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He had only a cow, milky and white, and my own hungry look in his youthful eyes. The beans screamed in my pocket, singing their lies. I smoothed my white beard, nodded my head. “Good morning, Jack,” I said. I spun him a story of how high he could climb, leaves licking his body like soft feathered wings. The beans whispered their false rhyme of jewel-hued night, thick bars of silver, and ruby-red rings. They warbled of white hens who would lay golden eggs, and hummed the hushed, haunted tunes of gilded harp strings. The boy’s eyes grew as wide as the sky. I rattled the beans like coins in my hand. Some say it was a lowly cow who brought about creation, lapping god-like forms from salted frost with her rough pink tongue. How I long to sip sweet streams of cream to quell the dangerous, darkling dreams that remind me of my time in the sky and the terrible things I have done. Let the boy climb high through thick webbed vines to marvel at the wonders of the Milky Way. I have traded my beans for Milky White, and I will wallow on earth the rest of my days. Kelly Jarvis (she/her) works as the Assistant Editor for The Fairy Tale Magazine. Her poetry has been featured or is forthcoming in Blue Heron Review, Mermaids Monthly, Eternal Haunted Summer, Forget Me Not Press, A Moon of One’s Own, The Magic of Us, 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. She can be found at https://kellyjarviswriter.com/ Image from Pixabay.

When she asked for the dresses, the king’s Order came to us, the maidens of The kingdom. Commanded on pain of death, To weave dresses as golden as the sun, As silver as the moon, as dazzling as The stars. Weaving a dress from sunlight merely Burns the hands, Threads of fire ignite fingertips, Leaving heat-radiating scars, reminders Of gold’s price. Moonlight is cooler, less punishing. Silver Water streaming through the needle. Moonlight forgives distraction and Missed stitches. But only a witch can weave A dress from starlight. Interlacing Diamond-keen beams risks Blood and blindness, Fair forfeit for the thief of constellations. And so, for our sister we wove The golden gown and The one of silver, fashioning her freedom With flame and luminescence, but For the one of stars We gave ourselves. Deborah Sage is a native of Kentucky, USA. She has most recently been published in Eternal Haunted Summer, Literary LEO, Fairy Tale Magazine, From the Farther Trees, the 2022 Dwarf Stars Anthology , Amethyst Press’s All Shall Be Well anthology for Julian of Norwich and Eye to the Telescope. Image source unknown.

Titania's missing hair comb sits in the dusty corner of a rummage shop in Least Pickings, nestled between a tarnished silver vanity brush and a cracked mirror, half wrapped in moldering leather. The Shoppe on Brackenbury Lane might as well have left the "e" off their name, since it tilts precariously on the worn sign hanging above the door, threatening to death leap onto any prospective customer who might dare walk through the creaking front door paned with grimy leaded glass. But this is where the faeries go to hide the things they want to forget, or may want to have found. If mortals lived for hundreds of years, they might also find that they accumulate objects laden with memories, treasures that no longer charm or delight. Or items so dangerous they need to be taken out of Faerie, and hidden somewhere they can be forever overlooked and neglected. It is common knowledge among the fae that in such circumstances, the nondescript secondhand store would always be on hand to assist, albeit with the human proprietor's absolute obliviousness to their ethereal comings and goings. The Shoppe never updates the offerings in the front windows, but no one can see through them anyhow to be beguiled by the wares, and Archie (the aforementioned proprietor) has no interest in enticing. Inquire with him for a price, and he will peer at you down his nose through his smudged glasses, huffing and sniffling, and mutter what could be "three quid" or "sod off" in equal measure. An ancient handwritten sign by the dusty cash register shouts "CASH ONLY" in all capital letters. The befuddled person who might stumble through the door might marvel at how such a place manages to stay open. To that all I can say is...faerie magic is quite a remarkable thing. The especially stubborn, intrepid, brave, or resolute individual who determines to explore further has passed the first test, but there are more to come. The front room is filled with a labyrinth of piled furniture, perilously prepared to topple at the slightest nudge from a hip or a handbag. Glass cases are filled to overflowing with prim porcelain figures of cherubic children. Look extremely closely, and you might see one whose mouth opens wide not in wonder, but a never-ending scream. Climb the stairs, take several turns, and you will emerge in the attic, lungs accosted with the pungent and entirely foul smell of mildewing fabric. This is where Archie tosses any textiles he acquires, and perhaps decades ago they began in piles, but