Search Results

She found the cold invigorating; the howling wind and driving snow a tonic to her frigid soul... Long, long ago, when the green world we know yet slumbered beneath thick glacial sheets and a comforter of snow, the ice child was born. Her mother, belly hot and heaving, had ventured alone deep into the forest, where, under spires of pine and a chipped glass sky, she lost her way. While crossing a frozen stream, she fell to her hands and knees, pushing and groaning, the snowy owls echoing her grunts and cries till the child emerged at last, transparent and perfect, connected to her mother by a silvery rope of ice. With her sharp-edged fishing knife the mother severed the ice cord. She opened the front of her coat, fashioned from the skin of a winter wolf, and cradled the ice child upon her breast. The infant’s blue lips suckled eagerly, her tiny ice hands cold and grasping, and the mother’s love flowed like warm honey from her heart, crystallizing where it touched the child, whom the mother named Gaska-geardi in the ancient language of her people, ancestors of the tribes of the far, far North. Winter was the ice child’s father. Weeks before the birth, the mother had fled his frigid embrace, fearing she too soon would find herself among the frozen maidens piled in stacks outside his palace walls. His attractions to mortal women were intense as they were brief. Yet the mother loved her ice child, as all mortal mothers love the beings their bodies bring forth, though the child, she could already see, more resembled her father, his elemental nature, his austere beauty, his icicle touch. And for a time, all was well with the mother and the ice child. They hid in a cave in the womb of a mountain, where the mother kept a small fire to warm herself while the ice child slept in a snowdrift nearby. But one day a man came upon them, a herder of reindeer of the mother’s tribe, and the mother and the ice child returned with him to the village. The mother was welcomed back with joy, for until that moment the villagers had believed she had perished in a winter storm. The people of the village were wary when they saw the ice child, whose strange appearance, they feared, marked her for calamity and some dire fate. The herder and the mother married. They went to live in a wooden hut with a roof of tin, a hearth and windows. The mother, happy there and warm, bore another child, a mortal boy. And the herder grew angry as the mother continued to suckle her ice child alongside his pink-faced son. “Thief!” he thundered, accusing the ice child of stealing his son’s rightful milk. Enraged, the herder struck Gaska-geardi away from her mother’s breast with a heavy blow that left a crack in the perfect transparency of the ice child’s chest. Then he opened the hut’s front door and tossed the ice child out into the frozen night, telling her never to return, or he would lift his iron axe and shatter her in pieces and toss her shards into the hearth’s hot flames. For a time, the mother continued to feed Gaska-geardi in secret. “When you are hungry,” the mother told the ice child, “write a message on the window and I will come.” And so each night the ice child waited, watching from where she stood in the darkness outside the hut’s window as the herder dandled the fat baby boy on his knee and the little family laughed their laughter of belonging and tenderness while the crack in the ice child’s chest would ache. When the father and baby boy fell asleep, the ice child would write a message to her mother on the window in frost, and the mother would steal out and nurse Gaska-geardi until the ice child grew drowsy in her mother’s arms, though each morning she would awaken to find herself alone in the snow’s cold embrace. Then one night the mother did not come. Gaska-geardi wrote her messages again and again until the window was layered deep in frost, and she could no longer see inside. And after many days and nights, when her mother still did not appear, the ice child set off all on her own, for, she told herself, Winter could be no more cold or cruel than these supposedly warm-blooded mortals who had left her there to die. The ice child discovered she needed little to sustain herself. Away from her mother, her hunger dwindled. The cold she found invigorating; the howling wind and driving snow a tonic to her frigid soul. She grew to young womanhood, sleek and slender, a figure of glass-like grace, and the crystalline crack diminished as she grew till it was no more than a forgotten childhood scar. One day her father found her by cold magic. She was swimming with the narwhals, white unicorns of the northern seas. “My child,” Winter sighed, and wrapped her in his iceberg arms, and Gaska-geardi wept, surprised by the sudden hot mortal tears that welled and melted furrows in her perfect cheeks, which her father’s silvery fingers instantly smoothed and healed. He took the ice child back to his palace and taught her the language of wintertide, a hundred words for snow alone: the soft snow one’s feet sink into while walking; the hard icy crust that melts under a day-sun’s warmth and