Cover art by Travis Hampton
Issue 5 | Hope
March 20th, 2021 - Spring Equinox
Prison abolition activist Mariame Kaba says that "hope is a discipline."
Hope is not a passive thing, whereby we sit on our hands and wait for the knight in shining armor to swoop in and rescue us. Hope is something that we have to create ourselves. Some might say it's something that we have to earn. For our Spring Issue, we chose "Hope" as our theme because – at the risk of sounding trite – hope is something that has been in short supply for many people over the last twelve months. It is difficult to believe that last week marked the one-year anniversary of the COVID-19 pandemic in the United States. But at long last, we can see light at the end of the tunnel; over 100 million vaccines have already been distributed, and more are coming at a rapid pace. Millions of Americans just recieved $1,400+ in stimulus money from the government as a much-needed reprieve from the economic hardships of the last year. Businesses are beginning to open back up, and the economy is beginning to bounce back. The most progressive Presidential cabinet in the history of the US has been appointed to the executive branch of our government, and we are already seeing waves of progressive legislation pass through Congress that will have a profound impact on the lives of millions of people, both in the United States and across the world. After all of the turmoil of the last year, these are welcome changes and reason for us all to breathe a little bit easier.
But the work is far, far from over. On January 6th, there was an attempted coup attempt in Washington, D.C. by right-wing militants, spurred on by the former president and his cronies in their authoritarian attempts to overturn a free and fair democratic election. While the coup (thankfully) failed, such an event has never before occurred in American history, and the very foundations of our democracy have been shaken to the core. (There are already rumors that Trump is planning a second presidential run in 2024.)
In our home state of Texas, a deadly winter storm – the likes of which have never been seen in recorded Texas history – left millions without light, heat, and potable water for over a week. People were forced to chop up furniture and burn personal belongings to keep themselves and their families warm. Many had to venture out onto icy roads in sub-freezing temperatures to seek warming stations as the temperature in their homes dipped below freezing. Some hospitals (still filled to the brim with COVID patients) had only one functioning toilet available for the entire building. There were many who died of hypothermia, dehydration, house fires, and carbon monoxide poisoning, including grandparents and children. The abysmal failure of our state government to provide life-saving aid to the citizens of Texas, as well as their hatred of "big government" that led to a completely privatized energy grid that relies almost completely on fossil fuels and is disconnected from the national grid, resulted in 57 preventable casualties – and brought home (literally) the reality that climate change is not an abstract concept or a far-off futuristic possibility, but is here at our very doorstep. And if we don't take drastic measures to address it immediately, these types of disasters will only increase in number and severity, profoundly changing the way humans live on and interact with this planet.
And this past week, a man filled with self-loathing and racist misogyny purposefully targeted Asian-owned spas in the Atlanta area and shot down eight people, including six Asian women, because of a so-called "sex addiction." We will not get into the complex relationship between racism, misogyny, xenophobia, and the fetishization of Asian-American and Pacific Islander women and femmes that led to this heinous and senseless crime here – there are plenty of AAPI writers, content creators and activists speaking out about it (and who have been for a long time) and we feel it is important to amplify their voices. We do, however, encourage you to read this Time piece dedicated to the memory of the victims and to remember they are not headlines, but dynamic, three-dimensional human beings whose lives were cut short by the violence of colonialism and sexism.
There are so many challenges that lie ahead of us as a people, and as a planet. But as we've said before many times, it is easy to forget how far humanity has come during our short time on Earth, and that we are the agents and creators of our own history. Now is not the time to fall into despair and apathy, no matter how dark things seem: spring always follows winter, literally and metaphorically, and the spring is here now to remind us that the cycle continues on and that we all have a part to play in making the world we dream of.
As Dr. Ian Malcom (played by the witty Jeff Goldblum) famously states in Jurassic Park –
"Life, uh, finds a way."
We hope you enjoy this Issue, and that you find – or create! – moments of joy and pleasure and connection and beauty to celebrate as the world renews.
Blessings to all,
Ashton, Nori, & Travis
Prison abolition activist Mariame Kaba says that "hope is a discipline."
Hope is not a passive thing, whereby we sit on our hands and wait for the knight in shining armor to swoop in and rescue us. Hope is something that we have to create ourselves. Some might say it's something that we have to earn. For our Spring Issue, we chose "Hope" as our theme because – at the risk of sounding trite – hope is something that has been in short supply for many people over the last twelve months. It is difficult to believe that last week marked the one-year anniversary of the COVID-19 pandemic in the United States. But at long last, we can see light at the end of the tunnel; over 100 million vaccines have already been distributed, and more are coming at a rapid pace. Millions of Americans just recieved $1,400+ in stimulus money from the government as a much-needed reprieve from the economic hardships of the last year. Businesses are beginning to open back up, and the economy is beginning to bounce back. The most progressive Presidential cabinet in the history of the US has been appointed to the executive branch of our government, and we are already seeing waves of progressive legislation pass through Congress that will have a profound impact on the lives of millions of people, both in the United States and across the world. After all of the turmoil of the last year, these are welcome changes and reason for us all to breathe a little bit easier.
But the work is far, far from over. On January 6th, there was an attempted coup attempt in Washington, D.C. by right-wing militants, spurred on by the former president and his cronies in their authoritarian attempts to overturn a free and fair democratic election. While the coup (thankfully) failed, such an event has never before occurred in American history, and the very foundations of our democracy have been shaken to the core. (There are already rumors that Trump is planning a second presidential run in 2024.)
