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February 2015 cover art

The Moira Sisters’ Inn

By Roshani Chokshi

Age 10

The puppy curled in Casper’s lap like a doughnut. He watched its silken tummy rise and fall, blissfully oblivious to the rain pelting the family minivan like shrapnel.

“We can’t make it to the lake in one day,” Mom muttered.

Dad sighed, “I think you’re right.”

“Tell me something new,” Mom laughed. “I’ll try and pull up a place for the night.”

Dad left the highway behind. The rain was still ruthless, but at least Casper could see something other than evil red truck lights. Outside he saw rows of rain-blurred magnolia trees and bright daffodils on square lawns. They drove through cobbled town squares and dim restaurants until they got to a flat stretch of road with no lights.

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Aristi Chthonia

By Danielle Coombs

Hades only means to visit the white asphodels that grow on the limestone slopes of the mountains, not to disturb Persephone. The god of the dead knows better than to draw the striving, strangling attention of life.

Persephone is picking the asphodel, using a small knife to snick through each waxy stalk and laying them one atop the other in a reed basket. Hades feels the faint, shivering pull of the blade as though over his own skin. He pauses among the shadows, watching, because to retreat would call her attention as much as to advance.

“Hades,” says Persephone. She looks at him. The knife cuts another flower.

“Kore,” says Hades, using her safe name, the one that means ‘maiden’.

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