December 8, 2021

Which Witch, By Wendy Purcell

Editor’s note: The use of folk magic in this poem, along with its economy of words, paints a truly magical picture for the reader. And I love the twist at the end—you will, too!

You can keep witches from your door   

With two dead cats        

Underneath your floor.

To guard against witches’ evil looks

Press four leaf clovers

In a heavy book.

A better way to keep out ill        

Is a jar of broken pins

On the windowsill.

Both mistletoe and the rowan’s wood  

Will keep out the bad    

And in the good.

Add horseshoes nailed to the front porch posts

To give fair warning

To the devil’s hosts.

Then cross your fingers behind your back            

Throw salt past your shoulder

Don’t step on a crack.

Because you see it’s all their doing          

The still born calf             

The failed seed sowing.               

Behind the guise of midwife and nurse 

A witch works her evil   

And plants her curse.    

If you work these charms free of fear or doubt

God will dwell within

And the witch without.

Don’t dwell upon that disquieting glitch

That if your spells work

Then you’re the witch.


Bio: Wendy Purcell was a nurse, now she writes. Her short stories and poems have appeared in [Untitled], Braindrip, Unusual Works, Every Day Fiction, Vautrin and The Haibun Journal. She lives near Melbourne, Australia and is often in her garden that is both too big and yet never big enough.


Broken lock Image from Pixabay.

December 5, 2021

My Krampus Books

Hi Enchanted Friends:

Today is Krampusnacht, and if you are in the mood for some Tales of Krampus, I’ve got two books for you! 

Here’s the first one. 

And here’s the second one.

If you’ve never read these collections, please consider buying one or both. I think they are full of great stories, and every penny from their sales will help EC!

Stay Enchanted,


December 2, 2021

Throwback Thursday: Wolf at the Door, By D. Avery


The white wolf met her blue eyes
with its own. Without hesitation
the girl went with the wolf...
Editor's Note: The line between a girl's reality, and the dream of a mother she never knew, blur into an understanding beyond words in this lovely and lyrical Throwback Thursday tale by D. Avery. 
Once there was a girl who lived in a humble home with her father and her stepmother, a pair weathered gray no matter the season. The father and stepmother were doing the best they could. They loved the girl, but distracted by the sadness that steeped between them, did not have much time for her.

The father lived his life as an inadequate apology he struggled to articulate. He could not seem to think beyond a late fall day, so late it might already have slipped into winter with a quick, sharp intake of breath, the kind of fall day whose fallen leaves, brown and rotting at his feet, rebuked him for not having enough laid by, for not being enough; a crisp day whose first brittle snowflakes floated reminders of the death of his first wife. The best he could manage, even now, was to mutter that the wolf was always at the door. The girl knew about the wolf, for she had sometimes seen it lurking about, though when she looked for tracks there were none. But she was never troubled by the wolf and thrilled when it appeared. She did not tell her father and stepmother about her wolf sightings, just kept them to herself like a comforting recurring dream.

The stepmother knew she was the insufficient patch on cloth that, though not quite ripped, was threadbare and worn thin. She had hoped to be more to both the girl and the father. But when she tried to think of spring she could only imagine what it must be like to sink through the thick slush of the melting ice on the lake; a numbing cold, a dragging weight, the sinking shock of realizing the surface will not hold. In silent desperation she clung to her frosty husband.

And so these two, frail under their cloak of destitution and unspoken regrets, did not look up when the girl called out that she was going outside to play. They did not know that the girl had spied the white wolf through the window and had given in to her curiosity. But when the girl did not return by dusk, they were both deeply worried. 

The father bundled up and went out into the fading light, calling his daughter’s name. The wind had risen and fiercely pushed his desperate calls back at him. Sleety snow stung his cheeks like needles of grief. The snow thickened and fell faster, filling his tracks behind him. Searching was futile. He returned to the nervous stepmother while he still could. Snow and wind continued to conspire, entombing their small home. He picked at his latest failure while his second wife loyally tried to assuage his guilt.

After three days the storm finally ceased and sunlight danced on the deeply drifted snow outside. Inside, the father and stepmother were buried in feelings of hopelessness and despair. Their few neighbors joined in the search of the surrounding forest but no sign of the girl was found. Winter settled in around the devastated couple. During fitful sleep, they heard the howls of wolves echoing across the frozen lake.

