tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4540649547874008482024-03-13T23:16:12.380-05:00Mirror DanceA World of Fantasy Awaits...Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger526125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-454064954787400848.post-11488118309210791862023-11-05T20:01:00.000-06:002023-11-05T20:01:09.660-06:00Mirror Dance is ClosedMirror Dance is no longer publishing due to changes in the editor's life circumstances. My deepest apologies to our authors and submitters. All work accepted for the Fall 2023 issue is hereby released back to the authors. The Mirror Dance email account is no longer being monitored.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-454064954787400848.post-64141910475232826362023-05-01T02:11:00.023-05:002023-05-01T10:32:12.336-05:00Spring 2023 IssueWelcome to the Spring 2023 issue of Mirror Dance! After a year’s hiatus, we return with stories of revivals and resurrections. Insects and ghosts, widows and princesses, knights and giants, cities stricken by plague and lives caught on the wind – all find surprising restorations in this season’s stories and poems. As always, thank you for reading. We're glad to have you back with us! -MA Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-454064954787400848.post-5060575990158335562023-05-01T02:10:00.128-05:002023-05-01T16:39:31.197-05:00Body by Franz KafkaBody by Franz KafkaBy Jennifer Lee RossmanI found the chrysalis on a hot summer day when the world was losing its shit.It had been going on for almost a week now, and I just couldn't take listening to it anymore, every radio station urging people not to panic at the same time they were reporting on stories with unsubstantiated facts practically designed to make folks panic. People calling in, Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-454064954787400848.post-40073049640764647552023-05-01T02:09:00.041-05:002023-05-01T02:09:00.182-05:00Dancers and DrownersDancers and DrownersBy Oliver SmithBetween the moonlit sand and sea, ghosts dancelike glass-eels swimming in clear, deep waters,like whispers, like distant, glimmering starsthat fall as fading cinders, as the lastfire is extinguished upon homely-shores.Between the moonlit sand and sea, ghosts dancewith shrouded faces. Our lamp’s light is castupon these strangers, but only dim featureslike Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-454064954787400848.post-54344641560419029782023-05-01T02:08:00.055-05:002023-05-01T02:08:00.135-05:00ScrimshawScrimshawBy Jess HyslopBy the time Beth learned Jonathan was lost, he had already been dead two months. News of the incident travelled slowly, drifting from port to port, St. Jago to Panama to Port of Spain, across the Atlantic on a clipper bound for Amsterdam, before washing up here in London. It was a whale, the Reverend told her. Jonathan, lately promoted to harpooner, chasing it down, Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-454064954787400848.post-34843799614932789332023-05-01T02:07:00.100-05:002023-05-01T02:07:00.134-05:00Christmas Holly Christmas HollyBy Amelia GormanI behead you again and again off the trail,my arms are the dream of the river cartographer.How long have we played this game together,how many times have our heads budded and fell? The first, in the cold stone castle that creaked where stones shouldn't creak. A Christmas game. The second in the span of aUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-454064954787400848.post-83093317291264919342023-05-01T02:06:00.014-05:002023-05-01T02:06:00.138-05:00Dancing Up a StormDancing Up a Stormby Elana GomelI could not bury my wife.The timestorm had hit and the name of the day had been lost in the phosphorescent darkness filled with residue of the past and the future: neighing of horses on an unknown battlefield, crying of unborn babies, gasps of the dying who had been dead for centuries. And when it abated and our old timemaster hobbled around to inspect the damage, Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-454064954787400848.post-53189204397203901202023-05-01T02:05:00.009-05:002023-05-01T02:05:00.136-05:00GreenGreenBy Devan BarlowIt is quite something to be wedTo a man whose head, when cut off, reattachesUntil one day it doesn'tAnd the armor is emptyEach metal piece resonating with possibilityGawain will tell you my husband challenged himA pair of beheadings, to keep things balancedGawain will not tell youThat the round table had been paying attention, and didn't careFor a stronghold in the forestWhichUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-454064954787400848.post-86945994461234446992023-05-01T02:04:00.032-05:002023-05-01T02:04:00.142-05:00The Dead MoonThe Dead