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I wandered in the desert until I found my way to an astrologer. She told me to seek a Virgo; instead, I seem to have found virga. Impressive clouds race toward me sweeping up my senses stoking my anticipation until at last rain falls toward the cracked, impatient ground. But then it stops. Halfway down the sky the rain evaporates hanging like ribbons tauntingly close yet still out of reach. I tire of building walls on which to stand to try and quench my thirst. I tire of wandering with my eyes wanting an oasis so badly that I hallucinate; I tire of the tantalizing mirage, lush and green yet having neither depth nor substance. If you want me, I will be here, continuing to chart my path by the positions of the stars and moon. But I will not spend energy to scale walls that will never reach your raindrops regardless of how much I desire to drink. Ryan E. Holman has published poetry in the Silver Spring/Takoma Park Voice and was featured thrice in the Third Thursday Takoma Park Reading Series. In 2016 and 2021, she won third prize in the Baltimore Science Fiction Society’s poetry contest. Ryan lives in the Washington, DC area. Image by Pixabay.

The Highway of Spirit and Bone opens as David Stepenski, a domestic ethnographer and professor of anthropology, is preparing to drive his 79 year old mother from her home on Staten Island to a retirement community in Flagstaff, Arizona, so she can live out the rest of her life near his older sister Debbie. His younger sister Jeanette, an ultra-conservative lesbian, accompanies them on the road trip which features a diversion to visit their estranged brother Aaron, a thrice-divorced adjunct poet living in Las Vegas. Although the long ride across the country affords the Stepenski siblings and their “Ma” ample time to unravel the complex history of their relationships, the ride is also haunted by the people they have left behind including David’s wife and two children, Jeanette’s possessive ex-lover, and the ghost of their abusive father who is repeatedly labeled, in Flannery O’Connor style, “a good man.” Each day of the journey is touched by somber poignancy, with Ma noting “In a million years you could never guess when you’re young where you’ll end up when you’re old.” The narrative, which takes place in the aftermath of the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center in New York City, moves through Pennsylvania, across the Blue Ridge Mountains, into Nashville, and past the Hoover Dam, with stops at roadside diners and inns along the way. Ostrowski’s physical and temporal settings are brilliantly liminal in their construction; his characters are suspended between the starting point of the journey and their destination, between their childhood memories and their adult selves, between their obligations to each other and their deepest desires. They are pulled between the tediousness of their seemingly endless journey and the pain of arriving too soon, between flirting and cheating, between living and dreaming, between blame and forgiveness, and between life and death. Filled with references to the literature, music, religion, folklore, and philosophy that shaped much of the 20th century, the novel is harrowing, heartbreaking, and impossible to put down. As the family drives down I-40, the narrator, David, notes a red, white, and blue sign spray painted with the phrase “The Highway of Spirit and Bone” and thinks to himself, “There’s a poet a-loose in these here hills.” There is a poet a-loose in the novel as well, and that poet is Ostrowski, who artfully sensitizes readers to the pain and beauty of living with his meditations on simple words like love which is described as “the linguistic container for the most complex, far-reaching, penetrating, challenging, misunderstood idea—force—in all of existence.” Ostrowski’s prose holds readers in its grip, and the novel’s conclusion, which is all the more admirable for its poetic restraint, feels like an epiphany not only for the protagonist but for those who have traveled through the pages of the book along with him. Steven Ostrowski’s debut novel about one small family is a microcosm of humanity that captures our competing needs to both fix broken things and to wonder at that which we fail to understand. The forward motion of the characters’ road trip parallels their inward movement toward the acceptance and forgiveness needed to love imperfect people in a broken world. Although Ostrowski’s characters are deeply flawed individuals, their journey across the country and deep into their psyches teaches us that the space between birth and death holds endless opportunities for grace and growth. The Highway of Spirit and Bone is a haunting and sometimes hysterical romp through turbulent family relationships, but, like the narrator’s mother, in the end, it will be all the love between the characters that I most remember. You can purchase the book here and sign up for my reader list here to have my exclusive interview with the author delivered to your inbox on June 1st! 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/

Happy Tuesday! The Enchanted Press is excited to announce we have expanded distribution of Glass and Feathers through Ingram. As of today, paperbacks of my Cinderella continuation novel are available for purchase from websites all over the world, including Barnes and Noble and Books a Million in the US, Brown’s Books in the UK, Dussman das KultureKaufhaus in Germany, Booktopia in Australia, Morawa in Austria, Saxo in Denmark, and Bokus in Sweden. Doors are also open now for Glass and Feathers to appear in brick-and-mortar bookstores! Don’t see it at your favorite chain or indie bookstore? Why not ask if they can order a copy for you? And there’s one more thing: we at The Enchanted Press are big library fans. So we are absolutely thrilled that libraries can now add Glass and Feathers to their collections. We are delighted that there are now even more opportunities for my girl with the glass slippers to find new readers. Because that’s what it’s all about for Kate and me. What we want, more than anything, is for Glass and Feathers to find its audience. We appreciate every review and online post, every recommendation to a friend or gift to a loved one. When you tell people about this book, when you ask if your library will carry it, that matters. You are helping other readers find it. And that means more than we can say. Thank you for walking the path of Glass and Feathers with us. 