July 9, 2020

Throwback Thursday: THE NAIAD by Lillie E. Franks

To her, time flowed just as her spring did.
Some gave to her
and others only took...

Editors note: I picked this lovely little flash story to give an example of how well flash fiction can work. It was published in June, 2019. Remember, there’s a Christmas in a July contest happening this month, focusing on flash fiction and poetry. (Christmas is not your only option.) HERE are details. Enjoy!

One day, without warning, her world, which had flowed infinitely into the distance as long as she had been, stopped.

She had been born with the spring. She swam in in it, felt it gather itself when the rain came, felt it flow past the stones and burble out in a gentle trickle where the ground was just low enough. She watched her water off, like a mother watching her children, waving goodbye as it flowed to the river, merged with its fellows, and ran its course down, down, and away to the ocean, where all water dreams of being.

To her, time flowed just as her spring did, with generations coming and going like waves pushed after each other in the deep ocean. Each was different. Some prayed to her, others smiled their thanks. Some gave to her and others only took. Each was perfectly different but overwhelming similar, different water in the same crests. They drank from her spring and her water became a part of them. She felt them with the same mingled faintness that she felt her waters rise into the air and mingle with the waters of the sky.

The ones who came to survey the land seemed no different to her than any around her. She had not worried about them because she had no concept of worry and no idea that anyone would refuse a gift of fresh water.

And then, in a blur, the construction crews and the bulldozers came and finally the cement. It poured down from the truck like a slow trickle of its own. When it had covered her spring, it stopped. To her, it was the first single moment in time, the first event that happened in an instant rather than washing in over just as many years as it took to wash out.

It was her first introduction to the cold, hard, fixed time of the humans who now lived above her.

She swam her twisting way to the thick stone block and laid her hand against it. It was heavy and thick and dead, like the now still water lying beneath it. She had eaten away stones like this in the past, but she wouldn’t eat away this one. The falling waters would find new ways to escape before that. Her spring would never flow again.

She let herself float, still, unmoving, stagnant as the water around her.

As she floated there, they built the houses above her. They were simple houses, many to each building, which would have marveled her if her spring were still flowing. Instead, the information fell into her mind like a dead leaf into a pond, adding nothing, changing nothing, simply being. They painted the walls and carpeted the floors, and she floated. They set up electricity, an invisible river flowing through channels of its own, and she floated. The houses were nearly complete, and still she floated.

Then they turned on the water.

At first she sensed it only as a far away trickle, like she sensed the drops in the clouds before they were dense enough to fall to Earth. She was responsible for the water in the spring and a concrete slab sealed the still spring from the water she sensed flowing above her. That water had nothing to do with her, and she had troubles enough of her own.

But the small tugs at her senses continued. It was lively where she and her spring weren’t. Finally, through boredom as much as anything else, she allowed herself to listen to it. It will be okay if I only listen, she told herself.

As she did, she realized what those tugs had been. The water was scared. It had no nymph to swim through it, and it had been through many strange twists and turns that it didn’t understand. Like her spring, the water above her was constantly pressing against barriers it couldn’t move, until just as suddenly, one of those barriers disappeared, and for just a few seconds, at longest some minutes, it would flow into one of the many tiny channels, over a naked person’s body or past food or into a cup. The water obeyed as it always did, but there was no one to follow alongside it and say “Good! This is your natural course. Keep on, no matter what happens.”
“Was she allowed to go to new waters?” she wondered. She had been born with the spring. She had lived with the spring, and the spring had been a piece of her just as she had been a piece of it. If the spring were still running, it would be obvious treachery to leave it. Wasn’t it a worse treachery to leave when there was only her to remember it?

But even as she told herself this, the water above her needed someone to quicken it and the water around her needed nothing. It would drain in other places and other nymphs would take it along its journeys to the sky and back. Her arguments for what should be could last only so long in the face of what was.

Her choice to leave the stagnant spring did not come in one moment like the cement above it. It came like waves, from an inconsequential ripple to a powerful tide she could ride away on.

The foundation sat between her and the water above, but she could swim through any water. Where it reached, she could reach.

She swam deeper into the ground, each stroke taking her into smaller and smaller channels bordered by smaller and smaller rocks. She swam around the houses until she came up in a small garden, meticulously kept to only grasses, with nothing to accept the offers the deeper waters made to life.