now the slowly rotting heaps rise like mountains to either side of you as you traverse narrow passageways through. If anyone was valiant enough to plunge a hand into the bank of the hillock three mounds to the left of the window, they would be rewarded to discover the forgotten fairy godmother's long lost spinning wheel. Be careful with the spindle. It can still draw mortals into an eternal sleep with a single prick. You didn't make it that far? Turned at the doorway and ran back downstairs? So do most, my dear. I cannot blame you. And not all of the hidden treasures at the Shopp"e" are as perilous as all that. Through the largest downstairs room there is a door that leads to a hallway of chairs. Wooden legs stick out in piles of all directions, resembling a peculiar sort of forest. Walk down the hall, turn a corner, and keep walking. And walking. No one has ever found the end. But if you focus on the journey and not the destination, as the human saying goes, you might notice a space where two gothic armchairs and an ottoman with threadbare velvet form an opening that resembles a doorway. Congratulations, you have discovered a portal to the Realm of Faerie. Archie's hoard spills out of an open door into the back garden, where trestle tables pile high with silver platters and ancient flatware. In the mass closest to the thorny rose bush, if you carefully brush aside a few forks and knives, you may see a pair of scissors with the words "armis natura" etched into the blades, and intricate ferns sculpted along the handles. Take these with you to the moors on a midsummer day, and you will be able to cut the mist into a fine fabric, or walk to the hawthorn tree, and you can slice the dew-beaded spiderweb in her branches into a gossamer tulle more beautiful than human eye has ever seen. Search harder in the pile and you may find the needle that will allow you to turn them into garments. But needles in haystacks are far more easily discovered. Perhaps no one will ever find these priceless artifacts. Maybe they will be unearthed tomorrow. There could be less dangerous places for the faeries to hide their treasures, but I'll be damned if they don't find this far, far more amusing. Archie Hawthorne is my name, entirely human proprietor of The Shoppe on Brackenbury Lane in Least Pickings, Yorkshire. I’m the oblivious, crotchety old geezer who doesn’t notice the pixie dust right under his own nose. Or so the Faeries believe. They never stopped to wonder why their human’s shop has been around for two centuries and has never changed hands. It isn’t easy you know, being able to pretend you don’t see them, ignoring their hair pulling, their nose hair tickling. It takes the patience of a retired wizard to keep them from realizing you see them at all. But someone has to keep them from causing trouble. And oh lord and lady, they are the absolute worst at supposedly hiding their treasures. Just a few days ago I found a fairy godmother’s wand stuffed into a glass shoe right at the front of one of the display cases. It’s a full time job, relocating these valuable items to safer spots. And then of course I need to have the wisdom to decide what items should stay hidden, and which customers deserve to take them home. Behind this grumpy face and these grumbled mutterings are a protective mind and heart. I only want those objects that will do good to match with those who need their help. And if a lesser cursed object or two gets tucked into the coat jacket of unsavory thieves, well…I’m just the puppet of fate, aren’t I? Not all is as it seems in Faerie, friend. Nor is it in my Shoppe. The E, you see, stands for enchantment. Grace Nuth is the co-author of The Faerie Handbook, and former Senior Editor of Enchanted Living Magazine. At her day job as a librarian, she matches stories to readers, and she’s currently working on one of her own; a sapphic novel about a selkie and an ocean ghost. Image is from a Crystal Palace Exhibition illustration.

Reality is too tidy after one hundred years of dreaming So she makes her garden messy She grows no roses, but wild brambles that bear the sweetest blackberries Soft between her teeth, sun ripened and warm Only she can pick them safe from thorns She does not sleep much, which makes the court whisper Of curses reversed but not quite broken She shelters in her plants’ unjudging company Weaving moonflower and morning glory into ever-blooming vines Cradled in the roots of a steady birch The trees know all about long, deep sleep By night she gathers up the sleep she does not need Bundling it, poppy-scented, in a gossamer net bag Then creeps through the castle, soft as starlight Giving rest to the old laundress and the weary maid Rich with visions of rose petal castles and flashing fairy wings Once eternally sleeping, now she sweetens dreams Madeleine Elias has an MFA in Writing from the University of San Francisco. She is a writer of magical stories and poetry, an avid crafter, a singer and a dancer. She lives with one foot always in the land of stories and is working on her first novel. Vintage artwork, artist unknown.