In our home state of Texas, a deadly winter storm – the likes of which have never been seen in recorded Texas history – left millions without light, heat, and potable water for over a week. People were forced to chop up furniture and burn personal belongings to keep themselves and their families warm. Many had to venture out onto icy roads in sub-freezing temperatures to seek warming stations as the temperature in their homes dipped below freezing. Some hospitals (still filled to the brim with COVID patients) had only one functioning toilet available for the entire building. There were many who died of hypothermia, dehydration, house fires, and carbon monoxide poisoning, including grandparents and children. The abysmal failure of our state government to provide life-saving aid to the citizens of Texas, as well as their hatred of "big government" that led to a completely privatized energy grid that relies almost completely on fossil fuels and is disconnected from the national grid, resulted in 57 preventable casualties – and brought home (literally) the reality that climate change is not an abstract concept or a far-off futuristic possibility, but is here at our very doorstep. And if we don't take drastic measures to address it immediately, these types of disasters will only increase in number and severity, profoundly changing the way humans live on and interact with this planet.
And this past week, a man filled with self-loathing and racist misogyny purposefully targeted Asian-owned spas in the Atlanta area and shot down eight people, including six Asian women, because of a so-called "sex addiction." We will not get into the complex relationship between racism, misogyny, xenophobia, and the fetishization of Asian-American and Pacific Islander women and femmes that led to this heinous and senseless crime here – there are plenty of AAPI writers, content creators and activists speaking out about it (and who have been for a long time) and we feel it is important to amplify their voices. We do, however, encourage you to read this Time piece dedicated to the memory of the victims and to remember they are not headlines, but dynamic, three-dimensional human beings whose lives were cut short by the violence of colonialism and sexism.
There are so many challenges that lie ahead of us as a people, and as a planet. But as we've said before many times, it is easy to forget how far humanity has come during our short time on Earth, and that we are the agents and creators of our own history. Now is not the time to fall into despair and apathy, no matter how dark things seem: spring always follows winter, literally and metaphorically, and the spring is here now to remind us that the cycle continues on and that we all have a part to play in making the world we dream of.
As Dr. Ian Malcom (played by the witty Jeff Goldblum) famously states in Jurassic Park –
"Life, uh, finds a way."
We hope you enjoy this Issue, and that you find – or create! – moments of joy and pleasure and connection and beauty to celebrate as the world renews.
Blessings to all,
Ashton, Nori, & Travis
On that note...
If you've been part of the Crown & Pen community for a while, you probably reconize Travis as the name behind our beautiful cover art. We are pleased to announce that Travis has officially joined the Crown & Pen team as our Head Artist and Art Editor! (You can thank him for our beautiful new logo and website banner.) We are thrilled to see how our zine has grown over the last year, and that our little literary family is expanding. Thank you all for your continued contributions and support.
To learn more about Travis and his work, please visit our About page!
To learn more about Travis and his work, please visit our About page!
In Chains of Gold
by A.R. Salandy
A lilac rosary rests along
The path to fields of earthly salvation
Where bonds are shattered
By golden beams immense,
But radiant are crocuses
That burn chai on my stained hands,
Where lines of segregation do depict
The plight of bonded beings
Branded into steps cautious
And sutured into terra-firma
By misty mornings
Of solstice dew
Where lingering is daylight hope,
And purifying are vernal aromas
That give momentary distraction
From deprivation
Wrapped in corroded delusions
Or golden chains,
Warped by societal frailty
And entwined in blossoms tender,
The final demarcation of bondage eternal.
The path to fields of earthly salvation
Where bonds are shattered
By golden beams immense,
But radiant are crocuses
That burn chai on my stained hands,
Where lines of segregation do depict
The plight of bonded beings
Branded into steps cautious
And sutured into terra-firma
By misty mornings
Of solstice dew
Where lingering is daylight hope,
And purifying are vernal aromas
That give momentary distraction
From deprivation
Wrapped in corroded delusions
Or golden chains,
Warped by societal frailty
And entwined in blossoms tender,
The final demarcation of bondage eternal.
La Primavera
by A.R. Salandy
Wayward skies do formulate
Cloudy corroborations
Where virgin lands whisper offerings
For sweet deluge,
But on as winds ululate
Can cracked land be seen to ooze
With sacred satisfaction,
Where concrete fabrications
Implore contrived dwelling
In urbs many, where solstice seduction
Gives breath to loosening climates
Out in lands demarcated for germination.
But we, the common folk
Remain hopeful in gluts of warming leaves
As a cacophony of spring lashings
Torments window panes and brings
Reproduction prolific to grounds thawed,
Now rising.
Cloudy corroborations
Where virgin lands whisper offerings
For sweet deluge,
But on as winds ululate
Can cracked land be seen to ooze
With sacred satisfaction,
Where concrete fabrications
Implore contrived dwelling
In urbs many, where solstice seduction
Gives breath to loosening climates
Out in lands demarcated for germination.
But we, the common folk
Remain hopeful in gluts of warming leaves
As a cacophony of spring lashings
Torments window panes and brings
Reproduction prolific to grounds thawed,
Now rising.
Anthony Salandy is a mixed-race poet & writer whose work tends to focus on social inequality throughout late-modern society. Anthony travels frequently and has spent most of his life in Kuwait jostling between the UK & America. Anthony's work has been published 130 times. Anthony has one published chapbook titled The Great Northern Journey and is the Co-Eic of Fahmidan Journal. Connect with Anthony on Twitter/Instagram @anthony64120 and visit https://arsalandywriter.com/
Photo and digital manipulation by M. R. Nash
Sanctuary, No More
by M.R. Nash
I made a long-overdue visit to the city of Austin. True, I am currently a resident of Austin, but I live way up in North Austin, a land of chain store shopping centers and “cookie-cutter” neighborhoods. It’s an area of town that could be any area of any town, just an average American suburb. I had gotten lost here for way too long, going about daily routines, watching the years burn away. It was past time to get reacquainted with the real Austin, the magical city that had drawn me here when I was younger. It was an Austin of eclectic local eateries and shops, a place where pieces of graffiti became landmarks, a place that was supposedly fading away. It was an Austin that was meant to be “kept weird.” I had arrived at South Congress taking in the “weirdness” like a tourist. There were the fun little stores selling trinkets and nothings, a grand sculpture resembling an alien throne covered with thousands of tiny mirrors, and, of course, the famous “I love you so much” tag. After an hour or so of taking pictures that I would later share on Instagram, I had a feeling of nostalgia and decided to take a trip to what my friends and I used to call “The Sanctuary.”