The girl had gone out when she’d spied the wolf through the window. The storm had not yet begun and the white of the wolf’s fur stood in relief against the dark forest and gray sky. The wolf met her blue eyes with its own. Without hesitation the girl went with the wolf. They romped playfully until the wind and snow picked up. Then they sheltered in the wolf’s den, the girl feeling more at home than she’d ever felt before.

When the storm stopped the girl awakened warm and comfortable, snuggled against the white wolf. She was not at all surprised to see that she herself was a smaller version of this wolf. Just as before, words were said without speaking, and together they dug out into the winter starlight, to stand atop the deeply drifted snow. The girl saw that there was much to learn and she eagerly followed the mother wolf. They came upon some deer trapped in the yard they had stomped out for themselves in the deep snow. She saw that satisfying her own hunger brought some relief to the deer. She ate gratefully.

Night after night the girl wolf went hunting and exploring with the mother wolf. She marveled at just how bright a winter night could be, the night sky a pool she drank deeply from. Moonlight reflecting off the snow blinded her with joy, her delighted laughter coming out as a howl. The mother wolf joined her song with the girl wolf’s. They spent the winter together laughing and singing and enjoying one another’s company.

But as the nights grew shorter and the days grew longer, as the snow became granular and soft underfoot, the mother wolf became serious. Just as the girl had not been surprised to become a wolf, she was not surprised when the wolf mother appeared as her own human mother. Still they spoke without words. Her mother told her how much she had enjoyed spending time with the daughter she missed so much. But their time was coming to a close. The girl thanked her mother for showing her winter’s beauty. She knew that now she would forever see the beauty of both light and dark that any season held. That night when the temperatures dropped they ran together once more across the crusted snow. At dawn the mother wolf trotted silently north, leaving no tracks. The thawing ice of the lake held the girl wolf’s easy weight as she crossed, headed east towards the home of her father and stepmother.

Her stepmother was at the lakeshore testing the edge when she saw the little wolf coming across towards her. She hurried back to the house to tell her husband. He went outside to see the wolf but instead found his daughter, healthy and happy, her smile as bright as a spring day. The morning sun brushed the forested hills across the lake as the girl embraced her father and stepmother. Melting ice on the eaves dripped a steady beat. Don’t be sorry she told them. Don’t be sorry. We’ll keep doing the best we can.

D. Avery blogs at SHIFTNSHAKE, where she pours flash fiction and shots of poetry for online sampling. She is the author of two books of poems, Chicken Shift and For the Girls. Her latest release, AFTER EVER; LITTLE STORIES FOR GROWN CHILDREN, is a collection of flash and short fiction. D. Avery tweets ‪‪@DAVERYSHIFTN‪‪.  

Cover: Amanda Bergloff @AMANDABERGLOFF

November 30, 2021

The Word, The Wolf, and the Magic Mirror, By Liz Bragdon

Editor’s note: The wild, prose-poem imagery of this work grabbed me with its teeming, excited, magical, fevered language and pace. It both exhorts and exalts.


To the language that requires no ears to hear with, no vowels, consonants, diphthongs, declensions, or twisting acrobatics of the teeth and tongue. 

Consider the bowed willow and the bottomless well, the rusted gate, the creeping rot in the castle walls, the fork in the road, the broom on the hearth, black crow, drop of blood, wolf, thorn, snake, shooting star, moon and sun. 

In daylight we are deaf to portents, blind to treasure. In dreams we dance with them from midnight til dawn, forgetting our shoes and ourselves, bloodying our toes without a care for the doctor’s bill. The kingdom of dreams is a forest glutted with soul’s gold, thick as porridge in a hungry bear’s bowl. Here, all the falls you take never end. Here, every path is winding (in on itself, ouroboros).

Until you wake up with a jerk, a thump, a snap of the blinds rolling up (eyelids) as the bleating alarm rollercoasters through your ear whorls. Tiger tiger burning bright in the forests of the night stares with sad cartoon eyes from the cereal box. Every bottle at the table beckons, "Drink Me,” and every day you reach for the bitterest potion of them all. Wonderland weeps while you dig Mr. Sandman’s crusty gifts from your dry eyes and brush your teeth.