She waited in that strange, half-garden until the rain came, when, with nothing to carry her but boldness and the desire to be needed, she swam up and into the air. She passed through the rainfall in the form of a glint of light. As she did, she realized it wasn’t so different to swim in the air than to swim in any flowing water. All you had to do was keep your mind on the flow and forget the individual drops.

Even inside the building, there was still water in the air, thinner only by a little than the rain outside. Through this, she found her way as a feeling of cold and the smell of a forest after a storm.

She expanded through the building until she finally found it: a sink running to wash dishes. She reached her way upstream into the channel of water, and at last, found her place again.

She swam around the pipes and tanks of this new world, exploring every limit and boundary she met. Wherever she swam, the water rejoiced, as if to say “The place I have found is natural. Good or bad, I have followed my own rules to come here and a spirit has seen that and acknowledged it!” The people in their houses that day found some quality of their water fresher, better tasting than usual, but could not say what it was.

As people drank from her strange, many-headed spring, she came to understand them just as she understood the pumps and pipes that surrounded them. She felt their sadnesses and joys almost as vividly as she felt her own. They were like all people always had been: perfectly different and overwhelmingly similar.

In other days, she had known the sorrows of humans too. Just like now, they had been too large and interwoven for her to fix, the way she could help the frightened water. Something was different, though. There was something that made her inability to help these people harder to bear than it had been.

Back then, she had been a miracle. She had been one of the too few times the strange and awesome world granted something to the humans. Even the ones who talked of water tables and groundflow were thankful the immense forces they called natural, had made her spring.

These people were different. The water she swam in now, though its path was well more fantastic than that of rain flowing down, wasn’t a gift from nature. It was another bill to pay, another small obligation among a crushing number. When they drank her water, they were reminded not that water had been given to them, but that they had to fight for and earn it. They took no joy from her water, and she could take no joy in providing it.

She swam through all the houses and their residents, and the story was always the same. Each one was engaged in a battle to the death to keep this small place they had earned and the faucet that satisfied their thirst. Sometimes, one of them lost the battle. They were kicked out of the building, and she had no idea what happened to them next.

Some days, the residents could taste just a little of her sadness, like tears, in their water. They didn’t use it as much those days and weren’t sure why.

Again, she found herself caught between what she knew she was allowed to do and what she needed to do. Like the first time, it was a conflict that could, given time, go only one way.

She asked the water, “Will you join me in this?”

The water rushed and flowed around her, its small way of saying yes.

It wasn’t a perfect action, but it was the one she knew how to take. She was a spring and she wanted to spring forth. She needed to be a spring, and she knew the people in the houses needed a spring for them.

That day, in time as it was recorded by the people, the faucets and pipes all ran together. Pure, fresh water poured out without explanation or cost. It flowed away down its pipes and away to other places.

The people stepped out of their houses and saw the others who lived with them stepping out as well. The halls were filled with the sounds of babbling waters, a kind music all of them knew. The music told them all they needed to know about what was happening.

The naiad flittered with joy as the people in the houses smiled to each other. For that moment at least, they saw they were all alike the recipients of a bounty they could never understand.

Lillie E Franks is a trans playwright and writer from Chicago, Illinois. She believes in ghosts, fairies, and making the world better. You may follow her on Twitter at @onyxaminedlife. Under no circumstances should she be trusted with your true name.

Cover: Amanda Bergloff @AmandaBergloff

July 7, 2020

Monday Move for Stories/Essays

Looking over my publishing schedule for EC, it looks like putting all new works up on Mondays will work much better than posting the first day of the month, which could run into other plans for other posts.

Next Monday, we’ll have the first nonfiction post, so stay tuned. Next week the angel card posts will resume as well, on Wednesdays and on Thursday of this week Throwback Thursday will resume.

Thanks for supporting EC.

July 4, 2020

Surprise Christmas in July Writing Contest!

It pays to follow EC, because unless you follow the site or me somehow, you won’t know about this writing opportunity! It will only be promoted here, on EC’s Facebook page, and on my Twitter account. My Twitter handle is @EnchantedConvo and my Facebook page is HERE. You will not find this one-time opportunity on sites like Duotrope or Ralan.

Here are the details:

I’m looking for Christmas stories and poems. Yes, poems are accepted only for this special issue. The publication date will be July 25. Yep, it’s Christmas in July!