The Sanctuary was located deep within the Zilker Park Nature Preserve, not more than a mile away, along a hiking trail that ran within the woods surrounding Barton Springs. The trail ran down a hill, across a gully, and up a set of earth stairs, which were kept in place by wooden beams laying on their sides. At the top of this steep climb, visitors were rewarded by a sort of court made of stone, surrounded by columns made of brick and mortar. This served as the scenic overlook since you could see the Austin skyline from here, with all of its fantastic steel and glass structures, themselves fairly recent residents to the “Weird City.”
It had been almost twenty years since I had visited Zilker Park’s hiking trail, and on this day I was alone. Before, I would have been accompanied by my roommates and friends at the time, a small gang of poets. The overlook was not our sanctuary, however. The overlook was intended for those who stuck to the beaten path. To find The Sanctuary, the poets and I had to leave the trail, and crouch beneath the underbrush and tree branches. Though not an intended “trail” placed by the Parks and Recreation department, it was ground that was clear enough for more adventurous hikers to crawl through. And at the end, it would lead to a stone ledge overlooking a steep drop, that provided a more fantastic view of the city.
This was The Sanctuary.
Here the poets and I would share a joint while discussing philosophy and personal dreams above the green ocean of treetops that swayed in waves with the spring breeze. One in our small gang was going to be a rockstar, whose music would revolutionize the world. I, being the artist of the group, was going to design his album covers. Other members of our gang were still finding themselves, no direct goals for the time being, just being young and appreciating the moment. And we were young then, all of us barely in our twenties. The city of Austin seemed young as well, still holding on to her soul, not yet a blazing wall of skyscrapers. Back then, the only notable points of Austin’s skyline were the Capitol, the UT Tower, and the Frost Tower that was still under construction. Our entire lives were before us, and we weren’t going to be service industry workers forever. Oh no, we were going to conquer the world! It was destiny.
Now, here I was again, a man in my forties, intent on finding The Sanctuary for old time’s sake. I didn’t have any weed on me, I had given that up years ago. I was only accompanied by the hiss of the cicadas, and the whisper of the great machines that coasted over concrete rivers far away, somewhere underneath the Frost Tower and her steel sisters. All of the poets had moved on, moved to other cities throughout the nation to chase grander adventures. They had traded in their bohemian lifestyles of “kind bud” and open mic nights at the Spiderhouse, for more stable lives with families and steady careers in the medical industry. Only I remained in the Weird City, attempting to return to the old sanctuary, just like the old days, back when the wild dreams were still alive and life was still sweet with fresh adventures.
But as I hiked along the beaten trail running from the scenic overlook, I noticed that the secret path leading to the sanctuary was nowhere to be seen. I couldn’t remember exactly where the entrance was since it had been close to two decades, but any place it could have been was now overgrown with the thick branches of thorny shrubs and briars. The old sacred ground that the poets and I would migrate to for our spiritual ritual was now an unruly brush. It seemed that after the poets and I had moved on, nature had re-taken what was rightfully hers. I even tried to find it from below the cliffs, from the stairs molded into the dirt leading up to the overlook. But there was nothing, every stone ledge was occupied by the thick branches of oaks and cedars. The sanctuary was gone; closed to all except for the birds and rodents. It now belonged to Mother Nature: “No Poets Allowed!” Since I didn’t want to have wasted my trip, I returned to the overlook and took a few pictures of the Austin skyline. And then I left, not wanting to get caught in rush hour traffic.
The times have changed over the last two decades. I’ve changed, Austin has changed, even a little nook, known only by my small gang of poets has changed. As endearing as the poet’s life was, we had to move on, even if I personally wasn’t ready. The current in the vast ocean of time had shifted; they saw it and took the opportunity to sail away to greater tides. I saw it too but refused to accept it, and like an anchor, the past held me back.
Even the sanctuary itself, the place off the beaten path, a place for only my fellow poets and I, had moved on, leaving only me, a reminiscent fool glued to the past. There is no more sanctuary, only a dark and unruly forest, and I, a hiker on the beaten path. Do I stick to the path, and enjoy the scenic overlooks set before me by society, or do I venture into the dark woods, seeking a new sanctuary? The beaten path keeps me safe, it keeps my shoes clean and free from ticks and fleas. The brush has thorns that will scratch, cut, and perhaps draw blood, but if I never bleed, I never heal. Is it not in the healing that I become stronger, and have the wisdom to move on when the time comes?
The next day, I was back at my suburban life. I went to my service industry job, selling food to the public. I smiled, I acted like I cared. They smiled back and said thank you. I literally saw hundreds of families, with shopping carts full of food for their families. They would bring it home and gather around the dinner table in a communion of love. My fellow workers and I, a gang of unsung heroes, helped make that happen. Later, I went home, watched some television with my wife, our cats resting at our sides, and I listened to her tell me about her day.
Later on that night, I sorted through all of my pictures that I took the day prior, of the sites on South Congress, of interesting trees that hold their own personalities and other glimpses of nature at Zilker Park, and of the shots of Austin’s steel majesty from the scenic overlook. I even took a few pictures of the scenic overlook itself, of the brick and mortar columns decorated with graffiti from more recent young “poets'' who are still finding themselves.
Oftentimes, with each photograph, I like to edit its appearance to give it my own personal touch. I adjust the brightness because sometimes there are beautifully deep colors hidden within the shadows. I adjust the saturation in order to bring out the deeper colors and make them more vibrant. And then, I adjust the hue, skewing the colors a bit. I find that sometimes it gives the pictures a fantastical and ethereal quality. I gave the pictures I took on my “Quest to Find the Sanctuary” this treatment and posted them on Instagram. They all looked absolutely brilliant!