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: I’m aware that I’ve run this recipe twice already, but since party mix isn’t just a winter snack, I thought I’d run it again. This post ran in 2022, and it’s my mission to make sure everyone knows how to make this delectable snack the proper way. It’s a perfect treat to take to Memorial Day gatherings. Everyone eats it! Enjoy! (KW) Check out Kate's fabulous finds that you can enjoy, too! This week's pick: The Most Magical Party Mix I recognize that I may seem to have gone way down the rabbit hole with a recipe for snack mix. How is that related to fairy tales? Well, people think it’s magically tasty and it comes together in less time than it takes for a pumpkin to turn into a carriage. Also, my picks aren’t always fairy-tale related. Sometimes they are just delicious. This is one of those times. Process is key here. To make the perfect party mix, you need to follow the directions as I’ve laid out here. I also strongly recommend using Crispix as the cereal if you can find it. However, if you can’t find it or like the traditional mix, then use a mixture of corn and rice Chex cereal. I do not think the wheat cereal tastes nearly as good as the other two, so I leave it out, but mix up the three cereals if that is your preference. Also, I find that cashews really do taste better than mixed nuts, but if you’d prefer mixed nuts, use them. Finally, you can use a real lemon for the juice if you are following the traditional method and not using the packet—a half should do it. I’m giving you this recipe on Labor Day, because to me, Labor Day is the beginning of fall, and fall is the beginning of the eating season that stretches from now until the Super Bowl. The Most Magical Party Mix 8 cups of Crispix 1 cup cashews or mixed nuts 1 cup pretzel sticks Sauce: 1 stick butter 1 packet of Chex seasoning mix OR: 1 stick butter 10 shakes of soy sauce, from the bottle—some people do half soy sauce, half Worcestershire Three quick squirts lemon juice from one of those plastic lemon juice lemons Five shakes each of garlic and onion powder First, read the third paragraph above completely before starting, then melt the butter in a deep, wide bowl in the microwave for 1.5 minutes. If you use the seasoning packet, just melt butter and stir in the packet contents, then move on to adding the ingredients. If not using the packet, to the butter add the soy, lemon, and powders. Stir very thoroughly. Taste. The mixture should be very salty, but the butter should assert itself as well. Add more of anything your taste buds ask for. Add nuts and stir. Allow them to absorb the sauce. Add pretzels and do the same. Then add the cereal gradually, stirring gently so each addition absorbs the sauce. Give every addition time to absorb the sauce. Put in the microwave. Cook on high for two minutes. Stir from the bottom, gently. Do it again after another two minutes. Stir. Cook one minute more. (If you are using an oven, follow the directions right up to microwaving but instead put it in an oven preheated to 275 degrees. Spread the mix into a shallow baking pan. Bake for 40 minutes, stirring every 10 minutes.) Cool on paper towels. If the mix seems bland, shake a little soy or Worcestershire sauce or on it, widely distributing. You probably won’t need to do this if you use the seasoning packet. This keeps for a few days if stored in a well-sealed tin or large zip-lock bag, but I suspect it won’t make it more than 24 hours. Supposedly, this makes 15 servings, but that’s optimistic. I’d say it makes maybe 10 servings, because most people like at least one full cup each. Have an enchanted week! (Image is from Ralston Purina, 1966.)

Editor’s note: Lynden’s story is unexpected, twisty, and stitched together very well. You’ve not read a tale like this one before. The idea is magical. I’d actually like to learn more. At the funeral, every memory shared was of Grandma Susie's kettle. It was always on, ready for anyone to drop in with their woes—gardens that wouldn't flourish, marriages that struggled, babies slow to come. Things always got better after a visit to Susie, they said. No one mentioned sewing. So why had Grandma, in her will, left Lizzie a sewing box? The truth was, though she'd worshiped Grandma as a child, when the depression of her teenage years clung on into her adulthood she stopped visiting, ashamed of the way her own life had gone nowhere. Now she realized she hadn’t known Grandma at all. Lizzie lifted the lid and rummaged round half-heartedly. Needles pierced the cushioning, arranged from smallest eye to largest. Shiny beads and bright embroidery threads packed the trays. She’d never had the stamina for crafts herself, despite Grandma’s urges: “I think you’ll find you have the gift for it.” Odd she should try so hard to persuade Lizzie when it seemed Grandma didn’t have the patience either. At the bottom of the box was a layer of patchwork squares, joined only in twos or threes. She glanced at the clock and sighed. Her manager had grudgingly given her the morning off for the funeral, but she had to go in for the afternoon. It wasn't just the greasy washing up and the smelly mop, it was the running commentary. There was still egg at the bottom of this pan, the customers were waiting, why on earth was she so slow? Lizzie grabbed her coat. It had been raining all week. Grandma always told her to look up at the sky, that things always felt better that way. But Lizzie preferred to look into the puddles. There was one section of road with a myriad of potholes, and after rain they made a patchwork of reflections. While the traffic honked and spewed out fumes, in the puddles it was all sky and trees. Hours later, Lizzie trudged home and crawled straight into bed. Dreams began to flicker through her brain. "Lizzie! Lizzie. The sewing box. Have you used it yet?" It was Grandma, but the one Lizzie used to know as a child, lithe