The topic is Christmas, but St. Nicholas Day, Hanukkah and Winter Solstice are welcome as focal points as well. Even Krampusnacht is okay. If I’m missing another holiday that falls around that time (but is in December), just use it as a focus. You don’t need special permission.

Although angels/fairies are the theme for 2020, you do not need to include them as part of these submissions (but they are still the focal point for the rest of the year). You may if you wish to.

The poems can be of any length, but please be aware that super long poems and poems with fancy spacing are a poor idea. My platform doesn’t like them. The stories should be between 500-600 words. This is a flash fiction contest. Those are firm length requirements.

The submissions window opens at 12 a.m., EST, July 15, and closes at 11:59 p.m., EST, on July 17.

All other rules about submissions apply, except pay amounts. No exceptions. Find the rules HERE.

Pay will be $25 per story or poem. I will choose up to four. I might choose four poems or four stories or two of each. We’ll see.

I hope to see lots of submissions. I love Christmas!

Images are all vintage holiday cards.

July 1, 2020

The Lamp, by Marshall J. Moore

Editor’s note: This story intrigued me because of the narrator. Both compelling and unreliable, I felt myself wanting another story about this “genie.” I think it’s a great read to start EC fiction up again. Please do leave comments and insights below the story. I want to know what you all think.

I granted no wishes.

That is the first thing that needs to be said.

Yes, I held the powers of Creation in my hands. I have split atoms into their constituent parts, and have witnessed the formation of galaxies. I have served as midwife at the birth of new worlds and have brought about extinctions with the merest act of will. I exist eternally, within the rushing stream of Time but not beholden to it. I was before the universe began, and I will be after it ends.

Would I bend the cosmic forces of existence, merely to enhance the social standing and wealth of an urchin child? The thought would be laughable, were it not so fundamentally against my very nature.

No, I did not grant wishes—or at least, I did not reorder reality to do so. I merely imparted knowledge, which is the only true source of power.  And as a being who exists at once in present, past, and future, my knowledge is considerable. If the boy made use of what I told him to fulfill his own desires—his own wishes—then that was his doing, not mine.

Nor did I serve the boy out of some contractual obligation. There was no bargain struck in which I agreed to conditional servitude in exchange for an end to my imprisonment. Any kindness I did him was done out of simple gratitude, not a desire to relieve myself of the burden of my salvation.

For his part, the boy was never so cruel or imaginative as to consider himself my master. The worst crimes he was guilty of were greed—understandable, considering his extreme poverty—and of being a bit stupid.

At least, at first.

So, no. The three wishes are an embellishment, as is my alleged enslavement. That did not come until the end.

But there was a lamp.


It was a dark and dismal prison, as all prisons are. I suppose any such confinement that was comfortable and cheerfully lit would defeat the entire purpose of imprisonment. But even by the standards of such institutions, the confines of an oil lamp are, after all, quite cramped.

I am not a corporeal being. I inhabit Time only partially and can only experience Matter with a great deal of effort—save when I am forced to do so. Such was the case with the lamp.


The torchlight was not bright, but after over a millennium of confinement it felt like seeing the sun again for the first time—like when I had first danced upon the surface of the stars, delighting in the radiance of their endless fusion.

I emerged from my prison in a rush, my wings unfurling, my halo illuminating the dank dimness of the cave until the meager torch was hardly visible amidst the splendor. I rose to my full height, until my wing tips brushed the cavern roof. Only then did I notice the mortal youth who knelt at my feet, his mouth hanging open in an expression of equal parts abject horror and unabashed wonder. In his hands, nearly forgotten, was the accursed lamp.

He did not look like a monster. Not then.

I reached out for him, intending to thank him for my rescue, but he scrabbled back on all fours, lamp still clutched in his hand.

Ah. Right.

I am incapable of forgetting, but in my haste to escape my prison I had neglected the proper niceties. I shrank down until I was scarcely taller than a grown man, folding all four wings behind my back and dimming my halo until it became merely dazzling rather than blinding.

I stretched out a hand and told the boy, “Be not afraid.”

Yes, that was it. The proper form of introduction, accompanied by veiling of my cosmic form. Driving my rescuer to madness would be a poor thanks, and impolite to boot.

The boy stared. His clothes were threadbare and much-mended. I could see his ribs in the places where patches had given way to holes.

“You’re a genie,” he told me, his voice small.