Before long, my photos attracted several “likes,” as well as a few complimentary comments and “follows.” It wasn’t much, but it felt good to give a little bit of happiness to people from all over the world, even if it was for just a moment. And then I got a “like” and a comment from someone I used to know, one of my former “poets,” the one who was going to be a rockstar, and me his album artist. He liked and posted a comment on my picture of the scenic overlook. His comment read: “Sanctuary.”
I smiled. Hit the like icon, and comment, “The Sanctuary lives!”
M.R. Nash is an artist, philosopher, and minister to the First Church of Observational Individualism. He lives in Austin with his wife and two cats.
Barbies With Dirty Faces
by Kristin Garth
I have Barbies with cheeks arson turned black.
A Hello Kitty bride I found in my backyard,
white fur the hygienic cycle brought back
after a flood. I just cannot discard
the decapitated doll an ex-boyfriend
destroyed because a former one saw
the child inside me who needed a friend --
plastic grandchild from ex-mother in law.
Sins of the mother mar synthetic skin.
Everyone leaves me except the pretend.
A Hello Kitty bride I found in my backyard,
white fur the hygienic cycle brought back
after a flood. I just cannot discard
the decapitated doll an ex-boyfriend
destroyed because a former one saw
the child inside me who needed a friend --
plastic grandchild from ex-mother in law.
Sins of the mother mar synthetic skin.
Everyone leaves me except the pretend.
Kristin Garth is a Pushcart, Best of the Net & Rhysling nominated sonnet stalker. Her sonnets have stalked journals like Glass, Yes, Five:2:One, Luna Luna and more. She is the author of 20 books of poetry including Candy Cigarette Womanchild Noir (Hedgehog Poetry Press), Flutter Southern Gothic Fever Dream (TwistiT Press), and Girlarium (Fahmidan Journal). She is the founder of Pink Plastic House a tiny journal and co-founder of Performance Anxiety, an online poetry reading series. Follow her on Twitter: (@lolaandjolie) and her website kristingarth.com
Laceleaf
by Ashton-Taylor Ackerson
This is the first plant that I’ve kept alive,
an anthurium with waxy green leaves
and broad, carmine-colored flowers that strive
to drink in all sustenance she receives.
A bright, unexpected gift from a friend
who trusted me to keep her from dying,
simple in nature, but crucial to tend,
the thought of failure now terrifying.
Stationary, she never goes outside,
in these grim times I wish to follow suit,
instead we whisper when the sun’s rays slide
behind brick buildings. Darkness to dilute
the warming glow that gleams onto my sill.
The thought of tomorrow’s light is a thrill.
an anthurium with waxy green leaves
and broad, carmine-colored flowers that strive
to drink in all sustenance she receives.
A bright, unexpected gift from a friend
who trusted me to keep her from dying,
simple in nature, but crucial to tend,
the thought of failure now terrifying.
Stationary, she never goes outside,
in these grim times I wish to follow suit,
instead we whisper when the sun’s rays slide
behind brick buildings. Darkness to dilute
the warming glow that gleams onto my sill.
The thought of tomorrow’s light is a thrill.
Ashton-Taylor Ackerson (she/her) is a writer from Austin, Texas. She graduated from the University of Texas at Austin with a BA in English, and minor in creative writing. Her work has been published in Crown & Pen, ARC Journal, The Raven Review, Red Skies Anthology, Ice Lolly Review, and Pink Plastic House. When she’s not writing, Ashton-Taylor is always on the lookout for the best food, wine, and beer to be had in Austin. Follow her on Instagram and Twitter: @ashtonalopoli
What Happened When the Stars Went Out
Inspired by the Polish folktale "The Lovelorn Giant"
by Nori Rose Hubert
I suppose you are wondering, as have many who have heard my story, what it was like to be loved by a giant.
What you have to understand is that I was always a favorite with the young men of our village. I was quite used to the attention of boys, although if I am to be perfectly honest with you, I really preferred the company of my books and garden. That's not to say I wasn't happy when the young bloods asked me to dance at the annual festival, and yes, I admit I felt a twinge of smugness when I felt the other girls’ eyes burning jealously into my back. All the boys were friendly enough, and gentlemen, too, never asking for anything more than my company. I enjoyed their attention. But unlike the other girls, my dreams for myself were boyless.
I didn't sit about between school and chores and daydream about my future husband, or what my children might look like someday. I didn't smile at the thought of spending my days mending shirts and cooking lunches and sweeping floors and rushing children off to school, and a husband to work. In fact, the very thought of spending the rest of my life in such a matter terrified me much more than a giant knocking at my window, begging me to come away with him – if you can understand.
I spent all my leisure time reading books of philosophy, even though Dziadek said it wasn't the right subject for a girl. I wanted to read as much as possible so that one day I could leave the village, go out into the world and do something beyond cooking and washing and tending soil. I wasn't exactly sure how I would do it, or even where I would go, but I knew one thing for certain: I did not want to spend the rest of my life here, tending to fussy, noisy children and worrying myself sick over a husband who may or may not make his way home each night.
Ours was a fishing village, and almost every widow had lost her husband in the same way: to a storm at sea. In our country they came up suddenly, without warning, lasting for minutes, hours or days. Sometimes, when I walked along the beach with Dziadek so that his rheumatic knee wouldn't stiffen up, I would catch sight of women, sometimes barely older than myself, staring out over the ocean with a wet, searching look in their eyes, and I would feel myself shudder. I did not want to remember that I had a connection to those women, whose bodies were present in the village but whose hearts were lost at the bottom of the sea.
My father had been a fisherman. When I was three years old, a terrible storm rolled in one evening as he and the other men were returning to shore; some of the older people of the village, including Dziadek, said it was the worst they could remember. Only a few of the fishermen survived, and when my mother did not find her husband among them, Dziadek said her eyes had gone completely blank, as if she were blind. She sat in a corner of the house for days. Nothing persuaded her to move, not Dziadek's threats, not my screams for milk and love, not the neighbors who came to our cottage with food and condolences. An entire month passed this way. Then, one morning, I remember waking up to find myself alone in the house. I ran outside all the way down to the beach, my toddler legs stumbling in the sand, to find Dziadek standing near the shoreline. He placed a heavy, pale hand on my small shoulders, and together, we watched the small figure of a woman disappear into the waves.