I spend my time in the mud, the well, the lily pond. It’s comfortable, if a little dull. Sometimes a fairy visits. She shrinks herself down to my frog size, and we croak. She’s after company, fun, some mischief. I think, compared to her flitting, my life lacks possibility. She puts in my head wild ideas – to be a man, a prince, climb out of the well, and live on land, in a house, even a palace. Dreams and fancies become plans. I look at the sketches we have scratched into the slime. She’s going to get herself a sweeping black dress, find some baby to curse, be That Sort Of Fairy. I’m going to get a girl to kiss me, turn into a man, live happily ever after. Then my fairy friend has a black dress, and a pendant of jet and moonlight. She casts a spell on me that I thank her for, so now I’m forced to endlessly return a ball to a silly girl who could play anywhere she likes, but thinks it’s fun to lob it down the well. My fairy friend curses a baby, becomes a legend. I let the girl kiss me. I become a man, famed for once having been a frog. Clothes itch, air dries my skin, and I’m one gender all the time. More slime grows over our well etchings. My wife is the kindest woman in the world, but she is no soft mud covering, cool and wet. My fairy friend visits, tells me we both got what we wanted. The bright lights of celebrity thrill her, blind me, just as headlights dazzle a cane toad on the road. The golden ball, ensconced on a plinth, lights the whole palace. Everywhere except my heart. Helen Patrice is an Australian writer living in Naarm, oddly obsessed with fairy tales, myth, and folklore. She lives with a view of the Dandenong Ranges, which often inspire her work. Her new fairy tale collection INTO DARK WOODS will be published in 2024. Helen lives with her husband, adult offspring, two opinionated cats, and one small yappy dog. Image for “The Frog Prince,” by Walter Crane.

I stand over the well, fingering the flint in my hand. My breath catches, and I feel like I am going to cry. Smacking myself hard across my stained face, I snap out of it. I light the dynamite, roped together like a bouquet, and toss it. Taking quick steps back, my eyes widen as I hear the plop of the sticks hitting the dry bottom and then finally the sweet release of the explosion. Like my rage, the fireball snakes its way into the air before it retreats, collapsing in on itself –– barring my tormentor from my world once and for all. I was fifteen when my stepsister, Mariel, returned, dripping in gold. Mother came to wake me, crying tears of joy, and I rushed from my room to greet her. She had been gone two weeks, and we had scoured the forest for any sign of her. I rushed down the steps to behold her, glowing in the backdrop of the morning sun. Her yellow hair matched the golden bracelets that made their way up both arms, her narrow frame weighed down by pendants and gems. My mouth hung open. We’d resigned ourselves to the fact that she might never return. Soon, we’d wish she hadn’t. Mariel’s father was my mother’s second husband. We had been born in the same year, under the same harvest moon, but our blood was different. She was light all over – thin, blonde, with ice-blue eyes and a voice that sounded like air. I was dark all over – brown and muddy with dimpled thighs and a hearty laugh that erupted at the most inopportune times. When her father died, my mother untangled his web of debts and took Mariel on as her own. We were inseparable until our monthly bleeding began and our differences became salient. “Did you notice Charles looking at me today?” She asked as we walked home from school. “No. Why?” I already knew why. “He was looking. Perhaps I’ll marry him if he’s lucky.” I knew everyone looked at her. She had bloomed overnight. That didn’t bother me. What bothered me was that suddenly all she cared about was their approval. “Eadie, can I stay home from school from now on?” She asked Mother over supper. “Why would you want to do that?” Learning was important to Mother. She had never been given the chance to attend school and was proud that we could. “I can help around here, learn things much more useful than anything in books. I want to learn to be a wife.” I grimaced, looking at my mother and then back toward Mariel. I had tried to talk her out of it. “You’ll stay in school until you’ve finished. You’ll have your whole life to learn about that.” My mother was stoic and gray from burying two husbands and meant what she said. “I can help you with your work,” Mariel pleaded. Mother pursed her lips and set down her fork. “I said no.” “You just don’t want anyone to marry me. You know no one will ever want Brie and you’re jealous. You want us to both be stuck with you forever,” she spat and ran from the house. I’d never thought about marriage, but the words stung. I knew their underlying meaning: Brie is ugly, Brie is unlovable, I don’t love her. She was my only friend, and she thought nothing of me. That was the last I saw of Mariel before she showed up decked in gold. “Where have you been?” I felt the release of all my fears for her safety. “Look at me,” She twirled and laughed airily. “Mother lost her job looking for you. I’ve missed school.” Relief turned to rage. “Did you steal this, child?” Mother walked over to her, inspecting. “Earned it.” “There’s no honest way to have earned all of this in two weeks.” Mariel snapped her hand back from Mother’s touch. “When I ran from here, I was so upset I didn’t notice where I was going. I ran right into the well deep in the woods and fell in. I thought I was doomed.” A knot of guilt formed in my stomach for not following her into the woods where it’s known that fairies reside. “I landed on a bed of flowers. The dark and cold were replaced by warm sunlight. For a moment, I thought I was in heaven but then an old woman beckoned to me. I followed her to a small cottage. Only it wasn’t small once you entered it. Once you were in, it went on and on and was filled with the most beautiful treasures.” “And then?” I asked, breathless. Mother had sat down with a hand over her heart. “It was Mother Holle from the nursery rhymes. She knew me and promised to give me what I wanted if I would keep her house spotless and prove what a good woman I was. I worked tirelessly to cook her