Search Results

We are pleased to announce the winners of our annual writing contest. In poetry, they are: Lauren Reynolds: “Find Your Voice,” first prize Deborah Sage: “Ladies of the Dance,” honorable mention  Marcia. A Sherman: “A Price Far Above Rubies,” honorable mention  In prose, they are: Katie Jordan: “A Wishing Star,” first prize Lynden Wade: “Little Trembling,” honorable mention  Steve Aultman: “When Rumpy Met Sally,” honorable mention Congratulations to them, and thanks to all who submitted! The fees we received will be put to good use. We are very proud to be publishing these works on our site in November.

There once was a child with golden hair, Who grew up strange and wild and free, In the hands of the fairy queen's tender care, Where reeds play tunes and secrets be. She drank dew straight from petal's lips, And spun and danced in the moon's bright beam, flowers adorned her hair and hips, Though she was troubled by a single dream. On midsummer's day of her sixteenth year, As the fires rose high in bundles of twine, While the fay reveled with zest and cheer, She turned and said; "mother of mine. How can it be my ears are round, My feet a pointed shape do lack, Instead of green, my eyes are browned, And wings don't lie upon my back." The fairy queen then stroked her hair, And told her; "child, let it bother you not, After all I've done it would only be fair, For you to abandon this train of thought. I saved you from the clutches of, A plain and dull and mundane life, If still you do not believe me, love, Tomorrow I'll show you the cause of this strife." True to her word the vain queen took her, To the land hidden behind the rift, As midnight struck, humans she showed her, Living their lives mundane and swift. "If not for me you would share their fate," The queen explained to the changeling girl, And she led her back through fairy's gate, To dance and sing and laugh and twirl. The queen thought she could now forget, But the changeling girl would not be sated, She dreamed of humans to be met, Every day for midnight to come she waited. Then she'd creep to where the lands did meet, To search far and wide until she found, A human with pointed ears and feet, The one to which her fate was bound. For near a year at midnight she rose, To watch the changed one in plain clothes clad, Hidden deep in mooncast shadows, She gazed at the life she should have had. After some time she decided she'd rather, Stay where the fay played their merry tune, Still she returned to watch other, Who in a life not hers was strewn. Midsummer came again with all its might, And the girl once more crept through the veil, But the midsummer midnight sun shone bright, With no moon to hide her, her face turned pale. For the changed one stood there and started at her other, "You've been watching me," she said, her green eyes bright, "You suffer," said the one raised by the fairy mother, and told her the tale of their birth night. The fairy told the girl to take her place, To be accepted by the humans as she never was, So she could live with the fairy race, That had given her up without good cause. But the human girl shook her head, A sly fairy glint played in her eyes, As she said; "Why should I go in your stead, When we both can enjoy the faerie's cries?" So changelings returned to the land of fey, To dance around the fairy glen, And there they live to this very day, Never to return to the land of men.  Aliza Faber loves reading, writing and anything to do with fairy tales. She has written several times for FTM. This post originally ran in 2017. Image is “The Birth of a Fairy,” by John Anster Fitzgerald.