Dziadek said later she had filled the pockets of her apron with heavy stones. Whenever I picked up rocks as a child, I always wondered how the surface of the water would look as they pulled you down – a shimmering blue barrier between worlds, how it would feel to slip away from your own. That's another thing I knew for certain: one day, I would live in a city far from the sea, so that whenever I walked along the road into town, I wouldn't have to turn my head to avoid the image of her walking into the endless blue.
But the question still lingers, I know: what was it like to be loved by a giant?
It's best to start these things from the beginning.
It started at the autumn dance, when the sea was cast with gold and orange light. The tips of winter's fingers could be felt stretching in with the tide, but it was not quite there yet. This year, the dance was particularly jovial. We rejoiced that we would not go hungry, for the fishermen had brought in a bountiful catch for the cold months, when many of the shoals migrated south for warmer waters. The adults had lit the bonfire in the square and brought their best dishes to the feast, and those with musical skill gave a grand performance. Everyone was dancing gaily to the music, and some sang along in voices that were out of key. Ours was overall a happy village, although many of the widows spent this day in their homes with the windows shut tight and the shutters drawn; the scores of happy couples served only to remind them of what they'd lost.
Many of the young men asked me to dance, and I accepted. Most of them I knew from school, although a few were old enough to be out on the waves. We were all friendly with each other, although I could see a longing look in their eyes. But to me, it was a dance and nothing more. Still, we had fun.
After I had danced for the better part of an hour and let a boy named Stefan, who had graduated from school the year before and was now out with the fishermen, bring me something to eat, I went looking for Dziadek. He sat with his walking stick a little ways off from the party. I offered him a cup of ale, but he looked up at me with stern eyes.
“I see how you dance with the young men, Krisha,” he said flatly.
I laughed carelessly. “Dziadzio, you know I have no interest in boys, not really.”
“You have no respect for a woman's proper place.”
I sighed, even though I knew it irritated him. “Dziadzio, please, not here.”
“Krisha,” he went on. “It's not only your radical ideas. You are far too free with your favors. Folk talk, Krisha.”
“Oh, Dziadzio,” I relented. I knew there was no point in arguing with him when he was set in his ways.
I laughed carelessly. “Dziadzio, you know I have no interest in boys, not really.”
“You have no respect for a woman's proper place.”
I sighed, even though I knew it irritated him. “Dziadzio, please, not here.”
“Krisha,” he went on. “It's not only your radical ideas. You are far too free with your favors. Folk talk, Krisha.”
“Oh, Dziadzio,” I relented. I knew there was no point in arguing with him when he was set in his ways.
The next morning, the men did not head out to sea until much later than usual – they were all in bed heavy with the sleep that comes from too much drink.
Fishing was dangerous enough without the added presence of the giant, and his two equally large friends. It was not that the giants were hostile towards us – in truth, we very rarely saw them. The problem lays in the clumsiness the three of them shared. They were often trampling over gardens and orchards, and they had a rather obnoxious habit of playing catch with boulders. No humans were crushed, but several unfortunate cart horses met their ends this way.
All of this could have been dealt with, but once, when one of the giants sneezed, the gust was so strong that it blew the roofs off all the houses in the village. For weeks afterward, everyone's energy was needed to repair the damage. Nobody could go out to fish, which meant that the price of goods in the market went up, and many people went hungry. Even Dziadek and I had to make due with less, and I had to deign myself to take on odd jobs for the mothers and grandmothers, stitching blankets and minding children.
But the final straw came when, on the day after the festival, two of the giants were playing in the sea, and then the third jumped in. The waves that came crashing in flooded the whole village and washed all the fishing boats out to sea – I trust I do not need to describe to you the chaos that ensued. As everyone fled to higher ground, Stefan stayed behind, braving the flood to face the giants. He explained that they were becoming quite a nuisance, and after much haranguing, the giants agreed to move on to a more remote location.
“We human beings are quite fragile, you see,” Stefan told them.
So two giants trekked off to the mountains. The third caught sight of me when I came outdoors to muck out the flooded garden. I was wearing the patched dress and kerchief I used for outdoor work and my face and hands were covered with mud, but he mistook me for a fallen sunbeam.
(I don't say so to boast; he told me this himself.)
The day his friends headed away, all he could do was sit on the hilltop outside of town and gaze down longingly at me as I did my chores and play “she loves me, she loves me not” with the branches of a tree.
He courted me all through the winter and into spring. At first, he tried to be discreet about it – that is, as discreet as a giant can be – by scattering flower petals in a heart shape outside my window, or gently sprinkling them around me when I came outdoors; my private snowfall. But soon he became more vocal about his passion, serenading me wherever I went. At first, his lack of musical skill did nothing more than annoy me, and I would shout and throw rocks at him in hopes he would leave me alone. But one afternoon as I trudged home from school, clenching my jaw in anger, I heard the laughter of two girls from my class a ways behind me.
“Krisha always thought she was so much better than us because the boys thought she was the prettiest. But now, the only one who pays her any attention is a giant!”
“Yes! Of course, he only likes her for her beauty, just like the others.”
“She's not that pretty. I don't know why the boys always thought she was so special.”
“Yes! Of course, he only likes her for her beauty, just like the others.”
“She's not that pretty. I don't know why the boys always thought she was so special.”
I burned inside. It was not that their words hurt me, for they were right. The boys (and the giant) saw only my golden hair and green eyes. Still, I never forget a slight.
“Giant!” I called. “Come here.”
The giant's face lit up in delight as he lumbered over. I could feel the girls stop, dumbfounded, behind me.
“Giant!” I called. “Come here.”
The giant's face lit up in delight as he lumbered over. I could feel the girls stop, dumbfounded, behind me.
“What is your name?”
He beamed. “Brojher,” he grunted.
“Well, Brojher, just how deeply are you in love with me?” I asked with a smirk.