refreezes in the night; the soft, sticky snow that falls thickly in great flakes; the snow that blows up from the Earth in fine gusts; the old snow; the fresh snow; the empty space between snow and ground. He revealed to her the secrets of the blues of ancient ice and sky. Enchanted, she traced them through the palace’s sculpted corridors, its silvery ballrooms and banquet halls set with lavish tables, sconces alight in cold blue flames. The changing light of day and night, refracted through the frozen architecture, wrought endless variations of image and reflection, every surface a gallery of shifting display, and she was certain, in all her travels, she had never seen anything more lovely. There was only one place in her father’s palace where the ice-child-turned-woman was forbidden to go: the wing that held Winter’s impregnable prison, where three inmates had been sentenced to languish for eternity. A shape-shifting warden guarded this prison day and night. When Gaska-geardi first saw him, he wore the form of an enormous winter wolf, asleep at the foot of a wall of blue ice which bore no door, no lock nor key. As the ice woman bent to stroke the wolf’s white-silver fur, she recalled her mother, whom she hadn’t thought of in quite some time, and what was left of the old crack in her chest creaked and ached. Startled from his slumber, the wolf nipped her wrist. Her ice hand broke off and lay between them on the white marble floor. “You’re a brittle one,” the wolf said, his round golden eyes gazing into hers until she grew drowsy. Then, with a great effort of will, Gaska-geardi looked away, picked up her severed hand and took it to her father. “Disobedient child,” her father chided, “I should leave you to suffer the consequences of your actions,” even as he healed her, “but I am too fond.” The ice hand, reattached, shimmered seamlessly at the end of her arm as before. “Father,” the ice woman said. “What do you keep imprisoned in that far wing of the palace? Your power is great. Your might rules the land. What remains for you to fear?” Winter regarded her gravely. “Are you happy here, my child?” “As happy as an ice being may ever hope to be,” she replied. “Father, you have been most kind.” “Then you must promise never to return to the palace prison wing.” And the ice woman promised, a promise she would not keep. Some days when she visited, the warden was a wolf, other days an Arctic fox or a snowshoe hare. Some days he was a polar bear, or a silvery lynx with silent flat paws, or a velvet-soft harp seal with great, dark eyes. Some days he was a man in a white fur coat, and on these days she loved him least, yet she was enthralled by his endless variety, and he by her transparent adoration. And thus they went on meeting at the juncture of enchantment and prohibition, until the day Gaska-geardi asked the warden to reveal to her what it was he guarded, what lay on the other side of the blue ice prison wall. The warden refused. “You will not survive it. And if I should lose you now, I would surely die of a great loneliness of spirit.” “As would I, should you leave me,” the ice woman assured him. “But I must know what my father fears.” The next time she saw the warden, he had taken the form of a large snow goose with sleek white feathers and black-tipped wings. He bent his pink legs and the ice woman climbed upon his back. “You may look down,” the snow goose said, “but I cannot land.” And in a rush of wind and feathers, her slender ice arms wrapped tightly around the goose’s long white neck, Gaska-geardi was quickly aloft, the snow goose soaring toward the top of the blue ice wall. And as they crossed over the wall and the snow goose circled in flight, “I understand now,” the ice woman whispered. For below them stretched Summer, pulsing lush and hot. The ice woman’s eyes were dazzled by bright fluttering butterflies. Her ears rang with songs of birds of every hue. Her nostrils filled with a thick perfume of blooming flowers and ripening fruit. Summer’s long-enclosed heat, magnified, reached up and enveloped them, and the ice woman felt the surface of her frozen skin grow moist and slick and slippery until, with a small cry, she lost her grip upon the snow goose and plummeted downward through the fecund, heated air. The snow goose watched in horror as his lover fell and was caught by the branches of a lilac tree, where she hung, helpless and stunned. A creature of winter, the snow goose could not land. Instead, he retraced his path, returned to the winter side of the blue ice wall, and alighting, assumed the shape of a man. He retrieved an axe and wielded it desperately, chopping a narrow passage through the doorless ice wall. He squeezed through the opening, disentangled Gaska-geardi from the lilac tree where she hung. He carried her fast-melting form in his arms, back into the palace, then sealed the breach in the prison wall with snow. But it was too late. Summer had escaped, scorching its exit through Winter’s palace. It could no longer be contained. The two remaining prisoners, Spring and Fall, assaulted the breach in the blue ice wall, broke through and freed