Fans of detective stories and faerie fiction can rejoice because Rebecca Buchanan has effectively joined these two classic modes in her historical/gaslamp fantasy novelette, The Adventures of the Faerie Coffin . This entertaining tale opens as Mary Morstan, a young governess and recent fiancé of Sherlock Holmes’ friend and partner Dr. Watson, travels to her former school in Edinburgh to investigate a series of strange occurrences. Although Mary effectively hides the tools of her trade beneath her needlework, she is a talented witch suited to uncovering the mystery behind the faerie who is terrorizing the students and teachers at Frazier Academy. Mary soon finds herself being followed by none other than the famous detective Sherlock Holmes who wants to find out exactly what makes his closest friend’s fiancé so extraordinary. The intellectual chemistry between Morstan and Holmes sparkles on the page, and I thoroughly enjoyed watching their relationship develop over the course of their adventure. Buchanan stays true to Holmes’ traditional quirks while adding complex layers to his personality, and fans of Arthur Conan Doyle’s original series will enjoy this new installment. In addition to entertaining protagonists, Buchanan paints an enticing Gothic setting in her novelette, allowing readers to lurk through Frazier Academy’s hidden passageways as they meet its colorful teaching staff. Books, gargoyles, and faerie lore permeate the text which is riveting enough to consume in one sitting and layered enough to enjoy in small bites. I hope there will be more Morstan and Holmes stories to come! I loved it! You can find the novelette here . You can listen to it at Podcastle . Kelly Jarvis works as the Assistant Editor for The Fairy Tale Magazine where she writes stories, poems, essays, book reviews, and interviews. Her poetry has also been featured or is forthcoming in Blue Heron Review , Mermaids Monthly , Eternal Haunted Summer, Forget Me Not Press, The Magic of Us, A Moon of One’s Own, Baseball Bard , and Corvid Queen.  Her short fiction has appeared in The Chamber Magazine  and the World Weaver Press Anthology Mothers of Enchantment: New Tales of Fairy Godmothers . You can find her at https://kellyjarviswriter.com/

Summer’s really not my favorite time of year, but one thing I do love about it is proper summer tomatoes. You know, the kind you get from roadside stands (or, if you’re industrious enough, your own garden). One recipe I make over and over this time of year is one my family calls Gazpacho Salad. I’m not sure where the idea of this particular grouping of chopped veggies came from, but we added one of our favorite dressings, and it’s the perfect thing to use up pretty much any combination of summer produce we’ve got. It’s extremely versatile and delicious. And did I mention easy? Summer Gazpacho Salad   Chopped vegetables—use equal amounts or your preference: Tomatoes (make sure you add any juice from the cutting board to mingle in the bowl with the dressing) Cucumber (peeled or not) Onion (if you find the taste too strong, soak in cold water for 10 minutes before draining and adding) Bell pepper (any color or mix of colors)   Dressing: 1/3 cup Canola Oil 3 T. Red Wine Vinegar 1 T. Sugar 1 t. Salt 1/3 t. Pepper   Mix the chopped vegetables, then add dressing to taste (usually I end up with leftover dressing to stash in the fridge until next time—which won’t be long).   Feel free to get creative. Have some leftover corn on the cob? Cut it off and toss it in. Want to add some protein? Throw in a can of beans or some cheese. You could even make it with just the tomatoes and some chopped peaches or watermelon. Or add your favorite herbs or spices. This recipe is super forgiving. Give it a try with the fresh summer veggies while they last! Lissa Sloan is the author of Glass and Feathers, a transformational continuation of the traditional Cinderella tale. Her fairy tale poems and short stories have appeared in The Fairy Tale Magazine, Niteblade Magazine, Corvid Queen, Three Ravens Podcast, and anthologies from World Weaver Press. Visit Lissa online at lissasloan.com , or connect on Facebook, Instagram, @lissa_sloan, or Twitter, @LissaSloan.

Editor’s Note: This is a dark and powerful story for a hot summer’s day or a cold winter’s night. It was first published in 2019 . This was not the first winter of the wolf. I know the history of our dark times, of our hunger ... The village was hungry. It was deep winter, and stores were low. The harvest had not been as bountiful as hoped in any case. The wolves were getting bolder, too. Sheep were carried off, and then a little girl went missing. Illness followed the hunger, and slowly we were all succumbing to starvation or cold or fever. The ground was too hard to dig, so the dead were laid in coffins behind the church. This brought more wolves. We might not have lasted to spring. As the death toll climbed, the remaining villagers gathered in the church. We would send the young and strongest in pairs in each direction, to find help if they could. This depleted us further, of their youth and strength, and of the scant provisions we sent with them for the journey. They set out early and quickly disappeared from view. "Will they come back?" my husband asked. "I wouldn't," I answered. This was not the first winter of the wolf we had come through, and the villagers remembered the stories. My grandmother had been midwife for as long as she lived, and now that duty fell to me, along with the other necessary things. I know the history of our survival, of our dark times, of our hunger. Those stories were also passed to me of where to go, what to collect, when to sacrifice. I could see the desperation in the eyes of those around me, I shared their hunger and their fear. One mother's eyes were dead as she mindlessly stroked the hair of a child. She wouldn't last the week if nothing changed. "What else can we do?" one woman asked me breathlessly. She meant, "Tell us what must be done." I demurred, and shook my head. "We wait. We pray." A man stepped forward, "Our traps are empty!" His voice was sharp. "The hunters return empty-handed, there is nothing in these woods but wolves, and they hunt