and active. Her hair floated round her head, the silver only streaks. "I don't know anything about patchwork, Grandma." "Never mind that, Lizzie. The puddles! Make a patchwork of the puddles." Lizzie sat up in confusion. It was just a dream, wasn't it? And dreams never made sense. She got up and opened the sewing box again. Maybe she should try to finish Grandma’s patchwork. She spread out the fragments. Really, they were beautiful. Each square had a different pattern, and the pairs were joined in a range of stitches, embroidered over with extra designs. This one had red hearts on white, joined to a square of white hearts on red. Here, a blanket stitch joined a Russian doll to a perambulator. Next, two squares of different greens were bound with herring-bone, itself studded with beads, a long forget-me-not embroidered across both. A memory slowly sharpened in her mind. A quarrel with her best friend, tears. Grandma saying she could mend it with her needle. Lizzie had said through her tears: "Don't be silly, Grandma." Yet, what if it was true? Could Grandma really mend things with her needle? On hands and knees, Lizzie studied each fragment again. Hearts—a restored marriage? Flowers—a flourishing garden? Perambulator—a baby at last? And could Grandma's tools work magic without her presence? I need my spirit to be healed, thought Lizzie. But how? Sleep eluded her for the rest of the night. Sewing...patchwork...mend...puddles: round and round in her head. The hours on the alarm clock flicked onward. Only five hours, then back to the cafe. Steam and grease and vitriol. No. She’d take no more. Into her pocket she slipped a capsule sewing kit: one needle, a fistful of thread, and the little scissors. In the predawn light she ran down the road to the stretch with the best potholes. She threaded her needle and selected two puddles from the road. They slithered in her hands like satin, but the needle glided through them. Now two more. Tiny stitches, so the water wouldn't run out. It lay rippling across her lap as she made the last join. Knot the thread, snip! Lay the puddle patchwork on the sidewalk. The potholes they'd come from were a foot deep at most. The patchwork puddle was miles deep. Lizzie stared into it. A face formed, smiling, nodding. A hand stretched towards her. A man? In a suit, made of leaves. She took a breath and stepped in. "Lizzie Simmons? We've been expecting you. Admitted at...05:25 Tuesday 28th. How long do you plan to stay?" Lizzie looked around her. They stood in a colonnade, open at either side to grass threaded with wild flowers, watched over by majestic trees. She could glimpse a lake further up. Wandering the winding paths, made small by distance, were men and women and children. A girl drifted round the corner and nodded her head. Serenity lit her face. "Forever!" Lizzie breathed. "Not possible, I'm afraid. But it will aid your recovery to know you can return whenever you need it." "Recovery? Is this a hospital?" "If you like. A sanctuary, to build up your strength for the outside world." A thought hit Lizzie. “You said you were expecting me?” The man nodded and checked his clipboard. “You were booked in by Cunning Susie." "Grandma?" "A regular guest when she was younger." The man smiled to himself. "Now make yourself at home." "Where should I go?" “Anywhere you like. Excuse me, another admission to log." Lizzie walked slowly down the path and into a cluster of trees. Fine rain made beads on leaves, but on her skin it only felt cool and fresh. She titled back her head and spun, and all around was leaves and sky and air. Lynden Wade spends as much time as possible in other worlds to avoid the dirty dishes in her home in eastern England. She has stories in several publications, including The Forgotten and the Fantastical series. She’s still hoping for a house elf. Photo by Pixabay

In the Shadow of the Fall by Tobi Ogundiran is an absolute wild ride of a fantasy novel. Fans of Patrick Rothfuss and Brandon Sanderson will delight in this work. The world building of this story is complex and captivating and will absolutely reel you in. A large part of the reason I loved this book so much was that Ashâke is such a strong heroine, but she is also incredibly relatable. She’s impatient, makes mistakes, and is constantly trying to work her way out of one problem or another. Her decisions made out of impatience are what makes her who she is, and is also ultimately what makes her great. Ashâke wishes to be a priestess in her world, and is willing to achieve the role by any means necessary, however she oversteps when she attempts to gain the attention of one of the Orisha capable of elevating her to the position by trapping them. Instead, she sends herself tumbling down a dark path and is spotted by a league of enemies in a dreadful vision with unwitting consequences that she never prepared for. She must weave her way through a tangled web of war with the help of new allies while danger lurks around every corner. Fans of fantasy and fairy tales will delight in this book, releasing on July 24, and I cannot wait until this book is out so I can have a paper copy of it! You can order the book here. Madeline Mertz is FTM's editorial intern and is a Truman State University student with literary journal experience.

Cinderella’s Hearth usually runs on Mondays, but I thought I’d run it today, because as I was looking up vintage Mother’s Day cards, I found this first gem, and sent it to my friend, and FTM Contributing Editor, Kelly Jarvis. Just think, at one time, moms were just aprons! 😂 Anyway, I thought I’d share some more vintage cards as a way of saying Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms, grandmothers, and others who have raised children! Now mom’s a house! (Just kidding. I think we often associate our mothers with home.) This is just cute! My mom loved animals, and this really makes me miss her. And she loved shopping. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree. I love it too. Not gonna lie—I’m a little worried about who the secret pal is. Seems a little … It really is a ‘round the clock job! That hasn’t changed. Hope you all have a wonderful week. Cinderella’s Hearth will be back on the 20th.