themselves before Winter could intervene. Furious, Winter banished Gaska-geardi and her lover. He seized the warden’s skins and feathers and burned them so the warden could shapeshift no more. Trapped in the body of a mortal man, the warden grew old. Gaska-geardi, much reduced in size from Summer’s melting, wept yet again her mortal tears as her lover froze in her fatal embrace, and there was no one now to heal the cracks and furrows that marred the perfect surface of her face. Winter, much diminished in power, forfeited his dominion over the land. Summer gained ascendancy, allied itself with Spring and Fall. Winter kept only his most far-flung territories, and some say a time is coming when he will lose them all. The ice child found her way back to her mother’s hut in the far north village, but years had flown and her mother had long since passed away. Yet, on the coldest nights, they say, the ice child searches for her mother still, writes on warm windows her ancient runes in frost as she waits outside, bereft, having lost all she loved, her heart an aching crack. And if you should see her message on your window, do not go outside. She seeks what she will never find, and all that is mortal will die in her embrace. Tara Williams lives in Arizona, where the average winter temperature is in the 60s. Her fiction has previously appeared in Entropy's Black Cackle, Apparition, The Weird Reader Vol. III, and other publications. Follow her on Twitter: Wakish Wolf Dog @taramaewilliams. Image from Pixabay.

Bear, by Julia Phillips, is a mesmerizing tale of two sisters, Sam and Elena, struggling to survive as their mother’s health slips away. Living in a crumbling house on a remote island off the coast of Washington, the two sisters work as waitresses on the ferry from the mainland and in the local golf club, while they dream of escaping to find new lives. Sam feels like “Cinderella picking lentils from the ashes,” and her fleeting relationship with a fellow ferry worker does little to provide her any spiritual comfort, but when she spots a bear swimming in the waters off the island and tells her sister about it, everything in their lives begins to change. Elena is entranced by the bear, a grizzly that marks the side of their house with his secretions and returns to devour the food left out for him, but Sam is frightened by the bear and contacts authorities and biologists in the hopes of removing him from their property. Readers of fairy tales will recognize the patterns of The Brothers Grimm “Snow White and Rose Red” beneath Julia Phillips’ stark and stunning prose, but although Bear features two sisters (one light and conforming and one dark and rebellious), a devoted mother, a bear that enters the women’s domestic space, and even a bearded dwarf constellation, the novel is anything but a fairy tale. Phillips sets her novel solidly in contemporary, post-pandemic times, and her plot replaces storybook enchantment with an appreciation for the harsh and unforgiving natural world, with Elena explaining that the bear is magical and the best thing that ever happened to the sisters. Woven with flashbacks to their childhood, the novel presents Sam and Elena, now both close to thirty, attempting to reconcile their different approaches to life in the wake of their mother’s illness and the bear’s appearance. I loved the authentic exploration of the sister’s tense but endearing bond in the novel. Together, they have faced an isolating childhood in a small community, and they have survived their mother’s abusive boyfriend, though his shadowy presence haunts the relationships both sisters enter into in their adulthood. As Sam and Elena’s life goals and responsibilities start to diverge, they must ask themselves where their devotion to each other ends and their individual desires begin. Phillips’ harrowing novel rings with the dark truths of life itself, and although it is heavily informed by fairy tales, the only happily-ever-after is found in the stories the sisters tell to comfort their heartbreak and loneliness. This book is a must-read for those who enjoy realistic, contemporary fairy tale retellings and nuanced explorations of family relationships. I will be thinking about Bear for a long time to come! 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/

“So, are you taking a Luddite pleasure in this tea kettle?” my husband asked me as I lit the gas under my new kettle. You see, my beloved electric tea kettle had died recently. It was a bright, cheery red color, with an adorable, retro shape. It came complete with a temperature dial that made the whole thing look right out of Fallout 4. Now, video games are not my thing, but the rest of my family loves this post-apocalyptic game about a survivor of a nuclear holocaust in a 50s-inspired future emerging from a fallout shelter 300 years later and exploring the wasteland. I don’t play, but I have fun watching the family play it, as it’s so atmospheric, and I mostly enjoyed the Amazon Prime series as well. My family pointed out that putting my sweet Fallout kettle through its paces multiple times a day for several years, I