HOME NEWS WHO ARE WE? WEBZINE ARCHIVE MAILING LIST FREE ISSUE / SURVEY FORUM SUBMISSION GUIDELINES CONTACT COPYRIGHT LINKS			Sorcery & Science Magazine May 2005   The Tale of the Headless Haberdasher Short Story by Pamela Karavolos Sister Galaxy Poem by Arlene Ang The Seeing I Short Story by Suzanne Dane The Mermaid Poem by Valery Dunbar Magic Moment in the Mist Short Story by Larry Vint White Rose Fairy Poem by Bobbi Sinha-Morey   You can read the webzine in pdf format , and/or save a copy to your hardrive and read it offline or print it out and snuggle up with hot cup of your choice. If you don't have Acrobat Reader, download it here for free.       A few words from the crazy creator   Welcome to the second edition of Sorcery & Science Magazine! I was irrationally afraid that the second edition would be terrible compared to the first and I would disappoint all the wonderful people who have become a part of this webzine. It did prove to be an irrational fear for I received great stories and great poems from great writers. Thank you to all the people who submitted their work, trusting me to see that special something in their prose, their characters, their worlds. I hope you will feel as enchanted and excited as I did when I read their stories and their poetry. A special thank you goes to Vittoria Cupaiuolo, my assistant-editor-when-time-permits, who is just fabulous when it comes to "seeing the magic". I hope you enjoy what we have wrought and please feel free to comment on the site and the webzine, either at the Forum or via e-mail. Sorcerous Regards, Jessica Taylor (Publisher and Editor-in-Chief)     The Tale of the Headless Haberdasher By Pamela Karavolos   Even after 10 years, coming in here gave me the creeps. I’d been a young punk on a dare. No one had ever successfully robbed Hiram’s Haberdashery. If I did, I’d make a name for myself on the street. I broke into the shop at the stroke of midnight and stood for a second among all the headless mannequins to let my eyes adjust to the darkness. It was creepy. Everything was headless, even the men in the pictures on the wall. Carefully, I made my way over to the register. I shivered, and then froze as I heard a low, maniacal chuckle. I nearly screamed like a girl as the headless apparition stormed through the doorway toward me, waving a sword. It swung at me and missed, or so I thought. While scuttling out the door, I felt a warm flow of blood down my neck. That thing had nearly taken off my head! That incident scared me straight. I was now a cop walking a beat, which took me right past the haberdasher’s shop. So, poking my head in the doorway, I had to ask. “How is it you’ve managed not to be robbed all these years?” Hiram laughed. “Watch,” was all he said. He tripped the alarm, the low maniacal chuckle sounded and, despite the daylight, I shivered as the headless executioner came into view. “It’s a hologram. Clever, eh?” Yeah, very clever. It just didn’t explain the scar on my neck.   Would you like to write a review of this story? Read the Review Rules first! Review this story!     The Author Pamela Karavolos lives with her family in Rosamond, California. She is a technical writer. Despite living in “Pam”demonium, she still finds time to write short fiction and her work has been published in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine and Flash Fantastic. Back to Index       Sister Galaxy By Arlene Ang   There's this rumor that we're actually cousins thrice removed, and a theory that our heavenly bodies were mapped from an underground library in some planet, and a story that I envied you temporarily, and turned you into a solar system with Aunt Andromeda's stellar haloes and pre-dawn IUDs. I thought you needed a lesson in black magic, good manners -- but the circle's broken, red giants are collapsing dwarves every millennium. She'll be pissed, and Mum, too. Your sun is due to explode sometime tomorrow. Stop bawling. I wouldn't tell them any of this if I were you.   Would you like to write a review of this poem? Read the Review Rules first! Review this poem!     Back to Index       The Seeing I By Suzanne Dane   I couldn’t decide if it was prescience or déjà vu, but when the phone rang I knew it was my sister and we had already had this conversation. All my conversations with Pamela are essentially the same: she accuses and harangues; I deflect and cajole. She sees only the obvious; I get caught up in possibilities. To say we rarely agree is an understatement. “Birdie,” Pamela whined, “May is losing it. She’s going on again about Wolfie. It’s pathetic. I can’t talk to her. Jonathan tried, but he’s no good with her, either.” She stopped there, the implication being that only I could reason with our grandmother. Pamela admitted she couldn’t. Her husband, Jonathan, couldn’t. I had to agree with Pam on that one. So it was my responsibility. The irony was that I considered my grandmother, May, anything but