Long ago, when magic was like applesauce—delightful, but nothing out of the ordinary—a farm boy named Jack eked out a meager existence on his hardscrabble farm. Rocks defied his attempts to plow and plant and the rains ignored him. Although Jack toiled from dawn to dusk to feed himself and his dear old mother, not a word of complaint left his lips. A practical person, Jack didn’t waste breath on complaining that could be better spent on laboring. One cold morning, Jack awoke to find the cupboard was bare. He had no choice but to take their cow to market. There, mere steps from the butcher’s stall, with its promise of coins for food, Jack spied a curious sign: “Second-Hand Magic.” Against his better judgment, he sidled up to the booth. Five minutes of slick talking later, he found himself trading the cow for a fancy pair of boots. “Seven Yard Boots,” the vendor proudly proclaimed. “Don’t you mean Seven League Boots?” asked Jack. “No lad. These are second-hand. Seven yards is as far as they go. But think how practical that is! With Seven League Boots, you travel twenty-one miles with each step. Who knows where you’ll end up! But at twenty-one feet per step, these handy helpers make short work of rounding up strays, bringing in a crop, or chasing varmints. And if you act now, I’ll include this once-in-a-lifetime offer of Maerlin’s Magic Seeds. Plant just one to feed a family, two to feed everyone you know and three to feed a village.” Jack rolled his eyes. Magic boots were commonplace. But magic seeds? I wasn’t born yesterday, he thought. “Sure, friend,” he said as he tucked the packet into his pouch. The chickens’ anxious cackling announced Jack’s arrival. His mother looked up from sweeping the stoop to see a roiling cloud of dust barreling straight for the farmhouse. “A dust devil!” she gasped. Before she could shoo the hens to safety, Jack stood grinning in front of her. “I’m home!” His mother’s eyes narrowed as she took in his new boots. “You traded our cow for these... toys?” Jack’s face fell as she spun on her heel and stalked off. “Not toys,” he said, following her. “Tools. For the farm.” “Hah!” she snorted. “I thought you had more sense!” Jack danced around in front of his mother, pulling the seed packet from his pouch. “But I got these seeds too,” he said, waving them under her nose. “They’re...” “Magic seeds?” she sneered. “Pah!” She slapped his hand away and stomped into the farmhouse. The packet tumbled through the air, spilling seeds to the ground. Jack scuffed at them with a boot heel. “Probably not,” he muttered. Supper that evening was a single turnip. As Jack ate, alone at the table, a cold rain began to fall. Thick fog shrouded Jack’s farm as the sun rose. As he peered through the gloom, a light breeze stirred the mist, revealing monstrous shapes. Jack rubbed his eyes as he edged up to the closest one. A ray of sunshine broke through the murk, revealing a vast orange globe. “It’s a pumpkin,” he breathed. “The size of a haystack.” As the fog lifted with the rising sun, the truth in the magic vendor’s words shone forth. Gigantic pumpkins crowded corn stalks towering forty feet high. Lettuce heads ten feet across fought celery stalks with trunks like oaks for growing room. But the most magnificent vegetable of all was the beanstalk, rising so high Jack couldn’t see the top. As he craned his neck upwards, the stalk quivered. “Something up there is tugging at it,” he said. “I intend to find out what.” Without further thought, Jack began to climb. The leaves and tendrils made for an easy ascent and the farm below soon dwindled from sight. Jack stopped to rest. Looking up, he saw the beanstalk vanish into a layer of clouds. As he pondered this, a low buzzing reached his ears. On the tendril just above his head crouched a bee the size of Jack’s fist. On her head sat a small golden crown. The bee regarded Jack, then raised a foreleg in greeting. Jack tipped his cap. “You are the queen bee?” She nodded. “Well met, your highness. You had to investigate this green monster too, didn’t you?” The queen quivered her wings, buzzing out, “Yes,” then “Danger.” She lay flat on the tendril, her abdomen heaving as she gasped for breath. “I’m pretty winded too,” said Jack. “But we’re almost there. Won’t you ride in my pouch the rest of the way?” He held out his hand. With a happy buzz, the bee crawled onto his palm. Jack tucked her in a secure corner of his bag and resumed climbing. Curiosity drove Jack upwards. Soon he entered a mist, thick, cold and clammy. His world shrunk to his hands, his feet and their purchase on the now-slippery beanstalk. Jack slowed. It wouldn’t do to fall now, he thought. I don’t have enough breath to scream all the way down. Eventually, a glowing area appeared overhead. Jack climbed into the light and found himself in a wondrous new land. Solid ground stretched away in all directions. Everything looked the same as below, except ten times larger. Flowers as high as Jack’s head, trees that towered into the sky. And half a league away, looming like a fortress that held a thousand men, a castle, with a stout oaken door fifty feet tall. “No man my size lives in that castle.” His heart pounding, Jack leapt to the ground and tiptoed toward the castle. He was nearly there when the door flew open and out burst a two-headed giant. The monster was on him in three steps. One head was terrifying—a rough beard and lank, greasy locks falling over wild, bulging eyes. The other was clean-shaven with cropped hair. That one smiled at Jack. “Well, little man,” he began, when he was interrupted. “FEE! FI! FO!” bellowed the greasy one and then he paused, brows furrowed. “Uh, FEE, FI, FO… FO.