Every day you take the highway most traveled by in the forest-less kingdom to which you banished yourself in search of the prince(ss), the cure, the shiniest object (so many you cannot recall). Here, everyone has a magic mirror; here, we devour all the pretty red apples, every gingerbread treat. Can’t Stop, Won’t Stop. The Hustle is Real. The magic mirror shows all and comes with an iron-clad pinky swear promise that it does not lie (read the fine print: it sells dreams, my dear, for a very steep price).


In the tower overgrown with sleeping briar roses, the child you once upon a time were wonders when you’ll stop following crumbs and pills and climb out of the oven. Can’t you see all of the bones? Are you blind?

Are we better off awake or asleep? Some say we are asleep—we need to wake up. Be Woke. Woke AF. It’s on t-shirts, in memes. Wake up from the dream! Or if you must dream, Dream Big! Dream Better! Need help? Consult the magic mirror for more great tips! 

You have a dream.

You are seated at a dinner table, honored guest. There is no silverware. You panic. Everyone at the table is a stranger, except the janitor from your elementary school. They are hungry, but they cannot eat until you begin. The feast steams impatiently on silver plates. Anxiety squeezes your guts. Do you eat with your hands or ask for a fork and a knife? Or do you run? Your legs are rusted tin, your head withered straw. You dig in your pockets for courage—there is none.

For a moment, the veil lifts. In that magical realm between asleep and awake, choices can be made. Unlock the forbidden door, trade your cow for the magic beans, grab that oil can to your right, next to the roast beef.

You hesitate.


The alarm roars. You wake and forget.

You forget the language of the most tender, loving tongue hiding in plain sight, breathing endless buoyant ribbons of wordless tales to tilt the trees, wave the grass, sing the birds, churn the waters, flame the fire, and strike the blossom up through the strip mall parking lot. Pluck it. And with a swish-flourish-slash cut away the strangling briar hedge and set all of the sleepy prisoners free. Huzzah!  In this wondrous Imaginarium, this universe-kaleidoscope, this endless rollicking play—you, too, are the wordless words. Can you hear you? Close your eyes, click your heels three times and whisper:

“I am infinite possibility.”


In my house there’s a wolf who lives like a dog, but has not forgotten he’s a wolf. He reminds me with his hunting slink, his howl and growling over a bone. He prowls the kitchen and delights the daycare children down the street. “Wolf!” they shout with glee and point and laugh and waggle their fingers, reaching through the fence to touch his wet black nose and weave small hands into his cool gray fur. They know what they see when they see it. They have ears to hear with, eyes to see with, noses to smell with, and teeth to eat with. No ovens for them. No crumbs and stale candy houses. No magic mirror tricks. They choose the wolf.

As do I. Trip trap typing on my magic mirror I conjure the words from each precious heart thud spiraling rosy life through my 60,000 miles of winding arteries, veins, and capillaries (and back again). Ferocious and tender love for the woods and the path, for the wild wolf and the wild child overflow this electric tangle of space and flesh, blood and bone, constellations and stories. Words, thoughts, firecracker synapses unravel in an endless river of poppies, poppies, poppies red as my hood, red as my blood from the finger I pricked on the endless spinning wheel on this spinning rock in a spinning galaxy of stars—I dream.

Listen. The clock is striking twelve, final as the blow of the huntsman’s axe, transformative as a kiss.

Run. Feel the moss and flowers kiss your bare feet in welcome and relief. Ahead, an ancient hut dances round in circles on wizened chicken legs and throws open the front door. On the hearth, fast asleep, the wolf dreams of grandmothers and rabbits.  The skulls on the rusty iron gate douse their light, for the dawn rider is already thundering by. The path is clear before you and the morning here is soft and sacred, touched everywhere by gentle gold. 

You are home, dreamer, weaver of stories woven in dreams.




Bio: Liz is a Movement Educator and Storyteller. In her Louisiana studio, she helps folks create healthier movement stories to live by. Beyond the studio, she reimagines folk and fairy tales, mixes them with creative movement, and shares them with children through her “Tales with a Twist: Stories That Move!” programs.


Image by Pixabay.

November 29, 2021

The Dreamkeeper, By Alex Otto

Editor’s note: The power of dreams and the obsessive devotion of a mother made this story ring true to me. There is sadness and grace in this powerful story.

The broken-winged moth stumbled into my mason jar like a drunkard, its left wing torn like the paper scraps I used for writing shopping lists: baby formula for James, half-price turkey, dandelion greens. I set the jar on the cabin windowsill facing the petunias so I could pretend the moth would fly back home.