us!" "Yes, tell us what to do," a younger man joined in, "Or else we are lost." "You know what this entails," I said, shrinking into myself, feeling the resistance tighten in my chest. "This isn't something to take lightly." "Lightly!" the first man yelled. The others jumped at the sound. He lowered his voice, leaning close to me. I could see the tears standing in his eyes, "Better to lose one, than not any survive." The mother with the dead eyes roused herself, rubbed her temple with chapped fingers. "It is time, midwife. I remember the story. Make the count." "Make the count," the breathless woman echoed, and the others repeated it. Make the count. It was their will. It was mine, too. "Send me the children," I said, and I walked out into the cold and back to my own home. They started to arrive soon after. My husband asked no questions, just directed the children to the fireside. When they were all gathered, I counted them up. The greatest number of boys were aged ten, and the girls were aged four. I sent the other children back home, pulled broom straws, and held one hand to the boys and one to the girls. They each drew. "Who has the short straws?" I asked. A boy with dark hair that flopped into his eyes, and a small girl with golden curls held up their luck. I sent the others home. I felt ill. My husband busied himself building up the fire. I pulled the children into my arms and tried to push what strength and protection I could offer into them. Then I let them go and forced myself to smile. "You've been chosen to save our village," I explained. "We're going on a journey, and you'll have to be very brave. But first you'll eat." There was a knock at the door and my neighbors began to arrive, each bearing a dish of whatever provisions remained to them. We spread the table, and they each left in turn, some pausing to stroke the children's hair, or press some small gift into their hands. Some did not acknowledge them at all. It was easier that way, they had lost so much already. "Eat," I said, helping the children to fill their plates. "This is for us?" the boy asked. I nodded. "Eat as much as you like." I settled them both at the table, then went to the corner where my chest was. I pulled out extra cloaks and blankets, and from my midwifery supplies, two small, sharp blades. "Are we going like the others did?" the boy asked, "To get help?" "Something like that," I answered. The little girl held up her plate, her face smeared with food. I wiped her cheeks and chin clean and gave her a second portion. Once they were fed and full, I tucked them into bed, and went to sit beside the fire with my husband. "It's for the best," he said after a long while. We didn't sleep that night. In the morning, I packed up the last of the food. We walked a long way, deep into the forest. We stopped to eat at midday. I fed the children well, and my husband and I took only what we needed to continue. The little girl grew tired and my husband carried her while she slept on his shoulder. Eventually, we came to the place I sought. The trees opened up in a circular clearing, and stones marked out another circle within. It felt warmer here. I took the children's hands and brought them to the center of the circle. "This is where you must be brave," I said. "This is where you will save the village." "What do we do?" the boy asked, and the little girl began to cry. "You just sit." I made a pallet of blankets and bundled them together. "Just close your eyes," I said. I kissed each small head. I set the blades on either side of them as I'd been taught, and I walked away. I reached the treeline and began quickly back up the path. My husband lingered behind, watching the children for a moment longer. "We can't wait here," I said. "I just... I don't want to forget..." he said, but turned and followed after me. I put my hand on his arm and moved him to walk in front of me. "Are you leaving us?" I heard the boy's voice. It was at a distance, he was staying in the circle. He was a good boy. "Don't leave us!" The little girl screamed her protest, cried for her mother. My husband's shoulders shook, but he made no sound. We walked away. Then I heard the thing described to me by my grandmother; a thing I had never convinced myself wasn't a tale just to frighten me as a child. It was a voice, ancient, like cracking ice and swaying tree branches. "Children," it said. That was all. Yet terror gripped me and turned to ice in my veins. I clutched my husband's arm and swallowed to wet my dry throat. "Come," I breathed, "Come away. Quickly." We returned more quickly than we had gone. It was easier with only two of us, and we knew that when night fell we would be easy prey for the wolves if we were outside. When we broke through the trees, we ran. The village seemed abandoned after that. The last of our food had been given to our small saviors, and no one wanted see who was missing. There were so many gone already. After two more days a buck walked into the middle of the village. It was taken down swiftly, and the whole village came out into the square. We butchered the meat. We feasted. We celebrated. We ate, and for the first time in long months, were not hungry. We nursed our ill, and a hunting party found more of the herd. In another week, maybe two, two of the young couples returned with supplies. We would survive this winter. I returned to the clearing after that, once I knew we would make it to spring, and the blankets were folded in a neat pile, with my blades on top. There was nothing else. The only disruption in the snow was made by my own footprints. I collected my things and carried them home. As I laid them back in the chest, I found a golden hair tangled in the fibers of a blanket. We would survive this winter. When the ground thawed, we would bury our dead. In the spring, the priest would come through, and we would have him say a blessing. We wouldn't mention the children. Not ever. But I am the one who keeps our history. I am the one who remembers their names. Kiyomi Appleton Gaines  is a writer of fairy tales and other fantastical things. She lives in New Orleans with her husband, a one-eyed cat, and a snake. Her writing can be found at  workofheartkag.wordpress.com .