…” He looked to his other head with a hopeful expression. “Fee, Fi, Fo?” he asked. “It’s Fum,” replied the other head patiently. “But we don’t do that anymore. Nobody does.” “Then stewpot!” shouted greasy head. He ground his few teeth. “Of course, brother. But first, the challenge.” He smiled again at Jack. “Well, little man, you’ve come for my treasure. It’s yours, if you win the challenge.” Jack drew himself up. “And what would that be, Sir Giant?” “Why, anything you like. Arm-wrestling, for example.” Jack shook his head. “I’m afraid that would be too easy for me.” Clean-shaven head laughed. “You’re funny, little man,” he said. “I hope you taste as nice as you talk.” Greasy head scratched his ear, frowning, then brightened. “I know! The riddle game! I’ll go first. What has hands, a face and tells time like a clock?” Clean-shaven sighed and shook his head. “No brother, that’s not your best game. Let our dinner come up with the challenge.” At that moment, the queen bee stirred. Jack snapped his fingers and said, “How about a rock throwing contest?” “Agreed,” said the giant, grinning. He picked up a small boulder and heaved it clear over the castle. “Beat that, little man!” Jack pulled the queen out of his pouch, pulled back his arm and let fly. And fly the bee did! Straight up and out of sight. “I win!” he shouted. Greasy head snarled, while the other laughed. “Sorry, but no. New challenge—a squeezing contest!” The giant lunged forward, hands outstretched. Jack clicked his heels, triggering his boots, and leapt out of the way. “Wrong! A footrace!” he yelled, and dashed off towards the castle. Leaving the bellowing giant behind, Jack was inside in a trice. “Now, where would that treasure be?” he muttered as he raced towards a grand staircase. “Yoo hoo!” came the answer. “I’m up here! Hurry!” Jack took the stairs and followed the voice to a room containing a table and a small cage. On the table sat a harp. In the cage paced a large hen. “Here I am!” sang the harp. “Free me from this giant. I shall play and sing for you!” But Jack only had eyes for the hen. “Be practical. What good is a singing harp?” he said. “You can’t plow, plant, or reap. You just make noise. This magnificent hen, though...” Jack broke off as the giant’s roar echoed through the castle. He stuffed the hen in his pouch and made for the stairs. “Take me too!” cried the harp. Jack paused, then grabbed it. The giant saw Jack clutching his harp. “Mine!” he bellowed and pounded up the stairs, roaring with rage. “Fine!” Jack shouted. “Catch it, then!” He flung the harp high over the giant’s head. Strings twanged as the harp screeched. The two-headed behemoth reared up to grab it and fell backwards, tumbling down the staircase. Jack slid down the banister, past the groaning giant and sobbing harp, and sped away to the beanstalk. Halfway to the bottom, the massive vine bucked like a mule. The giant had leapt onto the stalk. Jack flew into the air and dropped like a stone, the beanstalk just out of reach. A roar filled his ears. Rushing wind—the last thing I’ll ever hear. The wind became a deafening buzz as thousands of bees latched onto his clothing and flew him back to the beanstalk. Jack clung for his life, heart pounding out of his chest. Above, the giant slid down the stalk at breakneck speed. He’s coming too fast, thought Jack. I’ll never make it. The queen bee and her subjects left Jack and swarmed up to attack both heads, viciously buzzing and stinging. The giant fought back with both hands—a fatal mistake. He hurtled earthward, trailing a long howl of rage and terror. Jack’s mother rejoiced as he clambered off the beanstalk. Jack grinned. “I’ve been to the sky and brought back a fine hen, courtesy of our large friend.” He plucked her from his pouch and set her down. “Based on her size, we should get magnificent eggs!” The hen scratched about for a bit, then began clucking. Moments later, she laid an enormous egg. Jack whooped, then frowned. “What’s this?” he cried. He examined the fresh egg, lips curled in disgust. “It’s gold,” came a voice from behind them. They turned to behold a shimmering being alighting on the ground. “That’s the hen that lays golden eggs—the most important magic treasure in the kingdom. It belonged to my fairy sisterhood. I’ve come to bargain for it.” Jack picked up the hen and thrust it at the fairy. “It’s yours. I’ve got no use for a hen that lays eggs I can’t eat.” “But it’s...” began the fairy. “Gold. Yes, I heard you. Men kill for it. I have no wish to die defending something I never wanted in the first place. Take it.” “You’re a practical man,” the fairy observed. “Unusual for your kind.” She glanced around, her eyes lighting on the giant pumpkin. “Fine. But I must reward you somehow. Rules, you know. Give me that pumpkin and I’ll bless your farm with good soil and abundant water from this day forth.” “What do you want with an oversized pumpkin?” Jack asked. The fairy giggled and twirled her wand, sending sparkles everywhere. “My goddaughter needs a ride to the ball tonight.” “In a pumpkin?” Jack snorted. “How grand. What will she be wearing? A corn husk dress and potato-skin shoes?” “Oh no!” tittered the fairy. “Her gown will be crystallized stardust—dazzling! And her shoes? Why glass slippers, of course!” Jack laughed. “Take your pumpkin and enjoy the ball.” The fairy curtsied, then she, the hen and the pumpkin vanished. “Glass slippers,” Jack muttered. “How impractical.” Then, taking in the bumper crop around him, he said, “Come mother. It’s harvest time.” James Dodds is a recovering technical writer. More recently, he has gotten serious about writing fiction. His short fiction has appeared in The Avenue, Enchanted Conversation, Fairy Tale Magazine and Flame Tree Press, among other publications. He is a co-author of American Roulette, a novel. Image of “Jack and the Beanstalk,” by Jessie Wilcox Smith.

