Showing posts from September, 2011

Welcome To The Cinderella Issue

At last! We have a collection of stories and poems exploring the story of the girl with the glass slippers from the mother's, the father's, the rat's -- nearly any character's point of view in the "Cinderella" canon.
As always, EC is proud to bring a diverse group of stories and poems from writers in the US as well as other countries.

We have 11 works this issue, all of which are posted below, on this page. Enjoy!

Kate Wolford, Editor

Image by Eleanor Abbott


Royal Ball

Glass That Shaped the World


Gingerella and the Ghastly Slipper

The Fairy Godmother's Trial

Her Dark Materials


The Other Daughter

Cinderella: A Rat to Riches Story

Advice From the Fairy Godmother's Glassblower

Glass That Shaped The World, By Jazz Sexton

Editor's Note: Jazz Sexton holds a BA in Fiction and a Certificate in Children's Literature from the University of Pittsburgh. She gobbles up fairy tales like a wicked witch gobbles up children, and in the meantime she blogs at

To My Daughter Who is Lost to Me,

Though you are born to your father’s wealth, you are also born to my spirit. In the farthest days when the world had no light and fae walked among humans, a woman of my clan inhaled the east wind. When she released the breath, the heat in her cheeks went with it to the east, and so great was her passion for light that her breath formed the sun. From the sun’s heat, she made the liquid glass of the ocean, and from that glass she made a pair of shoes. Long and slender, the glass wrapped around her feet as though it were her skin, but so coveted were they that she gave them to a fae woman whom promised to keep the shoes safe until a woman of the glassmaker clan needed them again.
And so th…

Royal Ball? Get Home Before Midnight or Magic Happens, By John Patrick Pazdziora

Editor's Note: John Patrick Pazdziora (PGDip, Belfast Bible College) is a freelance writer and a doctoral candidate at the University of St Andrews, studying children's literature and fairy tale.He occasionally lives online at The Paradoxes of Mr. Pond, but usually lives in Scotland, with his wife and daughter.
I like to think I enjoy these falderal and frippery affairs as much as the next chap, but I’m dashed if I ever throw a Royal Ball again! I mean to say, well, dash it, I say! Can’t a fellow keep his own head together, what?
Sorry to seem flustered, you know, but it was the most extraordinary thing. The king my father, and the queen my mother as well, they told me this was the sort of thing that might happen. I suppose I ought to have listened but they didn’t come right out and say it. I mean, they didn’t say, 'Percy, my royal boy, you’ll onl…

Ethereal, By Melinda Brasher

Editor's Note: Melinda Brasher is currently battling the sun in Arizona, though she much prefers finding literary inspiration hiking in cool European mountains or watching perfect snowflakes melt on her gloves.  Explore, her blog for people who like to escape the mundane though travel, reading, and writing.

I never thought too much about death when I was alive.  After my beautiful wife died, I imagined her in a garden somewhere, surrounded by fiery blood roses.  That's what I told little Cynthia:  Mama's among the flowers now.  Maybe that's why she never cared for them.
I didn't think much about death because a trade empire gives a man no time for frivolities.  Besides, I never fell sick a day in my life.  Not until I died, of course.
I remember those first disbelieving days in dream-like snatches:  a goose my graceful new wife, Violet, reprimanded the cook for over-cooking, her words sharpened by grief; little Cynthia crying in the garden, fing…

Gingerella and the Ghastly Slipper, By Kurt Newton

Editor's Note: Kurt Newton writes, "My fiction has appeared in Weird Tales, Space & Time, Dark Discoveries and Shroud.  I live in Connecticut."

Gingerella was born the child of Gypsies.  Her mother and father were always away in town, helping the locals part with their money, leaving little Gingerella in the leathery hands and beetly eyes of Grandma Vaida.  As a child, Gingerella spent many a day playing alone among the weeping willow trees that tended to crowd around the riverbanks like her people.  The other children didn't like to play with her, for Gingerella was born with a club foot and was forced to wear a boot made of deer hide, which made running difficult, and swimming impossible.  When Gingerella wasn't playing by the river, she clambered close to Grandma Vaida and watched her mix her potions and practice her spells.