really shouldn’t be surprised at it giving up the ghost at last. It did it dramatically too. As I tried to figure out why it was leaking, the little temperature gauge completely popped out, and water flooded all over the counter. My favorite kettle had betrayed me. And I just couldn’t get my mind around getting a new one. Not immediately, anyway. So as a stopgap, I took my husband’s suggestion and bought myself and old school kettle from the Target. You know, the non-electric kind that just goes right on the stove and whistles to let you know when the water’s boiled? We figured that next time the power goes out, we’d be happy to still be able to make tea out of an actual kettle. And my stopgap kettle did its job well. So well, in fact, that I spent weeks not looking for a replacement electric kettle. Maybe I just wouldn’t get one. After all, how could I replace my adorable Fallout kettle? There were other vintage style kettles out there, but none of them was quite as wonderful. And besides, I did take pleasure in putting my plain old kettle on the stove and lighting the flame under it. There was a sense of comfort, even romanticism, to doing it the old-fashioned way. It was charming. I kind of loved it. Except for one thing. Every time it whistled, the sound was so alarming, so loud and horrible that I jumped and ran from wherever I was to soothe its terrible shrieking. It was the absolute opposite of all of the cozy, sweet escapism I took from lighting the gas and waiting for it to boil. So in the end, I’d had enough. I got online and found the exact same silly, kitschy red kettle (a Haden Dorset, in case you’re interested) with the cute temperature gauge that will surely be its weak point and lead to an early demise. But I guess I’m a creature of habit. I’ll take my comfort where I can get it. And anyway, the next time the power goes out, if the screaming of my old-fashioned kettle jangles my nerves, you know what’s so soothing? A nice, hot cup of tea. Lissa Sloan is the author of Glass and Feathers, a dark 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: The ease of language in this poem, and the way every word helps build a picture appealed to me. I can see every move and item. You’ll love it too. (I wrote this note when the poem was first published in 2021, and I think the same way now. (Kate)) Not every maiden Who accepted the strange little man’s deal Discovered his name (Rumpelstiltskin) Facing the threat Of losing their newborn child The cruel imp spending their labour Standing in the corner Of the royal birthing chamber Rubbing his hands with glee But, a quick-thinking midwife Can still provide a win At the very last moment Slipping a warming pan into blankets Bundled up like a babe Handing it over “Is this what you wanted?” “Yes! Yes!” clapping with delight (Words seal the deal) Mother sobs as the little man vanishes Then, midwife smiles Hands over newborn child… DJ Tyrer is the person behind Atlantean Publishing, and has been published in issues of The Horrorzine, Illumen, Sirens Call, Spectral Realms, Star*Line, and Tigershark, and online at Lonesome October, and Three Drops from a Cauldron. SuperTrump and A Wuhan Whodunnit are available to download from the ATLANTEAN PUBLISHING website. He also has a personal BLOG. *** Image by Arthur Rackham.

The Neverland haunts James. Even though it is years since he escaped its grasp. Even though he is no longer the fearsome, bloody pirate captain who ripped open the sky and disappeared, never caring who he hurt. Even though since they came to London, Simon found him a new craving to replace the sweet escape offered by Neverland’s flowers. But he is hooked by this new compulsion just as surely as he was by the old. Now Simon is gone, though, and his absence leaves a gaping hole that tempts James to remember. And remembering is dangerous. For Neverland is not finished with James. It will not let go. Something wild has made its way through the barrier between the worlds, and it is hunting. No one who smells of Neverland is safe, including Wendy Darling, her brothers, and her daughter Jane. The beast kills those who get in the way of its search for James, and only James can stop it. Hooked is author A.C. Wise’s sequel to her incredible Peter Pan continuation, Wendy, Darling, reviewed HERE. Like Wendy’s story, Hooked is a compelling examination of the effects of trauma, unfolding to show many different responses from Michael’s avoidance to Wendy’s denial to Jane’s anger. But most of all, it plunges into the depths of addiction and its heartbreaking consequences. For when he returns to Neverland with Jane and her uncle Michael, James must face the destruction Captain Hook left in his wake and decide who he truly is. While I wasn’t sure Wendy, Darling needed a sequel, I was wrong. Wise has so much more to explore with her flawed, relatable characters and intense, gripping prose. An unflinching but compassionate journey from addiction to redemption, James’s story hooks the reader and won’t let go. Lissa Sloan is the author of Glass and Feathers, a dark 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.