The Bookstore Wedding  is the second short story in Alice Hoffman’s The Once Upon a Time Bookshop series (following The Bookstore Sisters ). Although I read the two stories in order and can’t wait for the February 2025 release of the third story ( The Bookstore Keepers ), each edition can stand alone, so you can enjoy the stories one by one or even out of order. The series is a must-read for everyone who appreciates reading, baking, romance, family love, and a touch of magic. The series follows two sisters, Isabel Gibson, who returns to her hometown in Maine after a self-imposed exile of almost twenty-two years, and her older sister Sophie, who runs their family bookstore and bakeshop in the wake of their parents’ deaths. In The Bookstore Sisters , it is Sophie’s teenage daughter who reaches out to her aunt for help when the bookstore is struggling, and in The Bookstore Wedding , Isabel and her fiancé Jack, an island ferryman and the long lost love of Isabel’s life, try to plan their wedding after five years of delay due to family emergencies and circumstances. The Bookstore Wedding  also offers romantic promise for Sophie whose husband Matt drowned when she was eight months pregnant with their daughter, and who is facing a difficult medical prognosis, the same one that took her mother's life when the two sisters were children. The Once Upon a Time Bookshop  series is about more than romantic love, and Hoffman takes readers on a lovely journey through the sisters’ relationship as they navigate their past trauma and their emotional abandonment of one another. By the second story, the bookshop is once again thriving, aided by a bakery that features Mrs. Gibson’s magical recipes. The sisters bake Never Get Lost Oatmeal Cookies , I’ll Miss You Forever Cakes, I Must Be In Heaven Chocolate Brownies , and Blue Moon Blueberry Muffins . They connect with the literary world by hosting bookshop events and they commune with the natural world by visiting the marshlands that surround their island home to visit the Heron Tree, a place their mother always told them was enchanted. The touch of magic that runs through the series casts a sparkling light over the dark circumstances the sisters face and teaches readers that there is “never a bad time to fall in love.” I absolutely love this series! The short stories are small bites of delight for Alice Hoffman fans and they will make new readers hungry for more. If you appreciate the magic of reading, writing, baking, sisterhood, and love, you will devour these beautiful short stories. You can find them here . Kelly Jarvis works as the Assistant Editor for The Fairy Tale Magazine where she writes stories, poems, essays, book reviews, and interviews. Her poetry has also been featured or is forthcoming in Blue Heron Review , Mermaids Monthly , Eternal Haunted Summer, Forget Me Not Press, The Magic of Us, A Moon of One’s Own, Baseball Bard , and Corvid Queen.  Her short fiction has appeared in The Chamber Magazine  and the World Weaver Press Anthology Mothers of Enchantment: New Tales of Fairy Godmothers . You can connect with her on Facebook (Kelly Jarvis, Author) or Instagram (@kellyjarviswriter) or find her at https://kellyjarviswriter.com/

What I know about astrology could fit into Thumbelina’s thimble. It’s not for lack of interest, but when you don’t know the exact time you were born, the whole thing kind of falls apart—or so I’ve been told. For whatever reason, I simply can’t find when I was born. Please don’t give me tips on finding out. I’ve tried it. And while I think astrology is fun and interesting, I don’t care enough to try more than I already have. But … It seems that tonight is the Aquarius/Sturgeon/Blue super moon. Since I love the moon, I’ve been following all of the predictions for it. The consensus is that things may get pretty wild. The word “friction” has come up a lot. There seems to be a lot of concern about it affecting the Democratic National Convention, although