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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)

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.