Stymied about what to buy your dad or husband for Father’s Day? Have you considered asking him? Men are notoriously hard to buy for, and the older they get, the worse it gets. Often, they end up getting the present-day equivalent of the “new tie and handmade ashtray” gifts of the ‘50s—‘70s. Plus, when they get to a certain age, they, like women, just buy themselves whatever they want year ‘round. (Note: This is where I have to say that I routinely surprise women friends and family with gifts. We are so much easier to buy for! So today’s CH is basically about the guys.) Anyway, my husband Todd and I decided years ago to just ask each other what we want. We do the occasional surprise, but mostly, we tell each other what would be appreciated and call it a day. Sometimes, one of us gets creative and sends the other a link for gifts we’d like, but otherwise, we just talk about it. Being upfront about what we want saves money and potential disappointment. I sincerely believe that giving a gift you are unsure about simply for the element of surprise leads to extra junk in the house and hurt feelings—especially when you are buying for men. But, if you really want the element of surprise, just buy them food. Last Father’s Day I did get a bit creative and got Todd a ZINGERMANS Corned Beef Reuben Sandwich Kit for Father’s Day, and he loved it so much that he told me he never wanted anything else for Father’s Day. I’ve already ordered it for this year. The brownies I’m also sending will be a surprise element. It may seem like I’m changing my mind mid-post by promoting surprise food gifts, but when we give food, we usually have a good notion of what the recipient loves to eat. Todd, for example, enjoys a big ole sandwich with lots of stuff crammed into it. We’re also loyal ZINGERMANS customers, so the Reuben kit was a no brainer. Last, I always take time finding a special card for a friend or loved one for any occasion. People are touched by a good card, and if they are special enough, you can use them as decor when the social day is over. Todd and I always display the cards we give each other. That’s all for this week. To those of you who will celebrate, have a happy Father’s Day weekend!

Dare I hope? Steaming water reddens my hands, Skin once white as apple blossoms And smooth as velvet petals. The prince has asked for a cake baked by me… Did he see? How could he see Beyond this stinking Pelt I wear? Dare I hope He has seen beneath this shaggy skin? I rinse a heavy pewter cup, Take up the next. Once I caught the eye of a king. I shudder. How the thorns and branches of the wood Tore at my face and hands As I fled My own Father. But this time it is a prince, Young, winsome. I rinse the last cup, Dry them all quickly with The rough, Homespun Cloth. I shall sneak into the orchard. Aye, when I am done. The apple trees are blooming, Their petals will be just the thing To transform these work-worn hands To the hands of a queen. Debby Zigenis-Lowery is a reteller of folktales, a historical fantasy novelist, and a poet. You can find her blogging at https://literatelives.wordpress.com/ or indulging in her favorite addiction at https://www.pinterest.com/debbyzig/.

Are you a fan of Jane Austen? Do you enjoy a murder mystery? If you answered yes to these questions, put The Perils of Lady Catherine de Bourgh on your reading list! This delightful novel is the third in a series featuring young sleuths Juliet Tilney, who currently resides on her grandfather’s estate, Northanger Abbey, and Jonathan Darcy, son of Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet from Pride and Prejudice. After solving two murders in the first two installments of the Mr. Darcy and Miss Tilney Mystery Series, the two amateur detectives are enlisted to prevent the murder of Lady Catherine de Bourgh who has been nearly shot, poisoned, and pushed down the stairs. Juliet and Jonathan report to Rosings with their fathers in tow, confronting a long list of suspects including William and Charlotte Collins (also of Pride and Prejudice fame). The investigators unravel a complex set of clues while discovering their own deepening feelings for one another which are met with opposition by their respective fathers. Elizabeth Darcy makes a late appearance on the estate, reuniting with her former friend Charlotte and helping to smooth the tensions between the Darcy and Tilney families. Claudia Gray has created two engaging protagonists in her mystery series. The novel opens with Juliet plunging knives into spare meat in the kitchens, hoping to learn how to identify the different cuts of various murder weapons. She looks forward to the thrill of investigating murders to relieve her of the boredom of piano lessons and polite society. Jonathan is a neurodivergent character who sees the world through a unique lens and must use a “curtain” to obscure his peculiarities. The two sleuths turn their personality quirks into strengths, using their keen observational skills to save the day and move toward a potential relationship which will no doubt be fully explored in future installments of the series. This was the first book in the series that I read, and I plan to go back and enjoy the first two as well. Fans who long to learn more about their favorite characters from Jane Austen’s world will find much to love in these pages! You can pre-order the book 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/