A persistent tapping at his door wakened the ferryman from an exhausted sleep. He thought he glimpsed flames outside his window and feared a bomb had landed near his hut. But when he opened the door, two agitated young men stood before him. “We must get to the other side of the river as quickly as possible,” they insisted. He nodded and pointed to his boat. “Give me a moment,” he said and watched as they suddenly appeared to shine with a light of their own. Will-o’-the-wisps? he wondered. He donned his white helmet and a few minutes later they were rowing across the wide river. Stormy winds churned the waters, but his passengers kept jumping from one side of the boat to the other. “Please sit still or we’ll capsize,” he cried. When they reached the other shore and the young men started to disembark, he asked for his fare. The two shook from head to toe, dropping gold coins into the bottom of the boat. “Stop!” he yelled. “I accept only the fruits of the earth.” The two laughed and continued shaking. “Please,” he implored. “Take it all back. If gold falls into the river, it will rise up and swallow us.” “We cannot take back what we have given, but we’ll bring your vegetables later today.” They jumped ashore and ran off, leaving the old man to dispose of the gold pieces. He rowed downstream until he came to some rocks where he tossed the gold into a deep crevice. The loud clattering of metal against rock disturbed a long green serpent who lived in the rocky terrain. She ate a few coins and realized her long belly had begun to glow. This stirred a memory of a prophetic tale. Hungrily she consumed every piece of gold. Maybe the prophecy is coming true! But as she slithered across the rocks, her inner light began to dim. Traveling upstream, she saw lights dancing in a meadow above the riverbank. “Hello,” she called. “I’m looking for the source of some gold coins I found.” “That would be us,” cried the young men with cheery voices and began to shake from head to toe. The serpent could not believe her good fortune as gold coins rolled toward her. “Why are you here?” she asked them. “We came to dance for the Beautiful Lily and the Vibrant Rose. Can you tell us how to find them?” “The garden of the Lily and the Rose is on the other side of the river,” she told them. “Oh, dear,” they moaned, “and we just crossed in such stormy weather. But we can ride back with the ferryman when he comes again. “Well, no, you can’t. The ferryman can bring passengers only to this side of the river. To get back, you must either cross with me when I form a bridge at noon, or you can find the shadow of the giant and cross with him at dawn or dusk.” “Thank you,” they said, shaking more coins onto the grass and off they went to find the giant. The green serpent licked up all the gold pieces and admired her brilliant reflection in the river. Back in her rocky terrain, it occurred to her that she now possessed the light to explore a tunnel she had long been curious about. She knew it led to a grand rotunda, but she could never see the details. The moment she entered the large hall, her belly illuminated four mysterious figures, each partially hidden in a niche. The first, wearing a crown of oak leaves, shone with a golden light as he stepped toward her. Two other statues, one silver and one bronze, also stepped forward into the light. The silver king was ornately dressed, with a jewel-studded crown and a silver scepter. The bronze king was clothed in armor and carried a heavy sword. “Where have you come from?” they asked the serpent. “This is my home,” she answered and moved deeper into the cave to get a better look at the silent fourth figure. He appeared to be a composite of all three metals, but insufficiently amalgamated. Just as he was about to speak, a crevice in the wall opened and an old man carrying a lamp appeared. “Why are you here? We have light,” said the silver king. “As you know, my lamp cannot illuminate darkness; it can only enhance and make manifest the inner light.” Hearing this, the serpent whispered something into the old man’s ear. He turned to the others and cried, “The time is at hand!” His words echoed throughout the hall causing the metal statues to vibrate and ring. With that, the old man ran back though the crevice to the west, while the snake rushed out to the east. As the old man approached his hut, he heard his wife and children sobbing. “What is the cause of this misery?” he asked. “Two young men threatened to burn down our house if we did not agree to pay the ferryman their fare.” The children were most upset by the death of their cat. “They scattered gold coins all over the hut and our dear little kitty ate a piece and died.” The old man calmed his family and told them to place the dead kitten in a basket with as many vegetables from their garden as they could carry down to the river. “The vegetables are for the ferryman, including what he needs to appease the river. But take the kitten to the Beautiful Lily and the Vibrant Rose, for only they can bring it back to life.” The sisters were blessed with the touch that could restore life to the lifeless but cursed to bring death to any living thing that came in contact with them. As the family arrived at the riverbank, the ferryman was just arriving with a taciturn young man holding a walking stick entwined with sprigs of jasmine. After the wife paid the ferryman his vegetables, the family—joined now by the young man—proceeded along the river toward a distant green bridge that would carry them across to the garden of the Lily and the Rose. When the wife explained to the young man why they were carrying the dead kitten to the two sisters, he reached down and lovingly stroked its ears. “How I envy this tiny animal for I yearn to embrace the sisters but know that their touch would spell instant death for me.” Once they had crossed the bridge, the glittering span became slack, and the serpent dropped into the water and swam ashore in time to join the procession. The garden where Lily and Rose lived had become a refuge to people from across the region. There had been fighting among the many factions for so long, no one could quite remember what they were fighting about. They all loved the land and they all loved Lily and Rose, that was clear. But peace eluded them as they waited for the ancient prophecy to play out. Indeed, even as the group crossed the river and made