a responsibility. And she most certainly was sane. Although nearly ninety, she was mellowed with wisdom, intuitive and empathetic. Pamela didn’t need to beg me to help with May. But it was Pam’s way of dealing. Press an issue, demand assistance, stomp a foot. “I was planning on coming tomorrow, Pam,” I explained. “Well you better hurry,” she responded in a stage whisper. “Jonathan and I can’t stay here forever. And she’s not playing with a full—“ Her cliche was extinguished as the telephone exchanged hands in a series of dull thuds and snatches of irritable monosyllables. “Birdie, this is your grandmother,” May said imperiously. “Your sister is overreacting – again. I am perfectly fine.” More scrambling for the phone. “S’cuse me, honey,” May said. The volume of her voice diminished as she turned from the mouthpiece to speak to my sister. “May I have some privacy, please?” Testy “hmmphs” in unison marked Pamela’s departure from the room and May’s resumption of our conversation. “She’s enough to drive an old woman batty. I really could use some reinforcements here. When can you come?” “Tomorrow afternoon soon enough?” “Not a moment too. Drive carefully and I’ll see you then, sweetie. Oh! Birdie?” I smiled to myself, already knowing the question. “Yes, I’ll bring the sneakies. Bye, May. Love you.” ~~~~ When I rounded the bend in the two-lane rural road the next day and caught sight of May’s farmhouse, a lump of nostalgia lodged in my chest. After my parents’ death by tornado when I was two, this house, these fields, those woods had become my home. And May and Wolfgang my parents, as well as my grandparents. But this was a bittersweet homecoming. It was the first I’d been back since we’d buried Wolfie just after Christmas. My sister and I called him that. I never heard my grandmother call him anything but Wolfgang. May-and-Wolfgang. It was like saying cup-and-saucer or peanut-butter-and-jelly. The concept of one without the other was unthinkable. They had been together every day for more than sixty years. I’d thought May would crumble at his death, but two days after the funeral, as I was preparing to drive home to the city, I came across her in the parlor (she really does call it that), sitting in her easy chair right next to Wolfie’s empty one. Her eyes were closed, her mouth curved in a hint of smile. Her head was tilted toward his chair just like she used to do when her hearing started to go and she accused him of whispering just to “yank her chain.” It seemed so personal a moment, I quietly backed out of the room and never mentioned it to her. But after that, I felt like she would manage just fine. Still, for my own peace of mind, I called her every few days and then arranged for a neighbor to set her up with a computer. She took to the Internet like a bloodhound to a fresh scent. Pretty soon I was getting wicked little e-mails that said things like Check this Out! Oooh, honey! I’d click on the link she provided and find myself staring at some beefcake. Well, at least she had good taste. Interspersed with her jaunt through a second pubescence was other correspondence like _May Keller’s Recipe for Lemon Chess Pie (Greene County Fair First Place Winner 1947)_. I parked and stepped out of the car under the spread of a mammoth elm that had been shading the side of the farmhouse for more than a century. The yard around the house was vast and filled with trees grown beyond the expectations and life spans of the people who planted them. May emerged from the screened porch with a straw hat on her head and a bounce in her step. A sprightly kiss on my cheek, a cursory hug, and a straw hat plopped on top of my head preceded her sparse dialogue. “Did you bring them?” I nodded. “C’mom,” she said, “Let’s go.” A heartbeat later, the screen door slammed again as my sister burst forth in a gale of indignation. “Where are you off to now?” she demanded, standing feet splayed and arms akimbo. A scowl was all the greeting I got. I could hear May’s tongue winding up so I stepped forward to abort the anticipated lashing. “Hey, Pammy. We’re just gonna go for a little walk. I need to stretch out from the car ride,” I said, knuckling my back. With a don’t-worry-I’ll-take-care-of-it look at my sister, I linked my arm in May’s and we turned away from the house. “She is a pain in the butt, isn’t she?” I said as soon as we heard the door slap its frame. May’s only response was a snort. I handed her the treasured “sneakies,” a pack of Camel nonfilters. “You two are just on different wavelengths, May. Always have been.” She lit a smoke and drew a long, deep breath, making its tip glow red-hot. Inhaling the aromatic smoke with the ease of decades of practice, she glanced at me sideways. “But, you and I are cut from the same cloth, aren’t we, Birdie?” My name is Wilma. A tribute to a distant aunt whom I never knew and a curse for a kid of the Seventies. But the Fates conspired early to help me change