beautiful meals, ensure her linens were freshly pressed, and not a speck of dust was left behind. In return, she gave me all of this.” She jingled her arms, her bangles clanking in a cacophonous melody. “I’m so happy for you.” I wanted to embrace her, my anger fading. “You are not. You are a sullen girl I’ve had to pretend to like so your mother would keep me fed. I’ve just returned to show you I don’t need you and never have. With this dowry, I will fetch a prince.” With those hateful words, she was gone from our lives, with only a few tattered dresses to remember her by. My mother’s employers never forgave her for missing those weeks, and soon we scavenged the edge of the forest for berries to satiate our growling bellies. “Brie, you must go to the well.” Mother gripped me by both arms one day when we could take it no longer. “Mother, I don’t know how to keep a house.” But I knew there was no use arguing. It was our only choice. That night I cried, hugging my books. Mariel’s words repeated in my head so loud I couldn’t sleep. Mother accompanied me to the well and urged me to stand on the precipice. When I could not bring myself to jump into its black depths, she closed her eyes tight and pushed me. I fell, my screams echoing through the abyss until finally, as Mariel said I would, I landed on a bed of soft flowers. “Well then, I guess you’ll be coming with me, Brienne,” an old woman who seemed to be expecting me beckoned to follow her, using my full name. “Mother Holle?” I knew her instantly. A kerchief tied her white ringlets back, and she walked with a cane, although her gait showed she had no real use for it. “I am she. And you, have come for my gold. Have you not?” she pointed the cane toward me, knocking me gently on the chest. I nodded sheepishly. There didn’t seem to be any point in pretending. “I’m afraid no amount of gold will buy you a prince.” “I don’t need a prince.” We began to walk through the forest. The trees seemed to move just in time for us to pass. “I just need enough money to keep my family fed until we can secure jobs.” “And what type of job would that be?” She looked down her long nose at me. I shrugged. “School teacher, perhaps.” It had been my dream for as long as I could remember. Humph, she frowned. “I won’t be having any talk of that here. Here, I reward grace, femininity, and beauty, not brains. You are no beauty, so you must be graceful as a gazelle to win my favor.” “I’ll do my best,” I swallowed sharply. No one had ever called me graceful before. “What if I don’t live up to your standards?” “Then you’d best leave now. You don’t want to test my patience.” She held out her hand, and a portal opened. Through it was my home, and I could see my mother lying in bed, sobbing. “No.” I let my gaze fall from the scene. I couldn’t go back empty-handed. “Well then, you should know I like my tea piping hot, but not so much so that it burns my tongue. I’ll show you to the wash basin so that you can start on the laundry.” She snapped her fingers, and a biscuit appeared in her hand. “I think you’ll be needing this for energy.” “If you can snap your fingers like that and have food appear. What do you need me for?” I asked in between bites, allowing my curiosity to outweigh my fear. I did my best to keep crumbs from falling onto the floor, gathering them into my hands and stuffing them into my pockets. “Do you think the husbands can’t do what the wives do and vice versa? Of course, they can.” She wagged her finger at me. “I am teaching you many lessons already.” I started with the laundry. Before the day's end, I’d stained her whites, pink, knocked over a precious vase or two, burned her tongue with hot tea, and stepped on her cat’s tail. Despite my mistakes, she never raised her voice at me or her hand. I knew I’d likely not get much gold, but I hoped she’d spare a trinket or two for trying. We didn’t need much. “Enough,” she said finally with a clap of her hands after three days of torture. I missed my home and despite the beauty that surrounded me, there was nothing to occupy my brain aside from work. “Have I completed the test?” I was hopeful. “Yes. You’ve completed enough for me to see your worth.” She twirled her hands, and I saw my mother again, mending a dress by the hearth. “You may go now.” “And the gold?” I didn’t want to disappoint Mother. She had been disappointed enough in her life, and one daughter had already abandoned her. Mother Holle let out a cackle at that. “This is your payment for being useless.” She flung out her hand, and a sticky black substance was launched through the air, covering me from head to toe and propelling me through the portal. When I reached our home, I landed at Mother’s feet, gasping for air as the tar filled my lungs. Pitch stains skin – especially supernatural pitch created by a fairy mother. I didn’t leave the house for a month – scrubbing, scrubbing. Mother and I both scrubbed until my skin turned red and raw underneath the black. There are still some spots dotting my cheeks and my forehead, but in my classroom, the girls don’t mind. We learn. We laugh heartily, and we eat, allowing crumbs to fall to the floor as we share ideas. Mother doesn’t mind cleaning them up if we let her in on our jokes. We heard that Mariel married a Duke of something or other soon after my return from the well. I’d become nearly as famous for my stains as she had for her gold, and word of the misfortune must have reached her. She sent a small bauble, with no note, saving us from hunger and cold until we could get back on our feet. In return, when we heard she had died in childbirth, we lit candles in her honor and cried for the child she once was. Today, I went to the well, a place I have feared for so long, with dynamite in my hands to make sure none of my girls ever go in search of gold or promises of love that must be bought and worked for. When they find love, which we all deserve, they will find it on their own terms, as I have. Raina Alidjani lives in Philadelphia with her husband, toddler, and cat.  She works in advertising by day and writes feminist speculative fiction by night. Her short stories have been published by Myth & Lore, The Raven Review, Heartland Society of Women Writers, Mulberry Literary, and The Selkie. Image by Arthur Rackham.

