Free The Curiosities (Carolrhoda Ya) by Brenna Yovanoff Tessa Gratton Maggie Stiefvater

and ocean eyes, you have become the spirit of the island to him, Morgen. He would sacrifice himself to you, apple-keeper, healer, wind-whisperer.”
    She draws back her shoulders, but the wizard gives her no chance to speak. He lunges, and Morgen falls back with a yell, kicking out her feet. They crash down, and she swings her arm at his face. The iron ring around her wrist hits his cheek, and in his moment of surprise she claws at his hand, takes the dagger, and runs.
    . . .

    The king sleeps in a heavy tent, out among his warriors. Morgen tears back the flap and darts inside. A banked fire casts no light, but the moon is bright enough to glow through the cloth. Arthur sleeps as he walks: sprawling and loud.
    Her breath bursts in an uneven rhythm as she flings about in her mind for something to tell him. Some truth that he will understand, before the wizard comes.
    That she is bound to him, not by magic, but by love.
    That he is bound to the earth, not by magic, but by spilled blood.
    That the wizard is bound only to himself, and the trees themselves will one day devour him.
    She kneels at his head, leans to kiss him, and pauses, lips hovering over his.
    “The witch is trying to murder the king!”
    The wizard’s yell is just outside, and as the tent is again torn open, Arthur opens his eyes to see her crouched over him with dagger in hand.
    “No,” she whispers.
    His eyes look past her to the wizard’s towering figure, blocking the firelight outside.
    Love at his bedside, and power at the door.
    The boy-king grips her wrist, tightening until she cries out and released the dagger. “You will never trust love,” she says, wrenching free of him. She means it mournfully, but the words twist and churn into a curse before they reach his ears.
    Standing back, she claps her hands together, and the sound is echoed by thunder and the crashing of waves. Wind gusts into the tent, yanking it up from the ground in great flapping chaos. The king ducks and covers his head as stakes are flung in the air. The wizard cries out, and all the waking warriors cower.

    When the maelstrom lays itself down again, the girl, too, has gone.

THE MADNESS OF LANCELOT
by Brenna Yovanoff
    I am a fan of structure, I must admit. I love the hell out of it. A lot of structure in a short story or novel breaks down the fourth wall, and often that’s a bad thing for fiction. A story is a lie, and generally you don’t want to remind the readers any more than you need to that you’re lying to them. But when it’s done well, when you make the reader want to know it’s a lie, that it’s not true, it becomes like a song or a poem. The refrain reminds us that this is not real life, because real life sometimes doesn’t have a purpose. This story of Brenna’s is one of those structured pieces, and it reminds me of an old ballad: girl, boy, country road, and the sad, sad refrain of a cigarette-smoky voice. —Maggie
    One thing I look forward to most about common prompts is finding out what Brenna is going to do, because she takes these prompts and manages to find some core truth or hidden sentiment under all the folds that I’ve never seen. Her prompt stories often make me feel like a very literal writer. Even when I’m writing about magic. —Tessa

    A ll the Avett girls are strong swimmers. In a county of cattle ropers and turkey shooters, this is what we’re known for. There’s nothing more peaceful than diving below the surface. The lake is my secret, my refuge.
    But this is not a love story.
    . . .
    Asher Phipps is four years younger than me, but a good deal taller. When he was hardly more than a baby, his daddy, Otha, died in a threshing accident. Afterward, Asher’s momma was no good for anything anymore, so he started tagging after me. He had a sweet country lisp and a toy duck on a string. He used to follow me everywhere.
    I watched him on yellow afternoons, showed him how to make pets out of beetles and dolls from corn husks, took him swimming