that unfortunate moniker. On the night the twister took my parents’ lives, my sister was two houses away sleeping over with a friend and I was tucked tightly into my crib at home. That unforeseen funnel of energy chose our house out of a line of twenty, blasting it into bits like the Tinker Toy town I had kicked to smithereens earlier that day. My parents died amid the explosion. But, I, hanging onto my little mattress with chubby toddler hands, became airborne on a makeshift flying carpet, sailing through the sky until the mattress, with me aboard, wedged high in an ancient sycamore and stuck fast like a cork in a bottle. It had taken a search party almost a full day to find me. May said I was snuggled in the tattered bedding like a chick in its nest. From that day on I have been called Birdie. I don’t mind. It beats Wilma all to hell. Besides, it reminds me daily of what May calls my enlightenment. According to her my maelstrom ride was predetermined, an initiation into an illuminated existence. I accept the unexplainable, acknowledge the invisible. I embrace the possibility of the implausible. Surviving my gusty expulsion into the world was the first concrete evidence I had of the inspiring force that imbues our lives – if we let it. My grandmother’s receptive and liberal view of the world meshed neatly with my young understanding of those things beyond the recognized power of nature. Together, through the years, we had come to see events as either natural or extranatural. There were more of the latter than most people guessed. They simply didn’t choose to notice. And some things were nothing less than signs of divine intervention. My miraculous journey was proof enough for us both. “Yes, May, we do see things the same way,” I said. We strolled to the edge of the pond and stood side-by-side under the clear summer sky, letting the humidity wrap us. The clicks of dragonfly wings and plops of pond denizens breaking the water’s surface created a pleasant white noise. It was a sound of my youth, background music to a simpler life when I didn’t conduct a symphony of discordant personalities. “So what’s got Pamela so spooked?” May sighed and picked at the cattails at the edge of the pond before leading me onto the small dock. “She thinks I’ve lost my marbles because she found me out in the swing talking to Wolfgang.” I pictured the countless times I’d seen my grandparents sitting together in the wooden bench swing hanging from the branch of the grand oak in the side yard. It was where they often went in the summer twilight. The rule for us children was that they could not be bothered while in the swing – unless one of us had lost an arm and was bleeding to death. It was just Wolfgang’s way of stressing the importance of the rule. But it scared the bejeesus out of Pamela for years. She has always been literal to the last letter. Where May and I reveled in the mystery of life, Pam could only accept that which she could see and prove. She knew the story of my extraordinary adventure but, lacking her eyewitness, it failed to move her. “Were you talking to him?” “Well. Yes.” I slipped off my sandals and May held my arm so she could scooch off her slip-on tennis shoes. After I sat, I lifted a hand to help her but she ignored me and sat with the ease of a woman half her age. “Are you getting cortisone shots or something?” I asked. “Hmmm?” She seemed momentarily distracted, like she was trying to listen to two things at the same time. “You’re getting around so easily,” I explained. “I’m really glad to see you’re feeling well.” The afternoon sun glinting off the water made her eyes twinkle as she smiled, nodding her head with its spun-sugar hair done up in a customary bun. I did a mental shrug. Back to business. “What did Wolfie have to say?” I asked, peering into the hazy summer sky. The willow tree next to us stirred in a sudden breeze. I glanced at her when she didn’t answer me right away and caught a look of relief in her expression. Then she broke into a wide smile and said, “He misses me. I can’t imagine why. I was such a nagging thing sometimes. And then there were these,” she squinted at the stub of her lit cigarette before flicking it from her fingertips into the pond. “He always hated when I smoked.” “But you’ve always smoked,” I pointed out. “See what he put up with? But it worked both ways. He was a stubborn man. Tenacious, determined. He could really get on my nerves. There were whole years when I wanted nothing more than a divorce.” I looked askance at her. “Like when?” “Nineteen-fifty-three to nineteen-seventy-one.” I burst out laughing and so did she while reaching for the pack of cigarettes in my shirt pocket. I made a lame effort to grab the pack away from her. “But we stuck it out,” she sighed, dislodging a cigarette by tapping the pack against her index finger. “Wolfgang always got what he wanted in the end,” she said. I struck a match, holding the feeble fire