This “wondrous” collection of fantasy tales from Neil Gaiman, Patricia A. McKillip, and others “is a treasure chest. Open it and revel in its riches” (Kirkus Reviews, starred review).
For this enchanting anthology—a World Fantasy Award finalist—editors Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling “asked their contributors to reimagine Fäerie” in the present day, or “search its more dimly lit pathways,” and the authors have responded with bountiful imagination. The title piece is a poem by Neil Gaiman, but most of the others are longer pieces, “like shards of stories you want to hear more of.” Jeffrey Ford “limns the heartbreaking tale” of fairies who live in sandcastles built by young children; Ellen Steiber’s ‘Screaming for Fairies’ “sketches the lineaments of desire.” Bruce Glassco “finds a different voice for Tinkerbell and Captain Hook in ‘Never Never.’” Tanith Lee’s ‘Elvenbrood’ tale is eerie and “chilling.” Gregory Maguire, Nina Kiriki Hoffman, Patricia A. McKillip, and Emma Bull’s stories all “enchant” and bewitch. Delia Sherman’s ‘CATNYP’ is “both funny and deeply clever, warming the cockles of anyone who has ever had dealings with a research library, especially New York Public’s” (Kirkus Reviews, starred review).
This companion volume to The Green Man: Tales from the Mythic Forest is “a rewarding choice for those who like the traditional with a twist” (Booklist).
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    Слава Хмелеваalıntı yaptı4 saat önce
    Though the sky was a peerless blue, there had been thunder since dawn. Low thunder, ground thunder, leaving an acrid odor in twists of gray gauze that the wind pushed across the fields. As if a hand had rubbed a rod of graphite against the horizon, sketching vertical shafts of ghost in the warming day
    Слава Хмелеваalıntı yaptı18 gün önce
    I rubbed the salve onto my corneas so I’d have the power to stare through glamour, to a person’s insides. A faery can do that without any ointment, a human needs a lot of it, and a half-faery needs a thin coating. Usually there’s moss, puffed-up feathers, and spiders swinging on threads inside people, and one glimpse of that is enough to make anyone turn and sprint for her life.
    Слава Хмелеваalıntı yaptı18 gün önce
    My faery mother, Aurora, liked to siphon the rich beauty out of milk, leaving us with just the whiteness.
    Aurora would buy beads to string me bracelets, but she’d steal the brightness from the colors.
    She sapped the juice out of papayas, the bite out of peppers.
    What she robbed, worse than all that, was the strength from my father’s bones. Tonight I fried bean cakes with shrimp and sliced pineapple as tender as butter—he didn’t touch any of it. He claims that only the touch of my mother will save him. I scream that it’s been three years since she left us, and in faery time two months equal two hundred years, and you do the math, I’m weary of it, she’s a sprite, a firefly, a belch of swamp gas, an accordion made of sparks that you grasp in both hands and squeeze to hear music, but she explodes in your face. Aurora was born in water; the rain makes Papa wonder if she’s splintering into an army of needles hailing down on him.

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