Brownies are popular for a reason. They’re densely chocolaty, chewy, sweet and delicious. But do you really need to be persuaded of the myriad virtues of brownies? I doubt it. What you really need is for me to get down to the business of the recipe, so here you go … But first, my Aunt Rosa, a truly gifted baker,  managed to wrangle this delicious recipe from a very reluctant baker friend, who also happens to be a bookkeeper. Here are the details: Bookkeeper Brownies Brownies: 2 cups of sugar 2 eggs, slightly beaten 2 cups of flour 1 tsp. of baking soda 1 stick of butter 1/2 tsp. of cinnamon 1/2 cup of Crisco 1 tsp. of vanilla 4 Tbs. of cocoa 1 cup of water 1/2 cup of buttermilk Icing: 1 stick of butter 1 box of Ten-X powdered sugar 4 Tbs. of cocoa 1 tsp. of vanilla 3 Tbs. of heavy cream 3 Tbs. of milk 1 1/2 cups of chopped pecans Brownies: Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Sift the sugar and flour together and set aside. Place butter, Crisco, cocoa, and water in a saucepan, and bring to a boil. Pour the liquid mixture into the dry mixture and combine. Stir in the buttermilk. Add the eggs, baking soda, cinnamon, and vanilla. Pour into a well-greased 9x13 pan, and bake for 30 minutes. Icing: Bring butter, cocoa, vanilla, cream, and milk to a boil. Take off of the heat and add powdered sugar, vanilla, and nuts. Pour hot mixture over brownies and let cool. In fact, let it cool at least an hour before serving—it makes 24. You’ll get tons of compliments on these—if you decide to share them!

Here, take my scarlet cloak... I knew the wolf. Well, and why should you know that? It was long before you were thought of. There was a band of us, living wild in the woods, and I won't lie, it was a filthy life. We were cold and hungry, and we fought like cats. Well, the wolf lived at the top of a hill, all alone. Only the hawthorn and the moths for company, and the moon, which rose full and gold above that hill. Wolves, you know, howl to one another, but that wolf was the last in the land, and had only the moon to howl at. The wolf was a she-wolf. Yes, I knew you thought otherwise. She had been a matriarch, a grandmother-wolf. Yes, my love, a grandmother like me. All her kin had been killed—her grandchildren too, yes—because the king had decreed he would have no wolf in his domain, and the hunters were offered rich bounties. Now my own folk did not mind the wolves. I do not say we never killed a wolf, but then the wolves couldn't claim to be any better. But it wasn't war, and it wasn't hate. We just crossed each other now and then, and tempers were hot. But there was a kind of respect, and a sort of friendliness. We weren't a sentimental bunch—you can't mope in the wilderness, you're too busy running after, or from, something—but when we thought of the wolves' passing, it seemed a shame. The Land though, the Land was angry. She'd always had wolves, and we were relatively new and not so dear to her. To the Land, our flea-bitten lot were one and the same with the king and his hunters. We all looked alike to her. But while the king was deep in his castle like a grub in a nut, we were out in the Land's awful fury, and she made our previous existence seem like paradise. We were flayed by hail and withered by wind—the rain rotted our clothes and the frost sank its teeth into our toes, and agues roamed the land like demons. It was half-dead with the hunger that I wandered up the hill one day, passing hawthorn and ash—unlucky trees, trees I'd have kept away from in my senses. I was gathering mallow-cheeses, for I'd eaten all the snails I could find. I caught a glimpse of mallow-purple near the summit, and stumbled my way towards it through snagging branches. There I found her, curled under a whin. She was bone-scrawny and trembled with weakness, but her fur was a thick rich silver, and her eyes were the pale yellow of the moon. A terrible sadness pushed through me, as if the Land had seized me as her instrument to grieve. When she saw me, the wolf gave a low growl. “I'll be off—“ I began to assure her, when I heard men talking and the snort of horses. Exhausted as I was, I knew it was the king's hunters, and I snarled as I thought of their victory. “Creep under the hedge,” I told the wolf crooningly, and I came towards her as slowly as I could. She backed in under the thorns and leaves, and I stood in front of her, letting