Frozen Fairy Tales by Kate Wolford

Author:Kate Wolford [Wolford, Kate]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Winter, holiday, fairy tale, horror, fantasy, mythology, folklore, anthology
Publisher: World Weaver Press
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Lissa Sloan spent a year as book reviewer for Enchanted Conversation: A Fairy Tale Magazine. Her poems and short stories are published or forthcoming in Enchanted Conversation, Niteblade Magazine, Krampusnacht: Twelve Nights of Krampus, and Specter Spectacular II: 13 Deathly Tales. Lissa also writes and illustrates for younger readers. Visit her online at her website, lissasloan.com, or on twitter: @LissaSloan.

Simon the Cold

Charity Tahmaseb

I first met Simon the Cold outside the library on a night so icy it stole all the moisture from my breath. My feet crunched through the slushy mix of sand and snow. I walked with my head bowed, the air sharp against my cheeks. That was why I nearly crashed into the man bent over the garbage bin, its lattice work gleaming with frost.

The glow from the man’s headlamp illuminated the inside of the bin like a spotlight—not a single sliver of light was wasted. I stood for a moment, regaining my balance, my jeans stiff with cold, and watched the man pull treasures from the dark depths.

He glanced up and said to me, “You’d be surprised what people throw away.”

When I didn’t respond, he added, “Or maybe you wouldn’t.”

I forgot about the books I had on reserve. Instead, I raced for the second floor cafe and bought the largest coffee on the menu board—the Caffeineator. With my pockets crammed with sugar packets and little containers of half and half, I ventured back outside.

My boots skidded on the ice. A drop of coffee landed on my wrist, the scent warming the stale winter air, but I hardly felt it against my skin. My heart started pounding the second I spotted the man, still at the garbage bin. Heat flashed across my cheeks. I studied the cup in my hands. What was I doing? Was this in any way sensible?

Then I thought: How can I not do this.

So I marched forward, boots crunching, coffee sloshing, until the man raised his head and the headlamp shined its spotlight on me.

“I can’t take that from you,” he said.

I stood in the circle of his light, clutching the coffee, completely without words to convince him.

“And no tricks,” he added. “You look like the tricky sort to me.”

Perhaps it was nerves, or the cold, or the fact, I’m the least tricky person ever born, but I burst out laughing. “I’m not tricky at all,” I said. “In fact, I’m pretty transparent.”

“Ah, that you’re not, girly. That you’re not.”

Normally, someone calling me girly—of all things—would crawl beneath my collar and chew away at my restraint. But this man meant it, if not with kindness, then as an acknowledgement.

I see you there, young person, and what you’re trying to do. I’ve survived without you for this long and will continue to long after you’ve forgotten me.

That was why I took a step forward. He’d returned to sort his treasures, leaving me in the cold and the dark. He didn’t glance up. He didn’t stop his sorting. His fingers twitched ever so slightly. They were pale and stiff.

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