“I am,” I agreed. My kind have been called many names by many peoples through the eons. Djinn, kami, Elohim. Names are immaterial to us, changing with the age and place we inhabit.

He looked me up and down, the fear draining from his face in favor of a shrewd calculation. It was the look of one who is forced to survive on their own cleverness, and must by necessity be willing to turn any situation to their advantage. Those who lived comfortably almost never possess it, while the impoverished nearly always do.

“They say genies grant wishes,” he ventured, the crafty gleam in his eyes growing with each word.

“Do they?” I asked, amused. “Perhaps we do. Let me guess. Money, power, the hand of a beautiful woman. All of those things you desire, yes?”

His brow furrowed in surprise. “How did you know?”

“One human is very much like another.” I shrugged. “I have inhabited this world since your people first began shaping river mud into clay. The first man who ever asked anything of me wanted a thousand ceramic pots, three wives, and to become chief of his tribe.”

“And did you give them to him?”

“I did. So, then. What is your wish, Master …?”

Understand, I meant “master” strictly in the sense of being an honorific for an adolescent.

“Aladdin,” he supplied.

“And what do I call you?”

“I have no name,” I told him. “Names are for things that do not know what they are.”

“But,” he frowned, “I must call you something.”

“‘Genie’ will do,” I told him. I looked around at our surroundings. The cave was cool and dry, and showed signs of a recent cave-in.

And there was gold. A great deal of it, scattered about the young man’s feet. I had been buried in a treasure hoard. How flattering.

“So,” I said. “Aladdin. It seems that wealth is already taken care of, though I see you have no place to spend it in this cave.”

“That problem had occurred to me as well,” he admitted. Still, he hesitated. “How many wishes am I allowed?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” I told him. “Simply tell me what you want, and I will advise you how to make it so.”

Aladdin frowned. “You cannot simply snap your fingers and it is done?”

“I could,” I said, “If you were to ask, say, that I transported us both from this cave, I could do so with the merest application of will. But I cannot promise that I would not send us both to the distant sands of the planet Mars, where there is no air. I would be fine of course, but you ...”

I waved a hand at his scrawny form. His face had grown noticeably paler.

“I think I see,” he said, wiping at his brow.

“If you require an analogy,” I told him, “think of it as performing brain surgery with a pair of pliers.”


“Never mind.” Occasionally I forget that the mortal mind is capable of occupying only its current location in time. What a limiting mode of existence that must be.

“For the good of yourself and others, I will not and cannot remake the world simply to suit your whims.”

Aladdin’s frown deepened. “Then how are we going to get out of this cave?”

“Because I do possess the only power that matters. Knowledge.” I pointed behind me, towards the back of the cave. “Go further in, keeping your right hand against the wall at all times. I will accompany you and guide you. Eventually you will reach a stream. Follow it, and it will lead you to the cave’s exit.”

I glanced about at the coins littering the floor. “Though if it is still wealth and riches that you desire, I suggest you fill your pockets first.”

“I will,” he said, then looked down at what he held in his hands. “And what of this?”

I looked down at the lamp.

“Leave it,” I told him.


As I have said, our relationship was not that of master and slave. I advised him, yes, but in the same way as a parent advises a child. None of that “to hear is to obey” nonsense.

My advice was good, as it always is. The stream led him out of the cave and into the remote desert. I stretched my wings, eager to take to the skies for the first time in many centuries. Flight is a joy that more than makes up for the indignities of being bound to the physical world.

So I flew, navigating the safest path back to his home, where I knew his mother waited anxiously for her lost son’s return. Aladdin followed below, earthbound like all mortals.

When he thirsted, he wished for water, and I would tell him where to find an oasis among the sands. When he hungered, he wished for food, and I would guide him to where the desert creatures slept in their daytime hiding places.

On the fifth day we reached the city where he lived. I watched, invisible, as Aladdin embraced his weeping mother. He showed her the coins he had obtained, and promised to buy her a good home with many servants.
Such greed was forgivable, I told myself. He is a poor boy who loves his mother. They are both entitled to some luxury after their hardship.

Aladdin was true to his word. He bought his mother a lavish home and dressed her in the finest linens. But when all was purchased, he had only a single coin left over from what he had taken from the cave.

“My mother and I cannot eat gold,” he complained to me.

“So buy food,” I told him.

