Snow White and Razor Sharp

Laura Anne Gilman’s latest story cautions newcomers about messing with the swans ~ Julian and Fran, June 9, 2024

This month’s stories are by authors Kelly Robson, Laura Anne Gilman, Meg Elison, and Ng Yi-Sheng. The first story of the month is free to read, but it’s our paying subscribers who allow us to keep publishing great stories week after week.

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Snow White and Razor Sharp

by Laura Anne Gilman

When the Citizen’s Council first came to town, people here were thrilled. Not that anyone liked them, particularly; they weren’t the sort to be liked. But it was good to see the empty storefront filled again, even if nobody local went in there. The members of the Council spent money in the café and the fuel station and the bakery, and they parked within the lines, not taking two spaces the way some of the tourist trade did. We figured, they might not be the most ideal neighbors, but they’d do.

It’s not like we’re all sweetness and light either.

But then they put that sign up, covering the faded marks where the tailor’s sign had been, and people were, well, taken aback, I suppose. Not by the sign itself—we’re an old town and we do things old-fashioned, so a hand-painted sign fit in just fine. The trouble was the swan.

“They shouldn’ta done that,” Maggie said, moving her pawn forward, then leaning back in her chair. “They won’t like being invoked by the likes of them.” She crossed her arms under her breasts, nodding to Josiah that it was his turn.

I didn’t disagree, but my folks had raised me to hope for the best. “Maybe they won’t mind.”

She gave me a look, like I’d come out of my momma dropped on my head, and shook her own head. “They’ll mind.”

Then Josiah moved his rook, pulling her attention back to the game.

I told Jody to mind the register, and took a wander outside, stretching my legs down the street to the Council’s storefront. One of their younger members was out front, sweeping the sidewalk. I gave him a nod, and studied the sign.

It was pretty, for sure. Swans are somethin’, and whatever I might think about Council opinions, their artist did ’em right: proud, fierce, strong, wings outstretched and head thrown back as though to demand we all admire the snowy cast of their feathers, bright against a rust-red lozenge.

I’d never been much for mythology, but you didn’t live here and not know at least a little bit. Seems like everyone’s laid some claim to ’em, symbols of the sun, or the moon, or loyalty or purity, whatever. The Council must have thought they could do the same, for their own nonsense.

But swans are . . . well, they’re swans. Everyone here grew up with ’em, saw ’em floating and feeding on the lake, in clear view when you drove in or out of town. They’ve been there longer than the town has, probably’ll be here long after we’ve dried up and dusted away. Part of our claim to fame, why tourists came. I guess the Council wanted to pretend like they belonged here. Like they were old-fashioned too.

But you invoke swans, you get swans.