“For you, I would gather all the riches from the ends of the Earth and bring them back. I would bring you light from the moon to wear in your hair. I would - "
“I've heard that all before,” I barked. “If you love me, you'll have to prove it.”
His face fell, but he nodded. “How?”
I thought. “Tame me a magnificent beast!”
He beamed. “Brojher,” he grunted.
“Well, Brojher, just how deeply are you in love with me?” I asked with a smirk.
“For you, I would gather all the riches from the ends of the Earth and bring them back. I would bring you light from the moon to wear in your hair. I would - "
“I've heard that all before,” I barked. “If you love me, you'll have to prove it.”
His face fell, but he nodded. “How?”
I thought. “Tame me a magnificent beast!”
As he bounded away, I felt satisfied that he would trek across the globe in search of some exotic creature and perish along the way. But that evening, as I sat in my room reading, I was startled by a knock at my window. I poked my head out, and took one look at my large suitor.
Proudly displayed before me was a large, flea bitten, black dog.
I rolled my eyes upward to look at the giant and drummed my fingers on the sill. “What, pray tell, is that?”
He strode several yards backward and bowed low. “Your beast, lady!”
Flies buzzed in a circle around the dog's head, and its tongue lolled from its mouth. But despite its unkempt appearance, it had a friendly look about it.
Of course, I wasn't about to let the oaf off so easily.
“This won't do. If you love me, work for me!”
Proudly displayed before me was a large, flea bitten, black dog.
I rolled my eyes upward to look at the giant and drummed my fingers on the sill. “What, pray tell, is that?”
He strode several yards backward and bowed low. “Your beast, lady!”
Flies buzzed in a circle around the dog's head, and its tongue lolled from its mouth. But despite its unkempt appearance, it had a friendly look about it.
Of course, I wasn't about to let the oaf off so easily.
“This won't do. If you love me, work for me!”
From that time on, there was no end to his affections. He helped me with my chores. He waited all day and even through the night to accompany me to and from school or errands. He brought me more flowers, interesting rocks or shells, and bits of sea glass he thought I'd like. We were always together, and everyone stared and whispered. But I didn't care. I never planned on staying in the village a moment longer than necessary. Not that I told the giant any of this – I barely spoke to him at all, nor did I call him by his name when I addressed him. He was just “the giant” to me.
Dziadek confronted me about the game I was playing one night at supper after he had chased the giant off into the hills for the night.
“Krisha, your flirtations have always bothered me, but now I'm disturbed. A giant, one that has wreaked havoc on our village? And you play with his affection as though it were a toy, like you do to all the young men who express any interest in you.”
“Dziadzio,” I said. “I treat it as a game because that's what it is. The men only care for my looks, and the giant is no different. He says he loves me, when he knows nothing about me!”
“How do you know that's all they care for?” Dziadek asked severely.
I scowled. “Dziadzio, it doesn't matter whether they do or not since I never plan to marry!”
“Even so, Krisha. If you play with fire, you cannot expect to avoid the burn forever.”
“Krisha, your flirtations have always bothered me, but now I'm disturbed. A giant, one that has wreaked havoc on our village? And you play with his affection as though it were a toy, like you do to all the young men who express any interest in you.”
“Dziadzio,” I said. “I treat it as a game because that's what it is. The men only care for my looks, and the giant is no different. He says he loves me, when he knows nothing about me!”
“How do you know that's all they care for?” Dziadek asked severely.
I scowled. “Dziadzio, it doesn't matter whether they do or not since I never plan to marry!”
“Even so, Krisha. If you play with fire, you cannot expect to avoid the burn forever.”
The ruse continued for another week or so, but by now I had grown so used to the giant's presence I scarcely noticed when he was around.
One afternoon, as I sat at home reading and the giant was off tracking down another gift for me, there was a knock at the door. I answered to find Stefan.
“Krisha,” he began. He smiled, but I could tell it was forced. “I don't know if you've noticed, but there's been a lot of talk going around about you and the giant.”
I played ignorance. “What sort of talk?”
He glanced away. “I just wanted to ask if you – love him.”
The thought was so absurd I began to laugh hysterically.
“No! How could I?”
He nodded. “Right. I should have known better than to ask. After all, you can't love anybody but yourself.”
I was struck dumb.
“What do you mean?” I snapped.
He gave me a hard look.
“You play with him the way you play with everyone who cares about you. With me!”
“Stefan!” I shouted as he stormed away. He turned abruptly, glaring at me. More gently, I asked, “what are you saying?”
Stefan gave me a pained look, then walked away toward the harbor.
One afternoon, as I sat at home reading and the giant was off tracking down another gift for me, there was a knock at the door. I answered to find Stefan.
“Krisha,” he began. He smiled, but I could tell it was forced. “I don't know if you've noticed, but there's been a lot of talk going around about you and the giant.”
I played ignorance. “What sort of talk?”
He glanced away. “I just wanted to ask if you – love him.”
The thought was so absurd I began to laugh hysterically.
“No! How could I?”
He nodded. “Right. I should have known better than to ask. After all, you can't love anybody but yourself.”
I was struck dumb.
“What do you mean?” I snapped.
He gave me a hard look.
“You play with him the way you play with everyone who cares about you. With me!”
“Stefan!” I shouted as he stormed away. He turned abruptly, glaring at me. More gently, I asked, “what are you saying?”
Stefan gave me a pained look, then walked away toward the harbor.
I sat down on my bed and tried to sort this all out, but but my mind was too cluttered, like an attic that hasn't been cleaned in years. So distracted was I that I started when I heard the giant's usual knock at the window. My annoyance quickly turned to rage as I realized that, this time, he had knocked in the whole frame.
“You stupid oaf!” I screamed. “Go away! I'm in no mood to bother with you!”
He whined like a dog who'd been kicked, then slowly sank away back to his usual spot in the hills. The mongrel, who I had decided to name Uka, grunted as she dozed by my bed.
