feeling a bit sick, I could still hear perfectly well and was quite aware of what was going on around me. That didn’t last the whole time. . . .


Thou Earth, Thou
K. M Ferebee

Dunbar set to work at once in the garden. Whilst Mason unpacked boxes, airing the linens and arranging dishes in the narrow kitchen cabinets, Dunbar was on his knees in the knotted foliage, unearthing weeds. It was the principal feature of the house, this garden, and had been the aspect that finally committed them. It was unusually large for a suburban neighbourhood, measuring perhaps four metres by fifteen, and had been ferociously neglected by the former owner. Rosemary ran rampant in great spiny outgrowths; tomato plants towered and drooped their sad, untidy leaves. There were masses of flowers, grown tall and rather savage. The smell that rose out of it was vast and wild and heady, a riot of scent somehow indecipherably green. Dunbar was mad for gardening and had fallen for it instantly. “Just think,” he’d said, “by the start of summer I could have it cut back, and we could plant pumpkins and courgettes and runner beans.” . . .

Four Poems by Sarah Heller
After the Apocalypse

I’ll regret cashing in all my silver
down at the Associated Supermarket.
It’s not silver. Those nickels
are probably made of nickel. . . .

Elvis in Bloom
Karen Hueler
1. My Son Elvis

Dear Lord, he’s discovered peanut butter. Can’t get enough of it. You’d think they don’t have it where he comes from.
Well, I guess they don’t. They have mostly things I think they’re like protein powders. Can’t say I like them much myself.
We found him in a field. Like he was superman, you see. A child stunned in a field, with a kind of hard film around him. Like that hard plastic packaging you can’t get open? Like that. . . .

A Sackful of Ramps
M. K. Hobson

Lita’s got it in her head that she’s got to have a sackful of ramps. And not just any old ramps, Toby can’t just rummage around back of the Kroger’s and pick some out that might fallen behind the empty woodcrates with the other spent vegetables. No, Lita’s got it in her head that she’s got to have ramps from Edna Gothel’s kitchen garden or she’s going to die.
“She killed him because she wants to be white.” Lita’s voice is a disgruntled monotone as she brushes her hair, long and greasy and gleaming. “Hands red as a cat’s ear and it was cold and there wasn’t any moonlight, but there was the light from inside her refrigerator door. Do you understand? Now she wants to kill us. Kill us, plow us under like worms, plant white flowers on top of us. I see her. You think I don’t see her? She looks in the windows. Her fat face like a worm in a flower looking in. She’s imagining white flowers where our bed is now. Do you understand?” . . .


The Mismeasure of Me and How I Saved the World
Carol Emshwiller

I’ve always wondered who I was. I took time off to find myself, but I could only afford a year and that wasn’t anywhere near long enough. Maybe later, after I accumulate more money, I can try again. But even now I do take little bits of time, every weekend or so, to think: Who am I?
That one year when I had the time and money to use some for finding me, I went up into the mountains. I sat at the tops of cliffs, looking down at the views of the valleys below and tried hard to think about myself. Every time I found a still pond, I’d look in it and study my face and wonder what it signifies, as: What does it mean to have striking blue eyes, a wide forehead, and naturally curly hair? . . .

Music Box
David Rowinski

Patrick Sutton pushed the last trash bag through the basement window. Reaching out, he grasped the rotting casing, stepped onto a countertop, and just managed to squeeze out the way he had entered. He was about to stand when a car’s headlights swept across the lawn. Patrick froze as if immobility would render him invisible. The car continued up the quiet suburban street. Still on hands and knees, heart racing, Patrick turned around and pulled open the window.
Sticking in his head, he hissed, “What the hell are you doing?”
As if in response a black, lacquered box emerged, followed by two gloved hands then a shaved head. Patrick wanted to shove John Ferris back into the basement to put back the box but feared Janice’s imminent return. Grasping he friend’s wrists, he dragged him out through the window. John’s sleeve caught on the point of the latch Patrick had popped out of an eye hook with a putty knife to gain access to the house. . . .

Sending All Your Love — In the Form of Brownies Through the Mail
Nicole Kimberling

Equipment: cupcake tin & baking liners, waxed paper, plastic wrap, rigid shipping container, pack- ing material, packing tape, pen, a piece of cardboard big enough for ten cupcake-sized brownies to sit on, oven, timing device, mixing bowl, measuring cups and spoons, cooling rack, a little cash, hands, and at least some love to spare for another.
Time: Approximately three hours total, plus travel time. Actual labor time: 30 minutes.
Step Zero: Read whole recipe. . . .

Five Poems by David Blair
May Day, at the Somerville Community Gardening Center

You give them enough sweet curd,
some little kids denounce
me for witchcraft at Puritan tribunals. . . .

The Sale of Midsummer
Joan Aiken

The van, which was labeled Modway Television, chugged up a long, steep hill, slipped thankfully into top gear, and ran down through fringes of beechwood bordering a small star-shaped valley which lay sunk in the top of the downs. Presently the trees ended and sunny curves of cowslip-studded grass began; ahead, clustered elms half revealed a few grey stone roofs.
“This ought to be it,” Andrew said, looking at his map. “There’s a village green; that’d be the best place to leave the van. I’ll take the mike and you bring the camera, Tod, and we’ll wander.” . . .

The Malanesian
Sarah Harris Wallman

Tanga wakes early to start the halpa. It is a traditional sauce, fiery and aromatic. Tanga uses it on everything. The Rogers know New Jersey is not Tanga’s home and they want her to be at ease. The place she was from is doubtless warmer, so they have turned up the thermostat. Probably Tanga’s culture does not permit her to trouble them with her discomfort.
The Rogers have never had a live-in maid. Sometimes when they are upstairs in the yellow room with the big bed they laugh at themselves, at the way they tiptoe around their big possessions and their maid, at the way they are surprised by everything. They have not been affluent very long.

Dear Aunt Gwenda Summer Circus Edition

Dear Aunt Gwenda,
My dead old mom keeps knocking on the door late at night. She’s never there in the morning but she recently left me a note saying that if I open the door she’ll split the royalties from her new memoir
—I’m An Octogenarian Zombie!—with me. Thing is, she hasn’t written it yet and I am afraid she wants me to do it. I’d kind of like to hear her story but I know if I let her in it will be all “Aunt Janice says hello. Your Aunt Mimi looks wonderful. And my, I am hungry.” Any suggestions on what to do?
Earpluggedly yours, XD

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