out to her. When she leaned forward a small wind snatched the flame away. I tossed the spent match into the pond and tried another. Again, a tiny breeze that seemed to come just between us extinguished the flame. “See?” May muttered with disgust. I smiled as she harrumphed and set the unsmoked cigarette down on the dock. “You’re right, May. He got you. He must have been a very determined man. And,” I added softly, “very much in love.” Gripping the edge of the weather-beaten dock, she swung her legs gently over the water and stared across our little pond. Her wistful gaze reminded me of an old photo of her that sat on Wolfie’s roll-top desk. “He was the part that made me complete. He elevated me above my average place. Together we were extraordinary.” “I’m sorry,” I said. “I know you miss him, too.” “Well,” she said, patting my knee, “It’s time for me to go.” “We’ve got time,” I said, glancing at my watch. But when I looked back into May’s face, I knew she wasn’t talking about supper. “I’m tired of this way, Birdie. I’m old and tired in this body. There’s more to life than just this physical part. I want to continue on. Wolfgang’s here to help me.” I considered Pamela’s assessment of May’s sanity but my trust in my grandmother was like a faith. If she said it was so it was. “Oh, May! Please don’t say that. Not so soon…” Then my mind crawled out of its emotional muddle. “Wait! You’re not – are you helping this along?” “I’m not fighting it. But I don’t seem to have any say in the matter,” she smiled, touching my cheek softly. “It’s happening and ... I’m so ready, Darling. I’m so ready.” She swept a hand along her own body, showing off the goods like a game-show hostess. “It’s already started….” Indeed, she did possess a quickness of step and ease of movement that belied her many years. In fact, I realized with a start, her beautiful face was not so lined as it had recently been. ~~~~ Pamela and Jonathan were in the kitchen putting together a summertime meal when May and I got back to the farmhouse. Pam eyed the both of us warily then put on a happy face. “Feeling better?” she asked brightly. May drew herself up, squaring her shoulders. I touched her back in a silent bid to keep the peace. “I’m fine,” she replied. “Hello, Jonathan,” I said, crossing the room to give my brother-in-law a peck on the cheek. Jonathan and Pamela were basically the same person. Only he was meeker. I loved him for his kindness and goodness as well as for putting up with my headstrong sister. But Jon and I would never be confidantes. Different minds, different hearts. Just like Pamela and me. We all went about the business of getting the meal on the table. When Pamela ended up standing next to May, she turned her head and sniffed. “You’ve been smoking again!” Her face became red and fierce. She turned her angry countenance to me. “Damn it, Birdie! Are you trying to kill her?” “How dare you speak as if I’m not here,” May blurted before I could say a word. “I’ll do whatever I please. I’m not yours to command or control. You sound just like him!” May complained, flailing a hand in the air for emphasis. “Me?” Jonathan inquired with astonishment, touching his fingers to his chest as if to be sure he was himself. Pamela and I turned as one to look at the perplexed Jonathan. “No, not _you_!” May said, sucking in a big breath before saying more. But suddenly she closed her mouth and looked at me like I was the only one who spoke her language and she needed some fast translating. “Oh God. Here we go again.” Pamela’s shoulders slumped. “I thought you two worked this out,” she said looking from one to the other of us. “Is Wolfie back with us, May?” Sarcasm etched her voice. “Shall I set another place at the table?” May waited a beat to speak. Then nodding a little bit, she said calmly, “As a matter of fact, Pamela, he is here and he wishes to let you know that it will all go so much easier for you in the end if you can trade in some pragmatism for a thimbleful of open-mindedness.” Pam looked for an instant like she’d been slapped. “Thanks for the help, Birdie,” she said with disgust. “Pam, can’t you indulge others in their beliefs even a little? Just because you can’t see it or prove it, does it make something not so?” “Are you telling me you believe her? Honestly, Birdie. Okay. So where is he? Here?” She touched a hand to the counter beside her. “Here?” she asked, moving to the refrigerator. “Oh wait, I know.” She stopped in the middle of the kitchen and looked at the ceiling. “Of course.” She smacked a palm to the middle of her forehead. “Why didn’t I think of it before? Does he have wings, like a good angel?” We all stood around Pamela and stared mutely for our own reasons. “I’m not hungry,” May said softly and walked back out of the house, letting the screen door slap against its frame. I shook my head and followed. She settled herself into the swing out in the yard. I leaned back against the tree