I sat there fuming for a few moments, then went to the larder and packed a small wicker basket with food. I set out for the harbor as quickly as I could without spilling my cargo.
I arrived just as Stefan and his crew were about to cast off.
“Stefan!” I called, jogging up to him. The other fishermen grumbled - “Look, it's the giantess," - but he motioned for them to be quiet and stood to face me.
I shyly handed him the basket. “It's just some bread and cheese, and a little sausage left over from the smokehouse, but I thought you might get hungry.”
“You stupid oaf!” I screamed. “Go away! I'm in no mood to bother with you!”
He whined like a dog who'd been kicked, then slowly sank away back to his usual spot in the hills. The mongrel, who I had decided to name Uka, grunted as she dozed by my bed.
I sat there fuming for a few moments, then went to the larder and packed a small wicker basket with food. I set out for the harbor as quickly as I could without spilling my cargo.
I arrived just as Stefan and his crew were about to cast off.
“Stefan!” I called, jogging up to him. The other fishermen grumbled - “Look, it's the giantess," - but he motioned for them to be quiet and stood to face me.
I shyly handed him the basket. “It's just some bread and cheese, and a little sausage left over from the smokehouse, but I thought you might get hungry.”
He examined the contents, and smiled. His eyes were softer than they had been at the cottage, and I had never noticed the way they crinkled when he smiled, or their light blue color that shone like the sea in the late afternoon.
“Thank you, Krisha.” And by the way he said it, I knew it to be true.
I waved from the shore as the boats turned into dots on the horizon. But when I turned around, there was the giant, watching me from the sand dunes.
My eyes narrowed, and I knew then that this game couldn't go on forever. I had to find a way to get rid of my large nuisance once and for all.
“Brojher, come here.”
He was only too happy to oblige.
“I'll make a deal with you. If you can put out all the stars in the night sky, so that my eyes will have no rivals, I'll come away with you. But if not, you must go away and leave me alone forever.”
And, of course, he eagerly agreed.
“Thank you, Krisha.” And by the way he said it, I knew it to be true.
I waved from the shore as the boats turned into dots on the horizon. But when I turned around, there was the giant, watching me from the sand dunes.
My eyes narrowed, and I knew then that this game couldn't go on forever. I had to find a way to get rid of my large nuisance once and for all.
“Brojher, come here.”
He was only too happy to oblige.
“I'll make a deal with you. If you can put out all the stars in the night sky, so that my eyes will have no rivals, I'll come away with you. But if not, you must go away and leave me alone forever.”
And, of course, he eagerly agreed.
When it grew dark, I told Dziadek I was going out to watch the stars. And I must admit to you, I was looking forward to seeing the giant fail. I made myself comfortable out in the garden and waited. From far off, I could see the giant standing out among the sand dunes.
First, he tried blowing the stars out. He blew for the better part of an hour, and I thought he may collapse from his efforts. But at last, he gave up and began hurling things in the air – boulders, rocks, driftwood, whatever he could find. It made a lot of noise, but the stars remained in their places.
I thought that by now he would recognize his defeat. I thought that in the morning I could have a good laugh about this whole affair and resume my life. But nothing could have prepared me for what happened next.
The giant waded into the sea. With one arm he reached down into the waters, the other into the low hanging clouds. He began to stir them until they blended together, and when they touched, the storm was born.
First, he tried blowing the stars out. He blew for the better part of an hour, and I thought he may collapse from his efforts. But at last, he gave up and began hurling things in the air – boulders, rocks, driftwood, whatever he could find. It made a lot of noise, but the stars remained in their places.
I thought that by now he would recognize his defeat. I thought that in the morning I could have a good laugh about this whole affair and resume my life. But nothing could have prepared me for what happened next.
The giant waded into the sea. With one arm he reached down into the waters, the other into the low hanging clouds. He began to stir them until they blended together, and when they touched, the storm was born.
I cannot describe to you the fury of the storm – it was as if the giant had poured all of his anger, frustration, and sorrow into it, and now it raged with unstobbable strength. Even the giant was afraid and ran into the hills to seek shelter.
I fought against the wind to return indoors. Our cottage shook as though it too was afraid, and the howling and screaming of the sea and sky woke Dziadek, who lit the lantern and held it to him, silently, but I could see by the look in his eyes that he was convinced the end had come.
I knew how frightened the rest of the villagers would be. I thought of the destruction we would all have to cope with when it was over. The cost of repairs, food...
Then I remembered: the fishermen were out there, at the mercy of the storm's rage.
And I knew that it was all because of me.
I fought against the wind to return indoors. Our cottage shook as though it too was afraid, and the howling and screaming of the sea and sky woke Dziadek, who lit the lantern and held it to him, silently, but I could see by the look in his eyes that he was convinced the end had come.
I knew how frightened the rest of the villagers would be. I thought of the destruction we would all have to cope with when it was over. The cost of repairs, food...
Then I remembered: the fishermen were out there, at the mercy of the storm's rage.
And I knew that it was all because of me.
I grabbed the lantern from Dziadek and, ignoring his frantic protests, ran out into the storm.
The rain stung my face, the hail bruised me, the thunder deafened me, and the wind was so strong I feared I would be blown away into the night. But somehow, I made it to the cliff that overlooked the fishing grounds. I held the lantern out over the edge, hoping, praying that the fishermen would see it, that they would find their way home.
But by daybreak, when the storm was finally quelled and the gray dawn broke, I knew I had been too late.
I watched with grief from the cliff as the empty boats washed onto the shore. Only the women, children, and old people were left. Our houses and gardens were all but gone, and our young men lay beneath the far off waves, where I knew, with tears streaming down my face, my mother and father lay. This time, I forced myself to look at her image as it vanished into that mysterious world that was so familiar and so foreign all at once.
The rain stung my face, the hail bruised me, the thunder deafened me, and the wind was so strong I feared I would be blown away into the night. But somehow, I made it to the cliff that overlooked the fishing grounds. I held the lantern out over the edge, hoping, praying that the fishermen would see it, that they would find their way home.