its way to the garden, air raid sirens wailed in the distance and bombs struck both sides of the river, ever closer to the protected garden. The air was dense with smoke as one by one each member of the procession entered the garden and presented themselves to the sisters, beginning with the wife who placed the basket holding the dead kitten at their feet. “My old man asked me to tell you that just when misfortune seems greatest, you must see it as a sign of good luck, for the time is at hand.” Lily looked at the woman and suppressed a sob. “Can it be?” Rose bent down to pick up the little animal and instantly it came to life, running and jumping all around the garden. Next, the young man approached, but he became so overcome with desire that he ran toward Lily and could not stop himself. Rose held out her arms to warn him off, but no sooner had he touched her hand than he dropped dead on the spot. Everyone stared in horror at the scene. Lily and Rose dissolved in tears, barely able to stand. The green serpent rushed forward and encircled the lifeless body of the young man with her own, holding her tail in her mouth and creating a magic circle that would protect him. They all remained motionless as the day wore on and twilight began to settle over the garden. Finally, the green snake lifted her head and shouted for someone to go and find the old man with the lamp. The wife sent one of her sons and presently the old man joined the throng surrounding the magic circle, as did the two will-o’-the-wisps. Holding his lamp high above his head, the old man’s light intermingled with the beams emanating from the serpent, creating an otherworldly aura. He instructed Lily and Rose to hold hands and as Rose placed a hand on the serpent while Lily grasped the arm of the young man, the boy immediately stirred and took a deep breath. The old man leaned down to the green serpent, “Have you decided?” “Yes,” she replied. “I shall sacrifice myself in the name of love and peace.” Immediately upon saying this, her body disintegrated into a circle of precious emeralds. The old man and his family quickly gathered them up and tossed them into the river. No sooner had they finished this task than the ground began to shake, and the huge stone temple rose up and settled on the riverbank. “This time we must enter through the main portals,” said the old man and he showed the will-o’-the-wisps the great bronze doors secured by a golden lock. They made short work of the lock, and the doors sprang open, revealing the four kings. “Where do you come from?” asked the gold king. “From the world,” said the old man. “What do you want with us?” asked the others. The old man held his lamp close to the four statues. “All shall be clear,” he said, “for the time is at hand.” He led Lily, Rose, and the young man to the foot of a high staircase where the kings had fallen to their knees. “There are three things that rule the earth.” The old man spoke in a voice loud enough for all to hear. “Wisdom, empathy, and power.” As he recited these things, each of the kings stood in turn. Meanwhile the will-o’-the-wisps clung to the composite king, licking away the gold vein that traversed his form. In a last desperate attempt to ward them off, he grabbed one and flung it at the other kings. Suddenly flames engulfed all four figures and they quickly melted into a pool of molten metal that seeped into the green gemstone foundation. Lily picked up the oakleaf crown and placed it on her head; Rose salvaged the sword in its bronze scabbard and put it on; the young man found the silver scepter and cradled it in his arm. Then, the old man led the three up the stairs and held their hands high in the air. “If we unite and everyone does their duty, a universal happiness will resolve each individual’s pain. Love and sacrifice,” he said, “form the foundation of this new world. Remember that and honor the serpent.” As the rising sun shone through an opening in the domed roof, he pointed to the river below where a massive bridge was crowded with not just individuals, but also cars and transports, moving freely from one shore to the other. Beyond the bridge, what appeared to be a lighthouse proved to be the petrified figure of the giant, arm raised over his head, holding the old man’s lantern, its wondrous light erasing all trace of shadows from the land. K. L.  Shailer is a lifelong student of German and Scandinavian Romanticism, fairy tales, and myths. Her stories have appeared in CommuterLit and Uproar; in 2022 she won first place in the Canadian Authors Association’s inaugural flash fiction contest. She lives and writes in southwest Ontario and BC’s lower mainland. Image: The Prophecy (Charon and Psyche) by John Roddam Spencer Stanhope.

When the boat slid before me as if waiting, I snipped the blue thread in my wrist with a sliver of the shattered mirror and with my bloodied finger wrote my name on its stern so as to be remembered. I laid down, unravelling my braids from their ivory combs. They trailed behind me, a tangle of bright skeins like seaweed skimming the surface. I watched the blood flowers floating below, a rose tapestry aswirl, embroidered on the water. My life ebbed like the stream’s foam. Though faint, I fought to raise my head to gaze toward Camelot, my wrists staining my white gown red. Crowned with the last light, I chanted happily, words slurred into nonsense, serene, no more dreading the future. Behind me, my tower spindled the gilt-edged brocade of clouds. I had been most popular at court among the other ladies, and favorite of the knights, who sought my attentions. One lady envied me and told her mother, a powerful witch, who trapped me in that tower and cast the curse. The last words I heard as I died were Lancelot’s. Did the lady hear of them? She has no need for another curse, now that my doom has come to pass. She is satisfied, but I will haunt her now. When she looks in her mirror, I will be there: my face cracked from side to side, dripping blood on her reflection. Lorraine Schein is a NY writer and poet. Her work has appeared in VICE Terraform, Strange Horizons, Scientific American, NewMyths and Michigan Quarterly, and in the anthologies Wild Women and Tragedy Queens: Stories Inspired by Lana del Rey & Sylvia Plath. Her book, The Lady Anarchist Cafe, is available from Autonomedia. Image, “I am Half Sick of Shadows,” by John William Waterhouse.