my cloak hang low in front. I prayed she would not bite my ankles. The men appeared. They had no dogs, for which I was thankful. They were scouting for prey. When they saw me they barked in their harsh, cracking voices, and laughed jeeringly. They would not come near, I knew, for fear of the ague, so I just stared mutely back at them, until they muttered amongst themselves and then left. They were sure that there could be no wolves where a young girl lingered unharmed. “Are they gone?” asked the wolf, and I told her, yes. She crawled out from the hedge. “I owe you now,” she said. “I did it for the Land,” I said. “I hope that now she spares my kin and seeks her revenge on the king instead.” And so it came to be. The weather grew kind. It rained still but it was a soft rain, rain for growing. The gales became breezes and the sun was warm. We had a good autumn, full of berries and boar. We found honey, and traded meat for wool, and no ague or pox came near us. Being no simpletons we knew it was thanks to the wolf being saved, and we were careful to keep her that way. Wolves hunt in packs, and a lone wolf is a hungry one, so it was decided I would bring her a share of our food. I was young then—as young as you—my limbs were stretching and I felt I couldn't stretch them far enough. Gladly I would run up the hill, swinging a basket of boar-meat. We'd talk as she ate, for wolves dine together. I'd tell her of my people, how we were growing fat and well now, and I'd tell her things we heard when we brought our meat to the market. “The king is to give a dance,” I said one day, “as his only son is come of age.” The wolf paused in her chewing, and looked at me. “The fine prince?” said she. “Aye, fine enough.” “Enough for you, you chit?” “Is there such a man?” I asked, and laughed. “Would you be a lady?” the wolf said. I leant back on my hands and stared up at the sky. “I would not,” I said at last. “Not that I don't envy their leisure, for they're the laziest creatures short of cats. But the poor things are pinched so by corsets they can't breathe, and the younger and fairer they are, the more hideous and old are their husbands. No, I wouldn't be having that. Not while we have things so good, anyway.” “But their dances? This dance, for instance?” “Ah, now, I like a good dance. It may be that our dances are better—music never sounds so well but under the stars—but all the same, I'd like to see the prince's dance, I confess. It is to be held in the castle, and will be very splendid.” The wolf finished her meal, and then stretched out on the grass. I scratched her back, which she permitted, and I marveled once more at her deep, shining fur. “Why shouldn't you go to the dance, then?” she said sleepily. “Because they'd sooner let a goat in,” I said, matter-of-fact. “Do you wish to go?” “I do, but what's the use of wishes?” “Come to me on the day of the dance,” she said, “and we'll see where our wishes get us.” The day of the dance was fine, and the evening was copper-colored when I climbed the hill. I pushed through the hawthorns to the clearing at the summit, only to find a pool where before there had been grass. “Off with your clothes,” said the wolf, “and into the pool.” So I did, and it was beautifully warm, as though the sun had been smiling on it all day. The wolf sat at the edge, and combed my hair with her claws. I dried myself on sweet-smelling grass, and then I said, “Well what now?” And the wolf said, “Your dress.” Oh, it was a swan's dress. She told me the moon had made it, as a favor to her. It was spun of moonlight and spider-silk, and scintillated with tiny swarms of stars. I felt every drop of beauty I had come rushing up to meet it. “And you will wear this cloak,” she said, bringing it to me. “Is that not wolf-skin?” I asked. “It is, but wear it with my blessing. The last of my children who were killed, I caught the hunter before he could bear their pelts away.” “But why is it red?” “The hunter I caught, I tore out his heart, and this cloak is dyed with his blood.” It did not look like blood, however. It was scarlet, like cherries in summer. I'd never seen a grander cloak. The castle glowed like a lantern in the night. Fine folk were everywhere, gleaming and shining. But as I walked forward into the light, I heard gasps at my beauty. No duchess was my equal—no, not even you, my pet, and it's your own vanity forced me to say it. The prince thought me beautiful too, as I curtseyed to his father the king. He was a handsome prince, I suppose. He broke many hearts when he danced only with me that night. We whirled in eddies of music until I felt I was a violin, and my blood thrummed like strings. “Come out with me, to the gardens,” the prince said. “It is cold out there,” and I blushed becomingly. “I will have a servant fetch your cloak,” he said, and clicked his fingers for a page. And meekly, mildly, I allowed my wolf-skin to