But by daybreak, when the storm was finally quelled and the gray dawn broke, I knew I had been too late.
I watched with grief from the cliff as the empty boats washed onto the shore. Only the women, children, and old people were left. Our houses and gardens were all but gone, and our young men lay beneath the far off waves, where I knew, with tears streaming down my face, my mother and father lay. This time, I forced myself to look at her image as it vanished into that mysterious world that was so familiar and so foreign all at once.
I couldn't face my village. Especially not Dziadek, who I knew now had been right from the beginning. Like a coward, I ran into the hills and hid all day, weeping and trying to decide what to do next. As evening approached, I watched as the first stars appeared. I hated them. They seemed too beautiful, too sweet, to shine over such wreckage. To shine over me.
Suddenly, I felt a familiar presence. Brojher was standing nearby, and by the look on his face I knew he felt just as wretched as I did.
He came and sat beside me, and the two of us sat in silence for a long time. I was the one who finally broke it.
“I'm sorry,” I whispered.
He nodded gravely, and I knew he understood.
I might have run away with him at that moment. I wanted so badly to run, to never lay eyes on that place again. But I didn't want to be that girl anymore.
“We have to make it right, don't we?"
Suddenly, I felt a familiar presence. Brojher was standing nearby, and by the look on his face I knew he felt just as wretched as I did.
He came and sat beside me, and the two of us sat in silence for a long time. I was the one who finally broke it.
“I'm sorry,” I whispered.
He nodded gravely, and I knew he understood.
I might have run away with him at that moment. I wanted so badly to run, to never lay eyes on that place again. But I didn't want to be that girl anymore.
“We have to make it right, don't we?"
That night, when the sobbing had quieted amid the ruins of my village, Brojher and I built the lighthouse. He stacked the stones together into a tower, and I lit the fire at the top. I worked with it awhile, and soon it was hearty and wild, illuminating the night.
When I turned to face Brojher, he was carrying a satchel and gazing forlornly at me. I knew he was finally leaving, and despite everything that had happened, I felt a deep sadness.
I smiled up at him. “Thank you for being my friend.”
He gently stroked my hair with one large finger, then walked away from the village forever.
I stayed to face them all the next morning. I told them my story, the whole story, and that the lighthouse was a gift from Brojher the giant and myself to all those we had hurt. Dziadek held onto me, as if to reassure himself that I was real, and solid, and not an apparition that would fade away.
And that evening, as Dziadek and I walked across the beach discussing plans for putting life back together again, my foot nudged against something. I looked down, and my eyes filled with tears.
It was the wicker basket I had packed Stefan's last meal in.
When I turned to face Brojher, he was carrying a satchel and gazing forlornly at me. I knew he was finally leaving, and despite everything that had happened, I felt a deep sadness.
I smiled up at him. “Thank you for being my friend.”
He gently stroked my hair with one large finger, then walked away from the village forever.
I stayed to face them all the next morning. I told them my story, the whole story, and that the lighthouse was a gift from Brojher the giant and myself to all those we had hurt. Dziadek held onto me, as if to reassure himself that I was real, and solid, and not an apparition that would fade away.
And that evening, as Dziadek and I walked across the beach discussing plans for putting life back together again, my foot nudged against something. I looked down, and my eyes filled with tears.
It was the wicker basket I had packed Stefan's last meal in.
I stayed in the village for several more years, helping to rebuild and repair all that I could. People ever-after referred to be as "the giantess," and there were many who wished me gone - or worse. I don't blame them. I carry the shame in my heart still. But I understood I could no longer cloister myself away from the world, afraid to feel, afraid to love, afraid to look into the face of another human being without running away. I had seen what happened when the stars went out, and it was far more terrible than any heartbreak I could have imagined before.
It only took the love of a giant, one terrible mistake, and unspeakable loss for me to learn.
Dziadek passed five years later, when I was one and twenty. The last thing he said to me was this:
"You've grown, kwiatuszek."
I left the evening of his burial. No one was sad to see me go, and I was not sad to be leaving. But as I walked away from the village, I gazed out over the azure waves for the final time.
She was there, waving at me.
I waved back and walked on, with the lighthouse glowing at my back.
It only took the love of a giant, one terrible mistake, and unspeakable loss for me to learn.
Dziadek passed five years later, when I was one and twenty. The last thing he said to me was this:
"You've grown, kwiatuszek."
I left the evening of his burial. No one was sad to see me go, and I was not sad to be leaving. But as I walked away from the village, I gazed out over the azure waves for the final time.
She was there, waving at me.
I waved back and walked on, with the lighthouse glowing at my back.
Translations:
Dziadek - grandfather (when speaking about one's grandfather). Pronounced jah-deck.
Dziadizo - grandfather (when speaking to one's grandfather). Pronounced jah-goo.
Kwiatuzek - "little flower." Pronounced k-fah-tu-shek.
Dziadizo - grandfather (when speaking to one's grandfather). Pronounced jah-goo.
Kwiatuzek - "little flower." Pronounced k-fah-tu-shek.
Nori Rose Hubert is the Co-Founder of Crown & Pen and author of the forthcoming novel The Dreaming Hour. Her work has appeared in The Rio Review, Feminine Inquiry, Musings of a #LonelyFeminist, Gingerbread House Literary Magazine, Hothouse, Corvid Queen, Coffee Table Coven, Mookychick, The Elephant Ladder, The Freque, and the feminist e-anthology The Medusa Project. She holds an AA in Creative Writing from Austin Community College and a BA in English from the University of Texas at Austin, works as a professional copywriter, and is currently a bimonthly contributor to the Work and Bipolar or Depression blog at HealthyPlace Mental Health. When not writing, she can be found spending too much time in bookstores, baking with flowers, hexing the patriarchy, stitching subversive cross-stitch patterns, and playing with her small menagerie of pets. Connect with her @norirosewrites on Instagram, Twitter, Tumblr, E.gg and Medium, or visit her website norirosewrites.com.