Grandma Vaida didn't have much use for Gingerella when she was a child, and had even less use for her when she grew into a young …

The Fairy Godmother's Trial, By Judy DaPolito

Editor's Note: Judy DaPolito writes fiction for children and adults and reviews children's books for  She's also on the board of the Antioch Writers' Workshop and a member of a writing group that's lasted for twenty years.

stepped onto the white-railed platform at the front of the pavilion and turned to face the chief fairy godmother.  Azalea sat at a table draped in creamy silk and bordered with purple orchids. Her usual friendly smile had disappeared.

“Abra,” she began, “you are accused of making a laughing-stock of fairy godmothers everywhere.”

I lowered my eyes, but I couldn’t shut out her voice. 

“You made Cinderella’s coach from a pumpkin.”  At her words, the clatter of teacups in the audience receded.

“You made her horses from mice and her footmen from lizards.”  Subdued whispers began to rise.

“Then you stooped so low as to make her coachman from a rat.”  When Azalea stressed that last word, the clatter of teacups began again and louder w…

Her Dark Materials, By Amanda C. Davis

Editor's Note: Amanda C. Davis loves making a mess. Learn more about her and her work at

First you hoist a girl from the ashes,
Brush sooty tears from her face,
Tell her she's worthwhile.
Squelch through the garden.
Heave a pumpkin out of the mud,
Hack into it a door,
Grab its orange guts
Until it vomits seeds and strings.
Twist those prickly vines around your elbow
Into axles, hitches, wheels.
Catch mice barefisted.
Pluck a lizard from the wall.
For a coachman,
Lure out a mean, matted rat
And seize it by the tail
And shake free the fleas.
In the stories they'll sum it up with
Wands and incantations,
But real fairies know:
You have to get your hands dirty
To make real magic. Image by VC Prinsep.

M'Lady, By Tahlia Merrill

Editor's Note: Tahlia has frequently written stories for EC since it began in 2008 and started this summer as the webzine's social media intern. She recently graduated from Westmont College and is currently in Sacramento trying to find an agent for her young adult science fiction novel. For more of her writing, check out her ongoing Victorian fantasy story at 

10 pm:

The hall clock has struck ten, which gives my pen a time to affix to this page, but I have melted half a candle rummaging through the corners of my mind for a date to enter beside it.  However, I seem to have misplaced it. A few minutes ago, I awoke out of a heavy sleep, clearly hearing Robert’s voice calling for me. Even as I sat up in bed and touched a hand to the empty pillow beside me, I heard one final time: “Dearest Margaret…” Then the frenzied sounds of a tempest crashed into my consciousness. The thunder shake the house’s foundation and the scent from my shattered perfume b…

The Other Daughter, By Elizabeth Twist

Editor's Note: Elizabeth writes, "I am a fantasy and horror writer living in Hamilton, Ontario. My work has appeared in Escape Clause: A Speculative Fiction Annual, Misfit Magazine, and One Buck Horror. My online home is" I am the sister of many brothers. We move between the world above and the world below. We make and unmake things: rocks and sand; plants and trees; rivers and seas; even the animals and the fish and the birds, and the bodies of people, although not the part on the inside, which is a mystery to us. Most people don’t see us, or when they do, it’s as long shadows running through the grass or darting between the trees at twilight.

The mother saw me, though. She called me into the yard behind her house. She stroked my back and rubbed my ears and called me her daughter. She fed me warm, foamy milk from a clay bowl. There was a girl, her other daughter, who followed her sometimes, but she couldn’t see me.

My brothers told m…

It Must 'A Been A Full Moon, By Sally Clark

Editor's Note: Sally Clark's stories and poems have appeared in anthologies and books published by Tyndale House, Thomas Nelson, Howard Books, New World Library, Center Street, Adams Media, and Chronicle Books. Find her at
                      A frog and a toad hop into a tavern                         where the evening fun has just begun                         and the humans have all gone home leaving                         jostles of beer and puddles of ale on the floor                         and one talkative rat, deep in his cups,                         with an outrageous story to boast                         about how he drove a coach and six horses                         to the King's great castle and delivered a beauty                         most rare; how his long tail cracked over                         the heads of horses that leapt at his commands;                         how his four-fingered paws grew another and held            …