MoonBy Jennifer LoringThe twelve princesses dance because they will never be married. They dance because their father wanted boys and got all girls, in defiance of the demands he made on their mother. They dance in the darkness of the new moon, amongst trees whose branches snap and whip like tentacles in the windless night. They dance to avenge their mother, who danced here too before Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-454064954787400848.post-7003048091603920612023-05-01T02:03:00.051-05:002023-05-01T02:03:00.139-05:00The Kite The KiteBy John W. Sexton(for one player)You must have no kite.An empty upstairs room says, enter.The window says, open,says, open wide.The wind comes into the room.The wind exits the room.The wind says, find me.The sleeve says, tear me.You tear off the sleeve,tear off the sleeve of your shirt.The sleeve bleeds a thread.You hold on to its end.The wind comes in through the window.The sleeve Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-454064954787400848.post-77098781088950149092023-05-01T02:02:00.165-05:002023-05-01T02:02:00.149-05:00The Silken IntroductionThe Silken IntroductionBy Anne KarppinenArdelei sets down her bag, and drawing a deep breath, looks around her. The sun is at its zenith: the day is calm and cloudless. Bees sail from flower to flower, drunk on warm pollen. She can hear running water nearby, insistent birdsong, and the distant clank of a hammer on metal – a rare human noise in the otherwise deserted landscape. The bridgekeeper’s Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-454064954787400848.post-68891528391847011972023-05-01T02:01:00.033-05:002023-05-01T16:40:25.184-05:00The HyperboreansThe HyperboreansBy Amanda Coleman WhiteThis Wind with black hair whippingwhirlpools into existence to washthe plaid in which she carries her stones.Sovereign wind of winter,midwife birthing the landwhose breath is death leading to life.Pollution of sound goes unnoticedby birds of air and creeping thingscontent to dig their holes.Your blaring has me scrabbling into earth as well.The children in Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-454064954787400848.post-54991310052724086342023-05-01T02:00:00.092-05:002023-05-01T02:00:00.287-05:00The Sky's LimitThe Sky’s LimitBy Adrienne StallingsI knew him before I knew anything at all.I can’t tell you how I knew him—if anything, his sister was my constant companion, my guardian—but my mother always spoke softly to me as my world erupted in light.He had kissed me more than my mother or father ever had. His kiss was the first I’d ever known.On this island, dotted by grand, towering mountains and Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-454064954787400848.post-68015140563805941332021-07-17T02:11:00.073-05:002021-07-17T11:18:36.464-05:00Spring 2021 IssueWelcome to the Spring 2021 issue of Mirror Dance! This issue’s stories focus on secret knowledge – the secrets shared by ghosts and fairies, dragons and wizards, gods and time travelers, nursery rhymes and dreams and (maybe) social media. Enjoy! I hope you all are staying safe and healthy. -MA
The Man Who Saw Dragons by Anahita Hoose Spell 17 by Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-454064954787400848.post-23948160398220651502021-07-17T02:10:00.000-05:002021-07-17T02:10:00.177-05:00The Man Who Saw DragonsThe Man Who Saw DragonsBy Anahita HooseIt began with an undifferentiated commotion of color and movement and sound, swishing and humming through his brain. Later, he would learn to hear the high buzzing and see before his mind’s eye a cricket proudly perched on a stalk, but for now it was only the voice of summer, mingling with the chatter of his mother and the other women as they worked across Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-454064954787400848.post-27903821342716305962021-07-17T02:09:00.000-05:002021-07-17T02:09:00.177-05:00Spell 17Spell 17By Tristan BeiterHere begin promises and explanations, going in and out of the speech, having desire, having the door to the garden at the back of the house.I am the crown and the scepter. What does this mean? The red ship and the platform and the summer. The Walker passed over the grave and tamped it.I shall be purified. Otherwise said: the body shall enter into my body and the good Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-454064954787400848.post-70424475332881754952021-07-17T02:08:00.001-05:002021-07-17T15:20:15.893-05:00The Quill and the Queen The Quill and the QueenBy Claire ThomasRumor held that the king had died without an heir. Arda had her doubts – you couldn’t put too much stock in anything you heard in this backwater town. The hamlet of Dôl Glawog was too small for anyone important to remember it existed, let alone take the trouble to bring tidings all the way from Camelot. Stories like this one arrived in town like Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-454064954787400848.post-13814489375797866252021-07-17T02:07:00.001-05:002021-07-17T15:17:48.450-05:00The Queen of Elfland's LoverThe Queen of Elfland’s LoverBy Sandi LeibowitzI take you for your eyesthe green of the sea’s brocades,he said,not understandingthat I am never takenand the sea needs no garments.I take you for your eyesthe gray of mistthat lies upon the sea at dawn,I answered,not adding,or the silver of coinsthat tarnish with time.