Hello Enchanted Friends: Welcome to the Spring/Summer 2024, issue of The Fairy Tale Magazine, “Flights of Fancy.” If you are a recent fan, then you may not know that for over 15 years, in both the Enchanted Conversation and FTM iterations, we published directly on the site, and did not do PDF versions or sell subscriptions. We only experimented with that in 2023. So we are returning to our roots with this wonderful issue! This issue is packed with emotion, magic and old stories filled with new details and new points of view. I’m proud of how it has turned out. You’ll see terrific stories and poems inspired by “Jack and the Beanstalk,” “The Lady of Shallot,” “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” “Diamonds and Toads,” “Snow White,” and many more. I’m also proud of how Kelly Jarvis and I put this issue together (especially Kelly), as we are still learning this platform and are not art experts! The FTM team, which also includes Madeline Mertz, Kim Malinowski, and Lissa Sloan, is the best. Below is the Table of Contents for the issue, and please note that we included the lovely St. Patrick’s Day story by Cheryl Israel, “The Magic Mirror,” which ran on March 17. Yours in Enchantment, Kate Wolford Table of Contents “The Bean Seller's Song,” Kelly Jarvis ”Willow's Balm,” Kim Malinowski “Things Gretel Knows,” Lissa Sloan “The Weavers Speak,” Deborah Sage “Steps,” Kristen Baum DeBeasi “The Shoppe on Brackenbury Lane,” Grace Nuth “The Witch's Table,” Amy Trent “The Lady of Shalott Bleeds Out,” Lorraine Schein “Sleeping Beauty's Garden,” Madeleine Elias “A Frog Remembers the Quiet,” Helen Patrice “A Prince's Perspective,” Lauren Reynolds “Stained,” Raina Alidjani “A World In Her Tresses,” Ian Li ”The Prophecy,” K. L. Shailer ”The Tower,” Lynn Hardaker ”Medicine For The Ailing Mortal, as Told in Seven Stories,” Silvatiicus Riddle “Practical Jack,” James Dodds From March: “The Magic Mirror,” Cheryl Israel Image: “The Giant Butterfly,” by George Hood.

Beauty & The Beast Should you discover the beast of loneliness that haunts the halls in the castle of your heart: behold the world upon you, for there be no monster that cannot be alchemized by the beauty of stillness. Sleeping Beauty Should you prick your finger on the spindle of brokenness; should bracken burst in fractals from the wound: If the world be your kingdom, and time be your Prince, Rest now, dear one, for he cuts with a pendulum and not with a sword. The bracken may wither, but slow goes the cutting, and the density of the briar is equal to the depth of your pain. Cinderella Should you find yourself plucking the dregs of dreams from beneath the cinders of a fire, and tucking them safely into the tattered pockets of a year, there be no shame in unraveling a spool of tears at your feet. Tears, like diamonds, fashion the armor of strength– that with which you rise to meet the world. Let the finch in the scar and the raven in the wound teach you the subversive magic of  “no”–a curse on those who wish to bind you; and one of these midnights, no man, no fool, no wicked stepmother will keep you from breaching the castle walls. Snow White Should you bite into the poisoned apple of lies, and fall into a deep sleep of false possibility, let love carry you to beauty, enrobed in a crystal carapace of tenderness and memories, and, sure as the moon rises, the prince of truth will 'rouse you from that wicked, tiny death. Jack & The Beanstalk Don't be like Jack. Just don't. Hansel & Gretel Should you find yourself a'wander in the forest of loss, beware the witch of beguiling, as she is wont to prey upon the abandoned, the lost, and the broken. For this: a recipe of breadcrumbs, to lead you home again. 1 Parcel of Flowers For when belief seems to fatten upon deception, the grounding of nature will tether you to this realm. 1 Drop of Cunning To draw the witch closer, that you might see her more clearly. 1 Ounce of Courage To slam the oven door. For there is no lie that cannot be fired in the oven of knowledge. Little Red Riding Hood Should you meet with wolves in disguise, remember that wolves were once men, before swallowing the poison of greed. They will hunger for your magic, and thirst for your wonder; Feed them neither, and pay them no mind. You may be Red, but also the Hunter, and no one can touch you in these woods. Your power will catch in the throats of the wolves, and in your wake, they will starve. Let them starve. Silvatiicus Riddle (He/They) is a Rhysling-Nominated Dark Fantasy & Speculative Fiction Writer living on the borderlands of New York City. He's appeared in Abyss & Apex, Dreams & Nightmares, Enchanted Living, Eternal Haunted Summer, and Spectral Realms, among others. You may find him at Facebook.com/SilvatiicusRiddleAuthor or Instagram @Silvatiicus Image by Gustave Dore.