It doesn’t seem fair, really, that a moment’s curiosity should become a life commitment, that one single good deed should turn into a declaration of marriage, and that should be our only destiny. We didn’t go into the Woods looking for wives, but adventure, freedom: perhaps peace, not a girl in a glass coffin We didn’t climb the tower expecting to find a maiden in need of rescuing, maybe treasure, or a Sorcerer, a map to some other quest. You don’t explore an abandoned castle lost to time and caked with briars hoping to find a sleeping Lady, maybe a dragon, or an ogre, or an evil witch or some other beast that needs to be conquered. That always makes for a better adventure. You climb the beanstalk hoping to find a giant not a harp shaped like some girl. You slay the evil king to free the villagers from tyranny not to win the hand of his daughter. We leave home hoping for quests of knowledge, challenges to test our courage, travels for treasure more precious than gold, migrations into manhood, so when we come home, different than before, we’re ready to take on the tasks of kingship, to rule wisely. Instead, this happens: we find a girl. Of course, we can’t leave her there, Of course, it’s a kiss that breaks her spell, Of course, we’ll take them home. How else can we help them? That’s also unfair, really, That our first kiss— —and theirs— should be with a total stranger, and a forced affair. And yet they wake up, dreaming of their true love, their Prince Charming, their kingdom to rule: are we even allowed to say no? To apologize politely and say we don’t feel that same? That we’d rather be friends? It wouldn’t be fair to them either, if we weren’t honest. But the Maiden wants her Prince, the Queen wants her grandchild, the King wants his legacy secured, the People want a Royal Wedding, the Minister wants to avoid a scandal: what choice do we have? And what of her when she realizes this is her Grand Reward, that the prize for all her suffering and hardship, should be a man and babies and obnoxious mother-in-laws. What if she wanted to be an adventurer? Or a warrior? Or a Beast Tamer? Or a Witch, herself? No one asked her what she wanted before she pricked her finger, or got stolen by a flock of crows, or kidnapped by a dragon or forced to marry an ogre. No one asked her what she wanted because her opinions don’t always matter, and no one ever asks the Prince what he wants, because his opinions never matter. That’s not how the story goes. That’s not Happily Ever After, or, at least, not the one everyone wants. It really is terribly unfair, that our gracious gesture, our kindness and compassion should be so horribly misunderstood. Lauren Reynolds spends her days spinning outrageous tales of faeries, pirates and evil queens and has published several short stories and poems. She lives in Maryland with her best friend and two dog daughters. In her free time she enjoys exploring the marshlands, visiting historical towns, searching thrift stores for hidden treasures and is a self-proclaimed mythology nut, anime junky and monster lover. Image for “Lady of Shalott” by John William Waterhouse.

Flowing hair tumbles from the sky to find her freedom and new fate delivered not by gallant prince but by connecting to the earth. Her tresses swirl in morning sun like rippling stalks of amber wheat. She whispers words that bees pass on to seek companions, pure and free. Come alive, come alive! She dreams of daffodils and marigolds so she weaves seeds into her hair builds cozy nests inside her curls. When spring arrives, she holds her breath, sees nestled in her golden locks flitting moths and dappled honey and goldfinch chicks and dandelions. A world soon blooms before her eyes— golden apples, beets, and peppers beating breasts of yellow warblers the swooning dance of butterflies. With nature’s chatter in her ears the tower cages her no more— the princess welcomes spring’s embrace a crown of daisies, breathless grace. Ian Li (he/him) writes speculative fiction and poetry from Toronto. Formerly an economist and consultant, he also loves spreadsheets, statistical curiosities, and brain teasers. Find his writing at Radon Journal and Flame Tree Press, as well as at https://ian-li.com. Image of Rapunzel by Emma Florence Harrison.