* * *Sandi Leibowitz, author of THE BONE-COLLECTOR, EURYDICE SINGS, and the Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-454064954787400848.post-62504210906428031352021-07-17T02:06:00.000-05:002021-07-17T02:06:00.163-05:00The Book of RavanaThe Book of RavanaBy Jahnavi MisraPart IThe sky threw down a florescent light and the trees turned neon green as Indu climbed higher. It was not a simple beauty, pleasing to the eyes. It tormented her, threatening to peel, bit by bit, the exterior shell that she had held on to all her life, making her feel raw and exposed. For a map, she carried a piece of paper with jumbled markings that Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-454064954787400848.post-9172436467169230682021-07-17T02:05:00.000-05:002021-07-17T02:05:00.169-05:00Children of the ElectChildren of the ElectBy Jennifer CrowYou know the pricebefore it’s spoken: A lifein all its awkward glory,skinned knees and brokenpromises, the chalky tasteof dust rolling upfrom a dirt road or an open grave.Bury it deep, all the guiltand regret tinged copperand scarlet. Time passesin swoops, blue bottle fliesbuzzing, unable to stayor leave. You scoopa shovelful of earthover gaping mouthsand the Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-454064954787400848.post-57335418088773577732021-07-17T02:04:00.000-05:002021-07-17T02:04:00.166-05:00Here is the Girl GhostHere is the Girl GhostBy Gillian DanielsHere is the girl ghost, Laura, hair a cloud of black and skin copper-dark. Her dress has a lacy hem and she cannot meet your eyes. She sits on the edge of your bed and admits she has done so every night. Look, she’s lonely. She’s been living in the house in Boston since 1915 and no one talked to her then, either. She was the darkest girl in the Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-454064954787400848.post-56894456378728237782021-07-17T02:03:00.000-05:002021-07-17T02:03:00.172-05:00A History of FallingA History of FallingBy Avra MargaritiMy mother, the gooseliked to flap her wingsand honk tall tales in our kitchen,cracking eggs into the saucepan.This is you, she told me, calcium rich,this is you with your eggshell skinand yolk-y blood,so very precious, so very fragile.Up on the wall, then down on the ground;whole, then fragmented,the king’s men and the king’s horsesgathering my pieces to bringUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-454064954787400848.post-52621933722466840842021-07-17T02:02:00.000-05:002021-07-17T02:02:00.221-05:00Losing a TreasureLosing a TreasureBy Sandra UnermanGregory Bridge was used to nightmares. He had qualified as a doctor in 1923, too late to serve in the Great War, but his life had provided plenty of other material for his unconscious mind to work on. So he knew the difference at once, when cold fingers tweaked his ear and a weight landed on his stomach. Awake and alarmed, he pushed his disturber away as hard as Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-454064954787400848.post-46699127275014362522021-07-17T02:01:00.000-05:002021-07-17T02:01:00.252-05:00a word for the daya word for the dayBy Elizabeth R. McClellanafter @notalepticDream self spends the night;birds sing across the roofs—the dawn chorus filtered throughsleep. The dream self drinks coffeeand the smell diffuses. On wakinghalf the cigarettes will be smokedstained with purple glitter lipstickand sleep-sand. The dream selfdoesn't understand pockets that don'tfill themselves. Their economiesare kisses andUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-454064954787400848.post-80686923508663876762021-07-17T02:00:00.000-05:002021-07-17T02:00:00.205-05:00Transplanter X Transplanter XBy Douglas KolackiI walk into the hospital and past the front desk without checking in. No need. The doctor's expecting me; I see her every day at three o'clock, give or take five minutes. She, however, hasn't seen me in a long time. Months, in fact. How many? I don't quite remember, but I know it ends on Christmas Eve. It's complicated.Rounding the first corner, I see the Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0