Later when I saw my baby boy slumping in bed, I thought of that moth: the flap of a single wing against glass, shards of moonlight illuminating its legs, the clear glass both a promise and a prison.


The doctors ran tests.

Ventricular septal defect. A hole in his heart. We’ll waitlist him for surgery. No guarantees. I brought James home and watched him. When his lips blued and his breath shallowed, I clutched him in his dot-patterned baby blanket and kissed his dandelion-fuzz hair, fearing it would be the last time.

The night winds whispered to the blue moon. 

Before she passed, Grandma Rose had rocked with me on the porch swing and told me that blue moons attract Dreamkeepers, healers with hands the color of dried blood and hair made of milkweed blossoms. I thought they were a myth that people blanketed themselves with when the world grew too cold, until the Dreamkeeper appeared at my moonlit window. Metallic silver revealed her in streaks like a Polaroid picture developing.

It doesn’t have to be this way, the Dreamkeeper said gently.

Do you know what it’s like to lose a son? I asked.

I’ve never had a child. She stroked a half-heart birthmark on her cheek. But yours can grow up in your dreams.

When I saw my boy’s body crumpling, like that moth in the jar, I didn’t ask the price. I just said yes.

Word spread that James was gone. The townspeople brought potato casseroles and whispered about funeral arrangements.

Cremation, I lied. I couldn’t tell them I had handed my son to the Dreamkeeper before he could take a last breath. I nodded politely from the doorway, my unbrushed hair like wild vines. 

Then I shooed them away so I could sleep.

James’s bunny rattle jangled in my mind as I drank chamomile tea. Soon, the wood-paneled bedroom walls dissolved into the gray mist of dreams. I heard James’s cries before I saw him resting in his oaken cradle in our shared bedroom. His tiny breaths warmed my palm as I stroked his cheek.

 Hush. Mama’s here. I placed a hand on his chest, hoping my warmth filled the hole in his heart. I shook that bunny rattle, the one Papa had wrapped in jackrabbit fur. James kept his eyes closed, and his cries calmed into the steady noiselessness of things that flourished as we both slept.

In my dreams, James lived and grew just like the Dreamkeeper had promised. Once, I woke with sore fingertips from soothing the nub of his first tooth breaking through. Chickadees outside the window cawed along with his murmurs. I wondered what songs and whispers he heard when I wasn’t there. 

Another night, golden dreamlight suffused the cradle. The light danced and James laughed from the alphabet carpet on the floor. He curled his lips and murmured.

Mmmm. Ma. Mama.

His first word. My heart full, I gazed at him. But James stared past me, his eyes seeking something beyond. I turned and ran to the rough-hewn window frame. I searched the hollow night air for answers. I was only in his world when I dreamt. I needed a way to help him remember me. 

The next time I drifted into dreams, I envisioned Papa’s old Polaroid camera. I held its image firm in my mind until it appeared on the bedside table. I would take pictures of us and leave them in his world. In the first picture, the two of us nestled in front of the window. It developed slowly, the shapes coming into focus one at a time.

James smiling, turning and stretching toward the window.

Blood-red hands.

Milkweed blossoms for hair.

The Dreamkeeper stroking James’s dandelion-fuzz.

Her words rushed back to me.  I’ve never had a child.

At dawn, my fingers combed the chill air, grasping for him, reaching nothing. I paced the creaking floorboards into a distorted lullaby. Sorrow drenched me, beckoning me to return to my dreams. Beside my bed, the trapped moth dipped a leg into a moonbeam. Blue moonlight always attracted moths. And Dreamkeepers. I picked up that mason jar, clasping it like a lucky rabbit’s foot. I would use it to trap that false mother, the Dreamkeeper, hoping her dream-mist form would slip inside like rainwater.

I slipped into a hazy morning dream, envisioning the jar in my hand.


The Dreamkeeper spun him in a dance, cupped sunlight in her hands and offered it to him to drink. His laughter kept time for their songless waltz. 

The townspeople’s voices cut into the dream.

She’s still mourning. Sleeping.

James shrieked at the clang of dishes they set on my doorstep. The echoes of my world were leaking into our dream world.

A hole in his heart. He couldn’t make it. She needs to let him go.  