rapunzel: it wasn’t a prison. well, it was at the start, but i came to enjoy our games of cards, of chess, came to look forward to letting her braid the copper river of my hair or braiding the silver river of hers. after a while though, although she was excellent company: well read, loved to converse, and could tell a mean joke, i suppose in the end it was the terrible boredom of familiarity. the witch: i felt badly at first. see, my motives were far from pure. but as she grew more beautiful with each round of the moon, and seemed truly to enjoy the world i’d built for us, in her presence i felt just a little bit lovely. she loved to cook and i to eat; she sang like a thrush. i don’t want to seem ungrateful for all the years, but i suppose that at some point i became just a little bit bored. the prince: i heard the singing - a sound that turned the air to honey - and called up to that unreachable window hoping for a glimpse, but gave up and sat amongst the thistles and nettle. as i fell into a slumber, the song above changed, now a second voice sang and i wondered what magic is this? but my eyes closed, as though pulled and stitched fast with threads of copper and silver silk. rapunzel: when we heard him call up to us at first i was afraid for visitors to this part of the wood did not usually bode well. but he looked harmless enough if a little silly in that princely get-up, he had a sweet smile and eyes that were no less beautiful for their obvious lack of sight. the witch: okay, so i meddled, can you blame me? i knew the girl was lonely for company of her own age; it seemed an innocent enough spell but then, things don’t always turn out the way one hopes and my motives might not have been quite so pure besides, the prince was a much better chess player than she. the prince: after a year, my eyes healed and i pretended not to have figured out what had been done as i was quite pleased with the outcome the girl is charming and witty, and the woman is a worthy chess partner and can talk far into the night about any subject in any of her books and she tells me that i’m free to read them all. rapunzel: she thought i didn’t know what she’d done and i didn’t mind, really. i could see that they also had much in common plus, i was happy for a bit of free time and it is rather nice in here with more voices filling this tower room. i do love to listen to our girls sing as they embroider by the fire one with hair like the sun, the other with hair like the moon. Lynn Hardaker is a Canadian artist and writer currently living in Germany. Her short stories and poems have appeared in journals including Mythic Delirium, Mirror Dance, and Not One of Us. Image by Anne Anderson, “The Witch Spies on Rapunzel.”

The old woman, Nonna, made a habit of inspecting her garden daily. Yes, she hired laborers to do this sort of thing, but the subtleties too often escaped these simple peasants. Like so many tender spring plants, the men required vigilance. No matter. The regular exercise and morning air were good for Nonna, kept her mind sharp, her figure lithe. “The radishes are ready for harvesting and re-sowing,” she commented to the lad who’d just come trotting up the hillside. “They could stand another day or two in the ground. They’ll be bigger that way.” “But the flavor will be spoiled. Harvest them now.” “As you wish, Signora Nonna.” Everyone from the township below, and the ramshackle sprawl on the hillside, called her that. Signora Nonna. Madam grandmother. Not that she was anyone’s grandmother, sadly. She supposed however that the name was preferable to what other towns had called her. Grandma Witch. Grandmère sorcière. Großmutter Hexe. She understood the witch part, but why the grandma? Were the signs of her 400 plus years really showing? She paused in front of the water garden. She could peer over the edge and take a peek at her reflection in the still water. It wouldn’t be as satisfying as holding a looking glass up to her face, but then she’d at least know what she was dealing with. No! No, that way led to poison apples and bubbling cauldrons. Vanity was too dangerous for any witch. She’d broken all the looking glasses in her manor house the day she arrived fifty years ago. Traded her silver for fine porcelain and hammered gold. Sworn off the enchantments that kept her skin supple, her breasts lifted, her eyes bright. Nonna was a good witch. She watched over the township and kept the rabble in the forest at bay, eschewed the luxuries that all witches are folly to, except for one. Gastronomie. The secret to living a life full of joy and purpose was not found in accruing power, creating unsurpassed wealth, beauty, or renown. It was in fine dining. Kings of men would realize their poverty were they ever to dine at Nonna’s table. But they never were. Nonna kept to herself. Lonely as it was, it was safer that way. Really. “Harvest is not determined based on the size of the fruit, but on the height of its flavor.” Something the hungry masses could not grasp. Yes, there were pleasures in this world but none of them compared to pairing a fresh slice of goat’s cheese with a sun warmed cucumber, flavored with basil and pressed rosemary. Except of course all the aforementioned garnished