Year Six of Luna Station Quarterly continues, with our All Fantasy / Fairy Tale / Mythology Issue! (It wasn’t on purpose. Honest! These things just happen sometimes … ) From an old forest to the far side of the moon, from the Garden of Eden to the mysterious quiet of a faery gravesite, these stories …

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You probably won’t believe me, but I knew Magister Klovass was going to be trouble the first moment I laid eyes on him. Yes, I have hindsight now, and yes, everyone knows how it turned out, and they can all tell you how inevitable it was, but I was the only one there at the …

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I’m bending the rules of the Brotherhood just entering the Museum of Recent History, but I must pay my respects. Whoever invented this—presenting history barely a few weeks old in a museum—must be delighted. A fresh tragedy means something new to put on display and charge for. The queue moves slowly as if hinting I …

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Tirra stands at the edge of the field that she had sown three weeks earlier, watching ribbons push up from the earth and fly in the wind over the graveyard, the Murky Woods and, beyond that, across the ephemeral border between this world and Faeryland. Spell-ribbon for old-school witches. Soft pink ribbon for ballet shoes …

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If she kills the man with the red-jeweled hand, they might all go free. The snakes in her hair whisper hope, never promises. Yet… Freedom. She mouths the word, imagines the taste of a ripe peach chilled by the stream, the peach softness of her sister’s cheek. Her reflexes, quick as a serpent, have never …

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It happened quite by accident, the first time Malka raised a dybbuk army. It was the holiday of Sukkot, of the Tabernacle year and she had wandered down into Safed’s ancient cemetery. All the night’s ghosts had already been conjured. The ushpizin were carousing from home-made bamboo shelter to sheeted tent and palm-frond hut. Malka …

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(In Lisbon, the soil is sandy and crumbles beneath her. Eve grows grapes in a walled garden, a Malvasian varietal with green skins that swell in sunlight, and between the rows is lavender. The lavender has bright flowers and leaves that are little spikes that scratch her when she comes to cut the flowers for …

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Larvae

The house is crying. You try to calm it down, but nothing seems to help. Not singing, not scrubbing, not even spreading out your houseplants so that one sits in each of its windows like a candle. At night, the wood gasps softly, incessantly, and the heaters crackle as though the flames inside them are …

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Maryellen Sterns was the first person I ever knew who died. I didn’t even know her that well; she was in seventh grade and I was only in sixth. And yet a month after the car crash, she began appearing in my bedroom when I was trying to fall asleep. I didn’t question why she …

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Her moon was almost done. Maghfira blew ruddy copper spirals off the newly-carved plate, examining the curves and grooves she had spent the last ten hours engraving. It was not the moon that hung over Amsterdam, but the other side. Hatched with mountains, upside-down and plump as a peach, only the verges suggested familiar landmarks. …

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