I do suspect that’s an effort to be part of the biggest news story of the next week. So, out of love for our readers who would go “ East of the Sun and West of the Moon ” to find out the the truth about tonight’s mega moon, here are some stories on it: We have this from Elle Magazine . Refinery 29 has a pretty detailed take . Bustle has a breakdown of every sign’s possibilities during this event. Apparently, my fellow Aquarians and I are in for it! If you are a Taurus, Scorpio, Leo or an Aquarius person, you will be extra affected by the super duper moon, according to Parade . But hey, they’ve got journaling suggestions for you! Finally, Well and Good offers this very calming headline and story: “ The Shocking Sturgeon Full Moon in Aquarius Will Rock Your Emotional Foundation ”. Yikes! That’s all for now. May your moon be extra visible and alluring tonight. As for the rest of it, I guess we’ll know later in the week, as the Aquarius moon will bring its chaos magic for a few days. Image by Pixabay.

She climbs the flights of palace stairs Her gold and silver gown a charm Whispering gone all troubles and cares Worries and woes that cause alarm. Tickled by rushing mountain streams The gentle mountains kiss the sky The sky alive with clouds and dreams Sinking to dusk with one last sigh. The fiddle sings, the heartbeat drums While through the swirling, twirling court The kindly prince of kingdom comes As if a sailing ship to port.  Two turtledoves flush from a tree As prince and maiden hand in hand Begin to dance, this dance to be A realm of peace, a fruitful land. Mary Meriam's poems are published in Literary Imagination, The New York Times, American Arts Quarterly, Poetry Northeast, American Life in Poetry, many other journals, and several anthologies. She is the author of two poetry chapbooks, a nd the editor of Lavender Review .   Image from Pixabay

Did you know that in Flanders, the Devil drives a black coach drawn by four fine black horses? Or that magpies, hares, or cats may be witches in disguise and trees may house ghosts? Have you heard of Kludde the shapeshifting trickster? My answer to any of these questions would have been no before I discovered Belgian author Signe Maene sharing the rich folklore of her home on social media. When she announced a Kickstarter for a collection of tales in a beautifully illustrated book, I backed it immediately. Flemish Folktales Retold  is a delightful and atmospheric introduction to the dark and oftentimes quite unsettling world of Flemish folklore. Happy ever after is not usually the rule here. Persecuted witches have their revenge—or seek it at least. Foolish actions are punished harshly (sometimes permanently). The dead are angry and unquiet. And magical creatures do not take kindly to being watched. Here are tales of witches, hares, and cats; ghosts and devils and shapeshifters, as well as dutiful daughters, hateful sons, innocents who stumble on enchantment in the woods, and of course, those foolish enough to bargain with the Devil. I have a soft spot for Devil stories, so it’s no surprise that my favorite in this collection, “The Ship’s Log,” is a terrifying, claustrophobic tale of a completely unexpected visit by the evil one himself. The thirty-six stories are short, and each is beautifully illustrated by Cate Zeederberg. Whether you read a story or two before bed each night, or binge them during daylight hours so you finish before dark creeps in, Flemish Folktales Retold is a delicious, dark, and spooky taste of Flanders and its folklore. You can find it here . Lissa Sloan is the author of Glass and Feathers, a transformational continuation of the traditional Cinderella tale. Her fairy tale poems and short stories have appeared in The Fairy Tale Magazine, Niteblade Magazine, Corvid Queen, Three Ravens Podcast, and anthologies from World Weaver Press. Visit Lissa online at lissasloan.com , or connect on Facebook, Instagram, @lissa_sloan, or Twitter, @LissaSloan.