“If I do, there will be no money left for us to buy tomorrow’s supper,” he said. Then he looked at me, the shrewd glint in his eye returning. “Unless you can make more money. Can you?”

“If you wish it,” I said, and I told him how to multiply his single gold coin.

Aladdin did as I advised. He borrowed enough to buy a caravan’s worth of silks and spices. Together he and I traveled to distant Byzantium, where he sold them for an astronomical profit. He returned to his mother’s house a rich man, freed from his debts.

But wealth does not beget satisfaction.


Perhaps if he had been more imaginative, the harm would have been less. A curious man might have asked me the secrets of the universe, to know what base elements matter was made from and what unseen force moved the stars across the heavens. But the simple man does not think past his own needs. Aladdin’s mind was focused only on his life and its pleasures.

And wealth. Ever more wealth. As a boy Aladdin had been content with the coins taken from the treasure cave, and afterwards with enough to give his mother a comfortable life. Now, as he grew tall and bearded, his heart became bound with golden shackles.

Dutifully, I told him what I knew. What goods would sell best in which markets. Which trade routes were safe and which were beset by bandits. What emir it was safe to ally himself with, and which shah would be overthrown by his viziers before he could honor his agreements.

And so Aladdin became one of the wealthiest men in the world, so wealthy that he became a friend of the sultan himself. In this, as in all things, I was his secret counselor, telling him the ways of the court, the proper etiquette to keep him from embarrassing himself in such distinguished company. And of course, how to conceal his lowly origin from the sultan and his courtiers.

All that fell by the wayside when he saw her, of course.

I had been correct in my estimation of him, that first day in the cave. When he caught sight of the sultan’s youngest daughter, Aladdin’s next wish was exactly what I had thought it might be.

So I told him what he asked me to know: how to seduce her with fine poetry and music and choice delights brought by his caravan from distant lands. The human heart is not a lock to be opened or closed, but I told him the words that might win hers, and my advice is always good. They were wed within the year.


But the avaricious man is never satisfied. He always seeks more than he has. Having known what it is to want, he lives his life in fear of being so vulnerable again.

Years passed. No longer content with merely being extravagantly rich, Aladdin wished to become powerful as well. I told him the secret to winning men’s hearts, to garnering loyalty and manipulating the levers of politics. By the time he was thirty, he had deposed his father-in-law the sultan and instilled himself as regent. By the time he was forty, he was sultan in name as well as fact.

Years became decades. I watched as Aladdin’s avarice consumed him, just as he consumed endless meals of rich delights. He ordered the construction of a splendid palace, larger and grander than that of the predecessor he had usurped. He filled his harem with fresh beauties, their youth and suppleness in direct proportion to his steadily advancing age. His wife, the sultan’s daughter, was cast aside with hardly a thought.

You may wonder why I watched all this happen, and did not simply leave, or, failing that, turn Aladdin and the palace he had built into a pile of ash.

I wonder myself, sometimes. Perhaps I hoped that some trace of the scrawny young boy who had released me from my imprisonment still remained.

As his middle grew fat and his beard grew white, Aladdin’s avarice gave way to fear. The poor see their enemies on the daylit streets; the rich see theirs in every shadow. He grew wary of assassins, suspected a knife hiding behind every smile in his court. He ordered his enemies imprisoned or killed, whether they were real or imaginary—and I knew which were which. He doubled the number of his palace guards, then tripled them. Then, fearing that their loyalties were suspect, he had them all executed.

He feared me too. I saw it in his eyes on the occasions he consulted me for advice, which were becoming fewer and further between. I was too powerful, too dangerous for him to allow me to fall into another’s hands.

I had seen the writing on the wall. I knew the future that awaited me as surely as I did the past. And yet I did not run from it. What would be the point? The future was set in stone.

He came for me at night, surrounded by better than twenty guards. I was not asleep, having no need for it, but he looked surprised to see me awake, all the same.

In his hands he held an old brass oil lamp.

My eyes met his. I felt no anger, only sadness. I had made the sly, simple orphan boy into the fat tyrant standing before me.

“I have one more wish,” he said.


Bio: Marshall J. Moore is a writer, filmmaker, and martial artist. He has traveled to over twenty countries, once sold a thousand dollars' worth of teapots to Jackie Chan, and on one occasion was tracked down by a bounty hunter for owing $300 in overdue fees to the L.A. Public Library.