trunk. “Don’t worry about Wolfgang,” she said offering me the place next to her on the swing seat. “He doesn’t take up much room.” I hesitated, assessing the size of the space. We grinned at each other. Then I sat next to her and she took my hand. “Don’t worry, honey. You can’t change people. We are what we are. I know she loves me. And, for some crazy reason, I love her, too.” May laughed. “I just disagree with everything she says and does.” I used my feet to gently set the swing in motion and we sat in silence for a few minutes. “How much longer do you have?” I whispered. “I’m not sure,” she answered, squeezing my hand. “Not long, I’d imagine.” I made a small sound of anguish. “I know, Birdie. I know.” The leaves in the tree overhead rustled and a soft breeze swept across my cheek, blowing my hair away from my neck. I had a sensation of warm hands touching my head and rubbing my shoulders. The comforting warmth spread through me and I knew, as clearly as if he had spoken to me, that Wolfie was telling me that she would be happy and loved and that to miss her was fine, but to mourn her was unnecessary. “Run along, sweetie. I think I want to be alone for a little while,” May said. I hugged her and walked through the twilight back to the house. ~~~~ It was the music that woke me. Old-fashioned music. The kind for close dancing. My bedroom was bright with moonlight and a soft breeze billowed the white organdy curtains at the window. The sound was coming from outside. A car radio, I thought. I went to the window and knelt to look out on the expansive lawn with its herd of trees below. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I glimpsed movement under a far tree. My heart started to hammer, thinking that a burglar might be afoot. But when the intruder moved out from under the tree limb, I saw that it was two people. May and Wolfie. They held each other closely, his arm around her back, her head on his shoulder, and danced like young lovers. The music picked up tempo, changing to a waltz and the couple began moving lightly in the sultry night air. They wove a pattern through the dark tree trunks, disappearing for a moment then emerging in the moon-and-star-lit night, rising on toes then swaying into turns, all in time to the music. May’s hair was undone, flowing thickly down her back, floating into the inky night as the lovers turned and swirled. Wolfie seemed as tall and broad-shouldered as I remembered him. His hair looked dark, though, like in the old pictures we used to giggle over. I was mesmerized by their tryst. It occurred to me that I was spying, but I decided that if they didn’t want me to see, they would have been more discreet. Or stayed out of my dreams. After a time, the music slowed again and the couple with it. They turned their faces up to me and smiled. May and Wolfgang joined hands and walked to the big swing. I heard it creak as they sat together. I went back to bed and slept. ~~~~ Birdie!” It was Pamela, at my bedside, shaking me. “Birdie! Wake up.” I blinked in the morning brightness then registered the distress on Pam’s face. Sweeping back the covers, I ran for the door, flinging it wide. I ran down the hallway straight for May’s door. “No! This way!” Pam had run to the top of the stairs. Together we sped down and through the back parlor, the dining room, and the kitchen. I burst through each door expecting disaster. But the rooms were neat, devoid of people. Cotton nightgown flapping about my shins, I followed Pam outside and stopped suddenly, wondering what we were looking for. Then I knew. I turned to look deep into the yard where the old oak tree stood. There in the swing, her back to us, sat May. On unfeeling feet I trod the massive, gnarled roots of trees planted by the many generations of my family. Coming around the swing, I held my breath. May’s face in its repose of peaceful death, proved the truth in what she’d said. I dropped to my knees and laid my head on her lap to say my silent good-bye. Pamela edged into our tableau, gripping the swing chain as she glanced at May’s face. I felt Pam’s fear. But how do you comfort a disbeliever? “Do you think it was her heart?” “Definitely,” I agreed. “Her heart.” She seemed to ponder this then said, “I think it was broken.” It wasn’t exactly an olive branch. More like a leaf. But it was good enough for now. The tree above rustled with breezy laughter as I clasped my sister’s hand.   Would you like to write a review of this short story? Read the Review Rules first! Review this story!   The Author Suzanne Dane has also published the short story "Stretching It" in the anthology Original Sin: The Seven Deadlies Come Home to Roost, published by Paper Journey Press, 2004.   