with pink rock salt from lands far away. Nonna stooped to snap a spring pea from its vine. “Any word about the cargo I am expecting at the port?” she asked the lad. “Another couple of days, Signora Nonna.” Nonna sighed. Something else would have to be done until the salt arrived. She picked a warty cucumber and shuffled towards her herb garden. Perhaps this was all for the best. The basil was still coming in. It’d be another day before she could harvest any, and another two weeks before she would have enough for pestos and gelatos. The mint was doing well. “Excellent,” Nonna pulled a sprig and rubbed it in her hands. “I’ve been hankering for a mint chutney and braised lamb dinner.” The sage, fennel, tarragon all were growing beautifully, and then she saw it. Her flat leaf parsley was in shambles. “Rabbits!” Ever since she lured a family of them in, two late summers ago, letting them gorge on chestnuts until the nutty flavor infused every muscle, bone and sinew, she’d not been free of them. And she had enjoyed all the rabbit stew she could stomach. “The rabbits have wormed their way into the garden again,” Nonna declared as she inspected the rows of endive for more damage. Thankfully there was none. “Impossible,” the lad said. He wasn’t a lad. He was, in fact, an old man. But that was the trouble with being 438 years old. Everyone looked like a child in comparison. “We had half the village out last fall digging the wire fences down past the roots. I’ve had the falconers up here weekly. Your beast of a cat has seen to the rest. There hasn’t been a rabbit on this hill since last summer.” “My parsley begs to differ.” “Master gardener!” A lad, a real one with sweat glistening on his forehead despite the cool morning air, came trundling up the hill. “Sir, we found this. Near the wall.” “Give it here,” Nonna demanded. The lad bowed and handed over a scrap of coarse blue cloth. The master gardener pushed up the brim of his straw hat. “A raven could have dropped it.” “Or my rabbit could be wearing trousers,” Nonna said. “I’ll arrange a night watch.” “Arrange for the potatoes and squashes from the root cellar to be left outside my garden wall instead. That should keep this rabbit out.” But it didn’t. The next morning, more of the parsley was gone. There was hardly any of it left after the third night. The gardeners were profusely apologetic. The master gardener volunteered himself to keep watch over the plant, but Nonna wasn’t about to let the last of her secret ingredient for tabbouleh in the hands of men who clearly didn’t understand its value. She herself waited that night as the rabbit jumped the fence. The man was painfully thin and unfortunately dirty. He headed straight for the herb garden and pulled the parsley up by the roots. “Desist this instant, rabbit! Unless you wish for long ears and fluffy tail.” She could do it too, transform this man, this thief, into the actual animal. But what use had Nonna for a skinny rabbit? The man screamed in terror. “Mercy, majka vjestica!” Majka, not baka, or old mother, or any other signifier of age. Well. Nonna would hear what this fellow had to say. “What is the meaning of this?” “Please. My wife. She’s sick with child. She can’t eat. She loses weight even as her belly swells. Her milk for the others is all but gone.” “Others?” “Twin boys and their older brother.” “Their ages, Signor.” The man gave them in months as opposed to years. “Gracious.” They really were rabbits, copulating and reproducing at that rate. “Parsley can be had in town every market day. Why steal mine?” “We’ve no money. Even if we did, my wife can’t tend the children in her condition. It’s only after I get the last of them to sleep that I can leave our cottage, forage for food.” “There is a difference between foraging and stealing.” His nose twitched nervously, exactly like a rabbit’s. “Her people should be conscripted, pressed into service,” Nonna said. “We have no people.” “Hire people.” “With no money and no trade?” Rabbits were haughty creatures. Nonna knew she shouldn’t ask. The less she spoke the better, but Signor Rabbit was eager to divest himself of the details. “My wife made lace before she became ill, and I’d sell it on market days. She cannot make lace now.” “Learn yourself.” “I’ve tried. But I don’t have the skill, and I don’t have the time. My family has already spent a winter on next to nothing. They can’t survive a spring the same way.” “The squashes, the pumpkins.” They had all disappeared outside her garden wall. “Yes, I fed the children and myself, but my wife couldn’t keep them down. Not after the parsley. It’s all she’s wanted since that first night. What was I to do?” Haughty and helpless. Nonna picked a slug off the eggplant vine. “Your cottage is where exactly?” The rabbit pointed to the steepest part of the hillside behind her garden wall. Through a dense tangle of trees, she could almost spy a miserable little wooden shack. Nonna sighed. Served her right for settling on the unfashionable side of the township. “Then you and I are neighbors, Signor Rabbit. You and your warren may come to my gardens as often as you have need. There is enough to share. In time perhaps your wife might make me a nice pair of lace sleeves.” The rabbit’s