Editor’s Note: August is a great month for reading. You can feel the tiniest breath of cozy coolness sneaking into the early morning, and the sunlight isn’t as harshly bright. What better way to celebrate than with some great reading? I’ll bet Cinderella used to read by the hearth after a long day of toil. The following first ran in September 2002. Jean Plaidy is one of my all-time favorite writers. Enjoy ! (KW) I’ve always liked Queen Elizabeth II and have found the royal family interesting historically and quite the reality show in the present day. So I was sad when the Queen died, and the events surrounding her death brought me back to reading—as most things do. I love reading actual history but especially love historical novels. I first discovered them in the book Katherine , by Anya Seton, and I’ve never looked back. Jean Plaidy was also responsible for my obsession with historical fiction as a tween. She wrote dozens of historical novels, usually containing tales of royalty (almost always women), written in the first person. To find her books, just check out her Goodreads page . Plaidy wrote series about the Plantagenets, the Tudors, the Stuarts, etc. They are intimate portraits of the thoughts and feelings of women as imagined by Plaidy, and they never fail to drag me into them. They are entertaining comfort food and feel strangely cozy for stories that often end in sadness and/or beheading. My particular favorite is Victoria Victorious , about my favorite interfering queen. (It’s also on Kindle .) Plaidy is only one of the pseudonyms used by Eleanor Burton Hibbert , for whom the word “prolific” feels inadequate. She also wrote as Phillipa Carr. For those of us of a certain age, those names will be familiar. The age issue is something to bring up here. Plaidy was a woman very much of her time. Her attitudes towards gender roles, for example, reflect that. So if you’re interested in reading her books, bear in mind that Eleanor Hibbert was born in 1906. I hope you’ll find this recommendation useful in this time of historical change in the UK.

I’m supposed to spin straw into gold. Suggestions are welcome… There was once a young woman whose father, the local miller,erroneously claimed to the king that she could spin straw into gold. When told either to recant this statement or to summon his offspring so that she could perform the purported feat for his majesty upon pain of death, the miller chose instantly to sacrifice his child rather than admit his addiction to tall tales. “I must be optimistic,” the young woman said to herself as she scrutinized the royal environs for escape routes. “Whatever happens now -- whether I get out of here, whether I can barter tomorrow with his royal gullible-ness and save myself, whether some miracle happens and I really do wind up with gold, or whether I die tomorrow -- at least I’ll be rid of Father. He was bound to mix me up in one of his get-poor-and-run-out-of-town-quick schemes eventually. Or, mix me up more than I usually am by having to run behind him and return-fire with the rocks they throw after us.” “What’s this I hear?” said a tiny man who appeared suddenly in the middle of the floor. “How should I know what you heard?” the miller’s daughter answered. “Only you know how long you’ve been eavesdropping.” “I did not,” said the gnome-like gentleman with an air of injured dignity as if to imply that she had grossly misjudged the extent of his misdemeanor, “enter in time to discern from you the exact nature of the task you have been set, although I understand it to be one which you are unsuited to. I also gather that the consequences of the task’s being left undone tomorrow morning may be somewhat injurious to your pleasing person or your still more appreciable mental faculties. If you care to enlighten me as to the precise nature of your predicament, perhaps I may be of assistance in some way so as to improve your chances of escaping this ordeal unscathed?” “I’m supposed to spin straw into gold,” she said. “Suggestions are welcome.” The gnome beamed at her. “Happily, that particular task happens to be one of my own talents, which I will, of course, be delighted to exercise on your behalf. As a sensible woman who clearly comprehends the desirability of people being fairly treated rather than taken advantage of, you will, naturally, wish to repay me in some way.” This little rascal was crafty. The miller’s daughter smiled. You knew where you were with crafty little rascals who liked to hear themselves talk. Such persons liked to be entertained, and they were often past masters at appreciating their own turns of phrase, clever antics, and bad bargains. They still more appreciated being out-witted by one-time opponents who gave guile for guile in defense of their own, but who weren’t interested in competing for the privilege of out-witting others professionally, and thereby stealing potential clientele. These people were so much easier to consort with than the giants who also liked to hear themselves talk but had no inkling that there were occasions upon which silent and self-interested