Back to Index       The Mermaid By Valery Dunbar   Fast rolling grey and blue the waves To hit the shoreline foaming white Then edging further to the caves The moon bathed all in shining light This set the scene for what I swear Is true, it happened as I say Was then I saw her sitting there When evening had subdued the day A weathered rock all glistening there She sat atop and watched the tide The moonbeams danced all through her hair All clasped in place with coral slide Around her shoulders softly hung A cloak of seaweed gold and green That caught the wind and danced along Such beauty I had never seen Around her neck a silken thread That held a row of tiny shells And as she moved and tossed her head They made a sound like tinkling bells Her bodice flimsy wisps so sheer Down to her skirt all silver lace Which touched the sea them floated clear To swirl and curl with gentle grace She turned and looked at me awhile And every thought was passed between Then gave to me a wistful smile Two different worlds we both had seen Then something in her gentle gaze Conveyed to me the pleasant dreams That meant so much in childhood days When all is wonder so it seems Transfixed by all and so enthralled I willed this moment not to end I knew the ocean once more called I wanted her to be my friend As if she knew I heard a sigh But still the ocean called her home She turned I mouthed a soft goodbye And I was left there all alone   Would you like to write a review of this short story? Read the Review Rules first! Review this story!     Back to Index   Magic Moment in the Mist By Larry Vint   Tap, tap came the noise beyond the hedge. Tap, tap. Then a soft, whimsical song wove an enchantment through the misty morning air. When I peeked through the leaves, I saw her; a vision of splendor with flowing red curls and emerald eyes. She was tiny, no more than two feet tall, dressed in green with silver shoes. Concentrating on her work, she sang a simple, haunting tune. Tap, tap. Pots, she was making pots. My heart was in my throat, I forgot to breathe. I’d never seen anyone or anything like her. Her soft melody ensnared my mind, captured my soul. Did she see me or sense me? I still don’t know, but she set her tiny silver hammer and the bronze pot aside. With a mischievous smile, she beckoned me to join her. Her song continued to fill the air as I clamored through the hedge and stumbled forward to sit on the ground before her. I could not take my eyes from her. Her tune reverberated through my being though I swear her lips never moved. “Who be ye?” she said with a melodic voice. “Uh … B..B.. Brian,” I fumbled, tongue tied by the wondrous creature before me. “Uh … who … what are you?” “Kara, I be.” She laughed with pleasure. Mischief was portrayed in the twinkle of her eyes. “Can ye no ken what cine I be?” “Uh … p..p..pots. You make pots. … Uh … a pot maker,” I decided to change the subject in case knowing what she was, would transform the magic of the moment and somehow alter her allure. “Seadh, cruth coire I do,” she said with an amused smile. “Maith,mi. Ye teanga be coimheach,” she hesitated and puzzlement briefly crinkled her brow. Then she brightened with a wide smile. “Pardon me, your tongue be strange. Yes, make pots I do.” She giggled in delight at her sudden knowledge of how to speak my language. “Uh … who do you make them for … and why?” I could not stop staring; holding, embracing her with my eyes, but hoping she would not notice if I kept the conversation going. “Mi cine. Uipinn coire they be.” She smiled again, realizing she had responded in her own tongue. “My people use them as treasure pots.” “Wh … what kind of treasure?” “Airgead, or … silver, gold,” her smile disappeared and those beautiful eyes narrowed and darkened with suspicion. “Cleath they at stuadh’s deireadh. Hide them they do, at rainbow’s end.” She pointed behind me, beyond the hedge. A rainbow pierced the haze. It was beautiful, but could not compare with Kara. I realized with a chill that I had looked away from her. “I don’t want their treasure. Kara … no!” Too late, I looked back, realizing she had been as much a captive of my gaze as I was of her beauty. She was gone; the pot, the hammer, all gone. “No! No …no … nooo,” I sobbed. “Soraidh … farewell,” echoed softly in my mind. The memory of her will forever haunt me. Kara’s sweet melody still rides the morning mist.   Would you like to write a review of this short story? Read the Review Rules first! Review this story!   The Author Larry Vint is a PhD population geneticist currently masquerading as an IT technical analyst/trainer at Northern Illinois University. He has done a great deal of technical writing, but largely suppressed urges to write creative fiction and poetry until recently.   Back to Index       White Rose Fairy By Bobbi Sinha-Morey   Born in a pillar of light a fairy is lifted on the petals of a white rose bathed in its milk till her wings are like snow dusted in the red golden tears of the dawn when she touches the sky eclipsed by the autumn sun.   Would you like to write a review of this poem? Read the Review Rules first! 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