The wind flapped like that torn wing against glass, struggling for freedom. I studied the Dreamkeeper. She smiled as James’s chubby finger stroked the half-heart on her cheek as if fingerpainting it to completion. James would grow up hearing the wind swish through milkweed blossoms, dancing until dizzy with a mother’s love. He would heal. So would I.

I set down the mason jar. There was no need for capture. Just release.

It didn’t matter that she was happy.

He was.

I bent toward his head and kissed his dandelion-fuzz hair until my lips grew numb. I shook the jackrabbit fur rattle. It thumped like a weak heart: damaged but alive. The Dreamkeeper pressed a milkweed blossom into my hand, our fingers meeting briefly on its petals.

Then I let go.


Bio: Alexandra Otto writes flash fiction and short screenplays. She has just completed her first novel. When she is not writing, she can be found outsmarting the largest bears in the world in southcentral Alaska. Twitter: @alexottowrites


This story was brought to you by Judy Lunsford, a Patreon patron. We need as many patrons as possible, so please consider giving—learn more here.


Image by Pixabay.

November 27, 2021

Beyond the Castle: Beauty & The Beast On Film, By Amanda Bergloff


"Oh, Beast, how you frightened me!" she cried.
"I never knew how much I loved you until
just now, when I feared I was too late
to save your life."
"Can you really love such an ugly creature
as I am?" asked the Beast faintly.

Out of all the fairy tales I've read, "Beauty and the Beast" is my favorite because at its core, the theme that outward appearances can be deceiving...and that one's heart can grow and change when love and understanding come into play is a timeless one. Beauty and her beast can be set in any time period and can work beyond any castle walls.

Many anthropologists believe that the story of B&B has roots going back over 4,000 years, since elements of the tale appear in many cultures- among them, the Greek myth, Cupid and Psyche, where Psyche is transported to a magical palace and not allowed to see Cupid's true form, all the while attended to by invisible servants.

The original print version in western culture of B&B is credited to French author, Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve, and was included in the story collection called, The Young American or Tales from the Sea, in 1740. (You can read Villeneuve's original story HERE.) However, in 1756, Villeneuve's rather lengthy tale was abridged, rewritten, and published by Jeanne-Marie Leprince de Beaumont in Magasin des Enfants, thus creating the version of B&B that is most commonly known and retold.

From a personal standpoint, every good Beauty and the Beast interpretation makes me cry in the end. Every. Single. Time.

So below, I've picked out eight adaptations of this classic tale in film, animation, and TV. If you're looking for more, you can find a list of B&B films HERE.

