Pandora lifted the bracelet from the box, all that was left from her younger, bolder days.

She fingered the beads, let the chain slip through her hands. Cool against her wrinkling fingers, the clicking beads soon sent her into a calm, relaxed state. She needed that, after what happened; she needed the repetition to calm her heart, to soothe her anxiety, her fears.

She looked down at the box that lay in her lap, a small replica of that fateful box she opened long ago. Never again did curiosity reign over reason. Never did she question what was asked of her. Beauty was skin deep, even for boxes, and aside from this one she had custom made, she never opened another. She only looked upon them, content with not knowing their contents, but appreciating the secrecy that warranted their casing.

“Yes, there is still hope for me yet.”

© text by Kerrie Colantonio

The hymn rang throughout the cathedral, but all the urchin could hear from the outside was “Pacem,” over and over, like a mantra. It was if an angel were whispering in her ear, bidding her heart be still.

Covered by heaping blankets upon pillows upon mattresses of snow, the streets remained untouched. With the entire town at the vigil services, it would remain so for at least another hour. Sitting in the corner, she huddled beneath a dusty double wedding ring quilt she had rescued from an alley only days before. A little present to herself, she had thought at the time. If one was more than a few yards away, he might think she was huddling beneath the snow. But the flakes all seemed to melt as soon as they touched the fabric, blocking the icy cold and keeping her warm beneath its fading softness.

Pacem, Pacem, Pacem…

Soon the crowds would pour out into the crisp night. But for now, it was her own giant quilt, on a giant bed, in a giant palace.

Sleep would come easy tonight.

© text by Kerrie Colantonio

Words hold power, she remembered in her father’s voice.

Names hold the life of their bearer, verbs are as potent as the deeds they describe, adjectives hold true if you truly believe in them.

Father, she wrote at the top of the page, continuing counterclockwise with

Caery laid down her pen and picked up a small block of brown wax. She held her hand over the candle flame, teasing the fire, testing her strength, withdrawing almost immediately. Turning the wax over the flame, catching the melting drops on the block before it snuffed the candle out, she held it there until enough of the block was soft enough to use. Quickly she withdrew the block and, with a practiced hand, smeared the top left corner with wax, pressed a grayed and dust-soaked scrap torn from her work-dress into the center, and pressed the block again on top.

She folded the page into quarters, stuffed it into the exact center of her pressed herbal, and re-shelved it.

Done.

© text by Kerrie Colantonio

Was this the way to call on Isis, daughter of Earth and Sky?

Standing on the rocky precipice, the wind blowing her hair into her mouth, Selene closed her eyes and felt herself grown lighter, lifted by the wind, held back by the stones, floating between. Her head began to feel heavy, sinking into the ground, swimming through the mountain. She knew that if she opened her eyes now, she would see nothing, and would gasp, inhaling dirt and sand, and she would drown in dryness.

Confident in her actions now, Selene struck her wrists together above her head, palms cupped, ready to catch stardust and moonlight. She was ready: to drink in all the spirit of her namesake, to learn, to fall.

The young maiden walked through the marketplace, veils draped about her head and body, a silver veil covering her face. If she could but find a man with no fear, one who could gaze upon her without consequence, then she would be free.

But how could she manage that, how could she find a man- nay, man or woman- who could gaze upon her and survive that power which bound her so? She seemed doomed to live out her days alone.

“Gorgons!” rang out through the streets, a young boy stumbling, knocking over several shields and breast-plates.

Soon the marketplace was in a frenzy. Women with their babes, soldiers, merchants, children, all running to hide in the nearest shelter they could find.

All save for the maiden.

She looked back on the empty street to see two writhing masses- for what else could you call these creatures?- slinking about, searching for something as yet unknown to them, it seemed. They stopped barely a yard from the young woman, as she greeted them,

“Hello, sisters.”