June 29, 2020

Angel Card, 6-29-20

My original angel cards are still missing, but I dug  some old timey ones up in an old cupboard. They are guardian angel cards. They have a Victorian angel theme, which is perfect for this year of angels/fairies here at EC.

As I explored a while back, I’m only picking one card from here on out. And today’s card is ready to be revealed. The back of it is of a traditional child angel—very big in Victorian times. She seems a bit full of secrets to me, but maybe you see differently, which is part of the fun of looking at these Rorschach test-like cards.

The card face has an action kind of guy—a real old fashioned soldier looking like he’s ready to report for duty. He has a very “be prepared” vibe. You know he has a fantastic Swiss Army knife. I guess I see him as a reassuring doer of good deeds.

What does the handbook say? That there is a lot of work to be done, so make a plan and work a plan, fast. This is a card for folks who love action, have confidence and get the job done. A real multi tasker card.

This card seems like an indicator of exciting, fun times, but hard work will be needed, as will a positive attitude. What do you see?

Eager to send something short to EC for publication? A chance is coming up really soon. Look HERE.

June 26, 2020

Help Wanted at Enchanted Conversation

I want EC to grow this year, and into the future, but I don’t want to do it alone. I want to spend my time on picking stories and essays and art and finding ways to make Enchanted Conversation a magical place.

I need to create ways to make money from and for the site, but I don’t want to do the legwork for a Patreon campaign, and I don’t have the skills to do first-rate promotion. (Or even tenth rate promotion.) I also need someone to help me promote my Zazzle store.

So, if you are social media savvy, and can prove it, you’re the kind of person I’m looking for. To be more clear, here’s a list of duties:

Promoting the EC Page on Facebook, promoting EC @EnchantedConvo on Twitter, and creating and promoting an Instagram account for EC. I’m most interested in making the Facebook page happen fast. 

Creating and helping me get a private EC Facebook group going. 

Helping promote my Zazzle store. I’ll continue creating the products.

Helping me create and support a crowdfunding campaign. Duties will include helping me come up with and distributing rewards for support, promoting the campaign, and delivering rewards and thank you’s. (I’m not a fan of Patreon, but I realize I probably need it.)

When I’m stuck on what art to use or what stories or other works to use, I’ll need a sounding board, so an appreciation of folklore and fairy tales is essential.

Candidates should have a lot of comfort with Photoshop or something like it, and some CSS and html familiarity would be great.

This all may sound like a lot, but a person with energy and some internet savvy will find it fast, easy work. There might be times with more work, like when we’re getting a crowdfunding campaign off the ground, but other times will be very light.

Hours will vary, but assume roughly 10-15 hours per month. I can pay a $500 stipend—approximately $100 per month. For now, the duration of the position will be from late July-early August through the end of December, with the possibility of continuing if the arrangement suits us both. 

Please send me an email with your experience with social media, and, preferably, some experience with crowdfunding. Or a standard resume would be fine.

The email should be sent to, and addressed to me, Kate Wolford.

I’ll take application emails until the position is filled. I do hope someone would be interested!

Rapunzel’s Circle 2: Don’t Miss It!

There’s still time to join Rapunzel’s Circle 2: Through the Thorns, from the amazing, delightful Carterhaugh School of Folklore and the Fantastic. The first Rapunzel’s Circle is already over, and it was magical, but you don’t need to have taken it to take Circle 2. Learn all about Circle 2 HERE.

I absolutely loved Circle One. It was informative and creatively inspiring (we made things and wrote about the stories and built little altars in our homes). And I can’t emphasize enough how great the community is. If you, like me, are still self quarantining for the most part, then you’ll appreciate how easy it is to build community there. The people in the course were so curious, so friendly and creative, that I felt a strong sense of belonging. 

There’s even a special supplemental opportunity: The Fairy Godmother Experience, which I’m taking along with Circle 2. Since Brittany and Sara explain it way better than I can, check it out HERE.

Circle 2 starts Monday, June 29, so if you want to learn, immerse yourself in magic and make new e-friends, sign up fast. You can do the work at your own pace, and you will learn a ton! I gave it to myself as an early anniversary present from my husband. (Thank you, Honey!)

As a fairy tale publisher and a fairy tale fan, I can’t over recommend this course. I hope to see some of you in Rapunzel's Circle 2: Through the Thorns.