observance of situations and consequences were warranted. This one had reason to think well of himself. His eloquence was as impressive as his ability to appear out of nowhere, which was, in turn, as admirable as his laudable if insufficient skill at rhetorizing his opponent into the wrong. “What’s your price?” “Your first-born child,” he said, evidently aping her brevity either out of a desire to imply respect for it, or, just perhaps, in genuine appreciation of it as an alternative manner to his own expansive one. “Done,” she said. She presented an immense heap of gold to the king that morning and upon the two following days. When he, in response, proposed, she politely declined the honor and retired to a house she bought with surplus magicked metal she’d gleaned from her supply before presenting the remainder to His Royal Gullible-ness. The next evening, the gnome erupted into her kitchen bristling with the righteous outrage of the con man experiencing the indignity of being out-conned without the consolatory knowledge of exactly how the outsmarting had been managed. “You didn’t marry that stupid king!” “He’s much too stupid for me, don’t you think?” the miller’s daughter responded serenely. “I’m going to marry you, instead.” The gnome stared at her in surprise for a moment, then grinned delightedly. “And so, your first-born child will be my first-born child,” he elucidated the means by which this solution would fulfill the letter of their bargain. The miller’s daughter smiled back. She did not advertise the fact that she’d known he was the one for her well before he’d named his price. She’d save that tidbit for some significant anniversary, or some evening of celebration after they’d jointly pulled off an extraordinary bartering job. She would throw a few discreet rocks at people who might otherwise draw undesirable attention to them, he would employ his superb information-gathering and magical talents to good effect, and the baby would clap. “And we’ll all scheme and connive happily ever after,” she said. Lisa Kovac graduated with her Master’s in English from Western University in London, Ontario, Canada. Her short story “Snow White and the Magic Mirror” appeared in Imprints: Ten Write Place Writers, a creative writing journal published by King’s University College in July 2018. In May 2017, her poem “Villanelle for the Writing Centre: A Monologue” was published in Connecting Writing Centers Across Borders, a journal of writing centre scholarship. She is currently at work on a collection of revisionist fairy tales. Illustration by Helen Stratton.

Strange Folk  begins when a woman named Opaline, who left her home in Craw Valley at the age of eighteen, returns to Appalachia after a long absence. Now known as Lee, she has been to college and started a family, but a divorce leaves her and her two children, Merideth and Cliff, with nowhere to go, so she returns to the home of her grandmother Belva, a woman who practices the folk magic of the region. When her grandmother’s magic becomes suspect due to the discovery of a dead body, the family is drawn into a dangerous search for answers. This book is beautifully written. It is filled with Appalachian folklore and magic that comes from a deep connection to the land itself. The novel does not shy away from difficult topics like addiction, abuse, and intergenerational trauma, but it also captures the enduring spirit of small town mountain life. Although Lee has been educated and now sees magic as a way for people with few resources to feel they have control and power over their own lives, she and her children come face to face with the ancient practice of folk witchcraft. Lee’s son Cliff is my favorite character. He sees people in colors, describing them as “marigold” or “green glitter.” Told alternately through the lenses of Lee and her daughter Merideth, the book explores the complex relationships between mothers and daughters. The healing effects of folk magic are equated to emotional healing and self-discovery. The book has plenty of plot twists and a touch of romance, but I loved it for its exploration of folk magic in Appalachia. The prologue, which relays a description of a magical gathering beneath a dark sky, enchanted me. If you enjoy stories about family trauma and generational secrets wrapped in magical realism, give Strange Folk  a try! You can find it here . Thank you to NetGalley for a free copy of the book in exchange for a fair review. Kelly Jarvis works as the Assistant Editor for The Fairy Tale Magazine where she writes stories, poems, essays, book reviews, and interviews. Her poetry has also been featured or is forthcoming in Blue Heron Review , Mermaids Monthly , Eternal Haunted Summer, Forget Me Not Press, The Magic of Us, A Moon of One’s Own, Baseball Bard , and Corvid Queen.  Her short fiction has appeared in The Chamber Magazine  and the World Weaver Press Anthology Mothers of Enchantment: New Tales of Fairy Godmothers . You can connect with her on Facebook (Kelly Jarvis, Author) or Instagram (@kellyjarviswriter) or find her at https://kellyjarviswriter.com/