And share your favorite versions of this timeless tale in the comments section. We'd love to hear from you!
La Belle et la BĂȘte 
Written by: Jean Cocteau
Directed by: Jean Cocteau
Starring: Jean Marais, Josette Day
This 1946 film from France is a real fan favorite whenever I take a poll of Beauty & the Beast movies on #FairyTaleTuesday. Stunning in black and white, this artistic re-telling of B&B blends Cocteau's interesting direction with surrealist imagery, magical special effects, and beautiful performances by the lead actors. This is the gold standard for fairy tale films of all kinds.
Click below to watch the full film:
La Belle et la BĂȘte 
Written by: Sandra Vo-Anh, Christophe Gans
Directed by: Christophe Gans
Starring: Lea Seydoux, Vincent Cassel
Another French adaptation, this 2014 film is visually stunning with its sumptuous costumes, settings, and scenery, that also blends the B&B tale with surrealistic touches. Lea Seydoux (Belle) and Vincent Cassel (Beast) give multi-layered performances that take the audience on the journey from fear and selfishness to courage, love, and redemption. A beautiful film well worth seeing for any B&B fan.
Click below to watch the "dark waltz" scene:
Written by: Sergey Aksakov
Directed by: Lev Atamanov
Starring: Nina Krachkovskaya, Mikhail Astangov
This Russian version of B&B, from 1957, is an example of the Socialist Realism period in Russian animation which focused on adapting traditional Russian folk tales. The film also used the animation technique known as rotoscoping, where live actors and animals were filmed first and then traced by the animators, resulting in exceptional animation. A wonderful movie everyone will love, which shows the traditional fairy tale from a Russian point of view.
Click below to watch the full film:
Written by: Linda Woolverton, Brenda Chapman, Chris Sanders
Directed by: Gary Trousdale, Kirk Wise
Starring: Paige O'Hara, Robbie Benson, Angela Lansbury
Probably the most famous animated take on Beauty and the Beast, this musical Disney version was the first animated movie to be nominated for an Academy Award for Best Picture in 1991. In this film, the message of "don't judge a book by its cover" is both figurative and literal, as Belle's love of reading and books is a strong plot point. I mean, who wouldn't want an entire castle library gifted to them by a good-hearted Beast? Enjoyable, fun, and ultimately moving, this B&B take is magical, indeed.
Click below to watch the "library surprise" scene:
And of course, we have to mention the live action re-make of this animated film, starring Emma Watson and Dan Stevens,
so click below to watch the official trailer:
(1987 - 1990)
Created by: Ron Koslow
Starring: Linda Hamilton, Ron Perlman, Roy Dotrice
Did you know there was a television series in the late eighties that set B&B in modern day New York? This American fantasy/drama series had the Beast ("Vincent" Ron Perlman) living in a secret subterranean community of social outcasts while Beauty ("Catherine" Linda Hamilton) was an Assistant District Attorney whose life was saved by Vincent. Sound strange? Well, maybe, but this series gained TV cult status for mixing a modern day romantic love story with a procedural crime drama twist, along with the fairy tale-like chemistry between Perlman and Hamilton.
"...for we have a bond, stronger than friendship or love, and although we cannot be together, we will never, ever be apart..." says it all.
Click below to watch the opening credits to the show:
Shelley Duvall's Faerie Tale Theatre
Written by: Robert C. Jones
Directed by: Roger Vadim
Starring: Susan Sarandon, Klaus Kinski, Anjelica Huston
In 1982, Shelley Duvall created Faerie Tale Theatre which was an American live-action fairy tale anthology series that featured prominent actors and directors of the time. Originally airing on Showtime, this series introduced a generation of kids to fairy tales that they could watch again and again on tape when it was released on VHS. The "Beauty and the Beast" episode was a straightforward re-telling of the fairy tale that starred Susan Sarandon as Beauty, Klaus Kinski as the Beast and was directed by renowned French film director, Roger Vadim. This version was the only Faerie Tale Theatre episode to be shot on video for the interior shots and on 35mm film for the exterior and location scenes. Actor Klaus Kinski agreed to play the Beast in this version because he was a fan of the 1946 Cocteau B&B film. Kinski's costume and makeup in this episode were inspired by that film, also.
Click below to watch the full episode:
Written by: Ted Elliott, Terry Rossio (based on the book by William Steig)
Directed by: Andrew Adamson, Vicky Jenson
Starring: Mike Meyers, Cameron Diaz, Eddie Murphy
Yes, Shrek....While this film features many fairy tale character mash-ups, at its heart, it's a Beauty and the Beast story. Like its "layers of onions" analogy, this movie makes you reconsider what beauty really is...the beast discovers his heart...the beauty changes to a beast...and they both save each other. Cue the laughter and tears.
Click below for the scene where Shrek & Fiona start to appreciate one another:
Written by: Deborah Moggach (based on the book by Jane Austin)
Directed by: Joe Wright
Starring: Keira Knightley, Matthew Macfadyen, Donald Sutherland
Again, another story with a B&B sentiment at its core. Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennett do the delicate dance of misunderstanding and indignation, all on the path to transformation. Mr. Darcy is considered "beastly" by Elizabeth, but he realizes earlier than she does, that beyond all reason, she has inspired him to find his heart, and he needs her love. Best of all though, they both ultimately transform each other in this adaptation of Jane Austen's novel. I am such a fan of this film, and it passes my B&B test of making me cry at the end. Every. Single. Time.
Click below to watch their mutual transformation scene:
to inspire your own
Beauty & the Beast tale...
And Beauties everywhere 
and their Beasts 
lived happily ever after...
Enchanted Conversation's contributing editor, Amanda Bergloff, writes modern fairy tales, folktales, and speculative fiction. Her work has appeared in various anthologies, including Frozen Fairy Tales, After the Happily Ever After, and Uncommon Pet Tales.
Follow her on Twitter @AmandaBergloff
Check out her Amazon Author page HERE
Join her every Tuesday on Twitter for #FairyTaleTuesday to share what you love about fairy tales, folktales, and myths.
Also, if you like sharing your #vss fairy tales on Twitter, follow @fairytaleflash and use #fairytaleflash so we can retweet!

Cover & Layout: Amanda Bergloff