Teika Marija Smits, "Waterlore"

 

Teika Marija Smits is a UK-based writer and freelance editor. She is the author of the poetry pamphlet Russian Doll (Indigo Dreams Publishing) and the short story collections Umbilical (NewCon Press), which was shortlisted for the 2024 Rubery Book Award, and Waterlore (Black Shuck Books). A fan of all things fae, she is delighted by the fact that Teika means fairy tale in Latvian. Teika is on X/Twitter @MarijaSmits and her website is here.  

About Waterlore
The thirty-fourth in the Black Shuck "Shadows" series of micro collections, Waterlore contains seven dark, fantastical stories on the theme of water – from the depths of the oceans to a public swimming pool – and explores the many facets of romantic love, family life and forgiveness. 

You can read more about Waterlore on the publisher’s website here. Below, you can read a sample from the collection. 

From Waterlore, by Teika Marija Smits

Lady Seaweed
or
Tristresse

Mathey Trewella, why did you come a-calling?

Mathey Trewella. His name is like the salt that clings to my lips: bitter, acrid, dead. I go about my business, watching over my little ones, but he is always here in my mind. Mathey Trewella, gone too soon.

I call to my children but they pay me no heed, so I keep the warning to myself: Kee-kee! Kee-kee! Be careful! Be careful! and I hope that it gives them protection enough from unseen rocks and drowning waves.

I can’t believe how big they’ve grown; that rock that they’re playing on – scrambling onto and diving off – was too far out for them last year. Soon it’ll be too close to home. I have to laugh at the humans who mistook us merfolk for manatees. My children, little waifs, are all bones and agility. And besides, manatees give birth to live young. We merfolk are more like platypuses, laying eggs and then breastfeeding our young.

Those humans tell tales about us mermaids. They cover our breasts with shells and say that we spend our time combing our hair; they believe we’re enamoured of the human form. Yet none of our kind could ever desire a human, with their hairy legs and strange, cold voices – always at odds with Mother Earth who provides for them. My children’s father, my merman, all sinew and strength, is all that I’d ever want.

Mathey Trewella, why did you come a-calling?

Teika Marija Smits, "Umbilical"

Teika Marija Smits is a UK-based writer and freelance editor. She writes poetry and fiction, and her speculative short stories have been published in IZ Digital, Parsec, Reckoning, Shoreline of Infinity, Best of British Science Fiction and Great British Horror 6. Her debut poetry pamphlet, Russian Doll, was published by Indigo Dreams Publishing in March 2021, and Umbilical, her first collection of short stories, was published by NewCon Press in August 2023. Waterlore, her micro short story collection, is due to be published by Black Shuck Books in November 2023. A fan of all things fae, she is delighted by the fact that Teika means fairy tale in Latvian. Teika is on Twitter/X @MarijaSmits and her website is here.  

About Umbilical

Containing 21 stories of motherhood and mythology, science and spirituality, that traverse both space and time, Umbilical delves deep into the human psyche and the power of creativity. Smits’s writing dances between multiple genres, taking in science fiction, fantasy and horror, and the stories range in tone from dark to light and feature well-known figures from long-ago tales such as Bluebeard, Baba Yaga, the Minotaur and the Green Man.

You can read more about Umbilical on the publisher's website here. Below, you can read a sample from the collection. 

From Umbilical, by Teika Marija Smits

The Green Man

“Olly, we know you can hear us,” said Jack. “So are you coming to The Green Man or what?”

Olly opened his eyes, put his hand to his earpiece and disconnected himself from the cloud. He sat up, the thin plastic mattress rucking up beneath him.

“It’ll be fun,” said Selma, “an adventure. They serve mead. Real mead.”

“You’re shitting me,” said Olly.

“No, we are absolutely not shitting you,” insisted Mohinder, his face as serious as ever. “But we’re making plans and need to know if you’re up for it.”

Olly’s eyes flicked over to Nate’s mattress. It was empty, and for a moment his face revealed the panic he felt.

Selma laughed. “Don’t worry. Lover boy’s just gone to the loo. But he wants to come with us.”

Olly reddened, told them all to fuck off, and laid down again, his back to the three of them. As he reconnected to the cloud, music and updates streaming into his consciousness, he heard Jack again: “We go on Friday. When there’ll be a full moon. A Green Grass Moon.” Selma said something about bicycles.

Olly began to doze. And as he slipped into sleep his neural feed suddenly filled with strange images: a lime-coloured moon; blades of grass; a grinning man, his green face covered in leaves.

Teika Marija Smits, "Russian Doll"

Teika Marija Smits is a writer, freelance editor and mother-of-two. She writes poetry, fiction and non-fiction. Her writing is heavily inspired by motherhood, mythology, fairy tales and folklore, and has appeared in a variety of places including Atrium, Brittle Star, LossLit, Prole, Ink, Sweat & Tears, The Poetry Shed, Mslexia, Literary Mama, Shoreline of Infinity, Best of British Science Fiction 2018 and Enchanted Conversation. The former managing editor of Mother’s Milk Books, she is now an Editor-at-Large at Valley Press alongside running The Book Stewards – a writers’ support site that she manages with her husband. In spare moments she likes to doodle, draw and paint. She is delighted by the fact that ‘Teika’ means fairy tale in Latvian. Teika is on Twitter @MarijaSmits and her website is: https://teikamarijasmits.com/

About Russian Doll

The poems of Russian Doll tell a story of metamorphosis and becoming. Charting the ever-shifting terrain of selfhood, they speak of the joys and challenges of being both daughter and mother; schoolgirl and middle-aged woman; and detail the many ways in which the stories of our lives are as multicoloured and multilayered as a Russian doll. 

From Russian Doll

Shades of Red

Once an actress, my Muscovite mother 
knew how to make an entrance. 
Striking in fuchsia 
she’d arrive late
to my school performance, 
call my name. Wave.
Have trouble finding her seat.
 
I’d glow crimson
and turn into the smallest
version of myself –
the littlest Russian doll,   
the one most easily lost; 
almost, but not quite, 
invisible. 

Treasure

Curiosity, and a sudden thirst for savagery,
makes her split open the matryoshka –
pop pop pop pop pop –
until ah!
how satisfying, 
the baby doll rests snug in her palms.