be placed round my shoulders, and I took the arm of the prince. We walked out onto a terrace hung with lanterns, and down into a gloriously dark garden. “What big eyes you have,” said the prince, and I smiled. “All the better to see you with, my dear,” I said. The autumn moon peered down at me through the high banks of box and holly, and reminded me of my promise. I sighed, and the prince looked down at me. “Why do you sigh?” he asked. “Oh... for love,” I said, and he kissed me. And as he did so, I cast the cloak around his shoulders. And I screamed like the banshee, “WOLF!” For indeed he was a wolf, the poor prince. Old grandmother-wolf had bewitched the cloak. He ran here and there, but he could not escape the high walls of the garden. And covered in blood as this wolf was, it was certain he'd killed the king's only son. So it was fitting and right that it was the king himself who slew the wolf, though this did not heal his broken heart. Ah, my pet, your face! You didn't know? Of course you didn't know! It's not a tale to tell a brat. But you're almost a woman now —yes, yes, you are a woman now—and so it must be told. After that, our family's luck only grew, and the old king wasted away. We grew rich, and sleek, and respectable, though I was never so respectable as I seemed. And nor was your grandfather, rest his soul. We preferred our dances under the stars and as soon as we could, we went back to live in the woods, though in a good warm cottage. Your mother now, she was always a lamb, and she likes to live in the town, as a good lamb ought. But for all that she's sent you to me now. Have you ever seen a ewe when she's defending her lamb? So this new king, a young king, he's set his heart on clearing the woods. He will turn the oaks into ships so he can see the sea from his throne. The Woodcutter-King, they call him. Yes, my darling, they do. And you love this king? This man who sends you fine dresses and shoes made of gold thread? What paths can you walk in gold thread? None, none at all. He'd sit you on a cushion, and tie you up with corsets, and you'd live in a sumptuous coffin. But I know what you really are, and I know your soul has sharp teeth. Of course it is your choice, my love, I know that. You must go to the dance if you wish it, and you must have the king if you want. You have dresses enough for twenty such nights. But here, take my scarlet cloak. Sheena Power is an illustrator from Dublin, Ireland. Her work ranges from dragons on the cover of J.R.R. Tolkien: the Forest & the City, to Christmas cards for scientists. Although she draws for a living, her real love is writing. Her stories, Aurelia Aurita and On the Matter of Dublin's Gargoyle Population were included in Tales From The Forest. Her story, Queen, was shortlisted for the Allingham Literary Festival 2015 and was published in the print journal Boyne Berries. You can find her on Twitter (X) @Baglady_Designs Image (altered) from Pixabay.

In Tin Mountain in 1831, all Anneliese wants is acceptance and safety for herself and her young son. In 1881, all Deirdre wants is for her sweetheart, Robbie to propose so they can settle down and raise a family together. In 1931, all Gracelynn wants is to leave Tin Mountain to make a new life with her best friend (and secret crush) Abby. But different as they are, these three women are linked by a powerful gift, a connection across the years, and a shared enemy. He has a different name and wears a different face each time, but this charismatic, mysterious preacher will not stop until he’s achieved his sinister goal. In The Witch of Tin Mountain, author Paulette Kennedy weaves together the tales of three generations of women united by a common threat. The small-town setting in the Ozark Mountains of Northern Arkansas is refreshingly different, and each period feels so lived-in, it’s real enough to reach out and touch. The language, especially Gracelynn’s first-person narration, sparkles with humor and authenticity, making it easy to root for her and those she loves. But Tin Mountain is not kind to women who will not conform, and Anneliese, Deirdre, and Gracelynn are not the complying kind. At times the experiences these women endure is difficult to read, but Kennedy’s characters never stop asking why it should be this way, and who is truly responsible. The result is a chilling story with the occasional whisper of a bad fairy tale bargain. But ultimately, it’s an empowering tale with--no spoilers, I promise, but--a hugely satisfying climax that could only happen in the Midwest. If you love unsettling witchy books and heroines with true grit, The Witch of Tin Mountain is for you! You can find the book here. Lissa Sloan is the author of Glass and Feathers, a dark 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.

I thought those of you who are commemorating Memorial Day would be inspired by seeing those vintage cards. (KW)