throat warbled and his lips trembled. “What now?” “We can’t. The bobbins and threads were traded for milk. We have no means, none, of repaying you.” The man was in tears, lying in the spring mud. “I love my wife. I did this to her. I did this to the mother of my sons. Uprooted us from kin, took our chances on a port town. More business, I argued. More profits. Foolish. Stupid. For what? Another baby that was never supposed to happen? A mistake as surely as this night is miserable. We have enough babies. And that is all we have. Nothing more. No food. No clothes. Just the promise that if my wife should survive her child bed, there will be another mouth that we cannot feed.” This was a problem then of not just a sick and starving mother, but children that could not be provided for. A family that had lost its livelihood, and a babe that was above all unwanted. It was as the rabbit said, even if this little family weathered the storm, they’d still have an additional mouth that could not be fed. A whiny runt they had already begun to resent. It would of course be a girl. “Your wife. She is close to her confinement?” “She is in her confinement.” Then the baby was most assuredly coming. No herbs on Nonna’s part could change that. “I see. We shall make a bargain, Signor Rabbit. You will frequent my garden daily, taking all the supplies you have need of, after which you will escort me to your cottage where I will meet your family and wife. There may be other needs that you are blind to.” New bobbins and thread for lace making, naturally, and tinctures the poor woman could take to prevent this unfortunate situation from ever happening again. “But I am already in your debt!” Signor Rabbit wailed. “I demand the unborn child as payment for my kindness.” There was no authority in Nonna’s voice then. Only the echo of 400 years lived without anyone to share the treasures of her table. “The babe may reside with your wife for however long she finds comfortable.” A loophole that the mother could exploit indefinitely, if she so wished. “When your wife is ready, bring the child to me. I will raise it as my own.” “You offer us deliverance. Thank you, mother witch. Thank you!” The rabbit, his arms full of vegetables, scurried over the wall. Nonna sighed. She knew what would happen. The baby would be handed off with the stub of the mother’s cord still attached to its belly. The rabbits would after another season or two of her kindness, move down into the town, buy a beautiful shop for selling their lace with rooms above for living. They’d never again think of the child. But the town would. In time, Nonna’s charity would be twisted into villainy.  Because this is what people did. They told stories that always shaded witches as monsters. The townsfolk would say she stole the child, locked her away behind garden walls, kept her from her people, until of course one brave young man fell in love and promised her a better life filled with adventure and mystery--rabbit warrens and sold bobbins. But as much as Nonna tried to feel sullen about the whole affair, her lips–heavily wrinkled and creased as they were–tugged upward into a smile. A daughter and a family, well warren, of rabbits to share her table for a season. She had better harvest the rest of the remaining parsley. She would be doubling her tabbouleh recipe for the foreseeable future. Amy Trent never met a cookie she didn’t instalove and immediately eat. Seriously. She wrote a song about it. Cookies aside, Amy loves to escape into fairy tales and happily-ever-afters. She delights in transforming obscure folklore into fluffy, feel-good novels. Head to her website, amytrent.com, for more info! Image by Arthur Rackham.

Gretel knows about stones Stones may lead you safe home But they cannot make home safe You cannot squeeze blood from stones They have nothing to give I know about nothing Gretel knows about crumbs Crumbs will not lead you home at all Not if the birds get them first Even kept in your pocket and nibbled slowly Crumbs are not enough I know about not enough And when you do not have enough When you do not even have any When you are afraid in the wood You will not recognize the difference between some and too much It is all the same to you It was all the same to me Gretel knows about hunger About being so hollow you will take any scraps you can get Even if they are rotten Even if they are poison Because you cannot say no If you want to live I wanted to live I did not know the difference between Some and too much Any or a surfeit It was all the same to me Gretel knows about gingerbread You can make gingerbread into a house But it will never be a home It may give you a full belly, sticky lips and fingers Until you are stuffed and trapped and sick Until it is too much I did not know how to tell When I had had too much Safety or danger? I could not tell the difference Between dying and the things I did to save my life Between a fire for warmth and a fire for baking and a fire for the thing I did Gretel knows about turnips Like stones, you cannot get blood from them But unlike stones, you can eat turnips Boiled in a soup, roasted with oil and pepper, even raw I know the difference now I line my garden beds with stones And eat the turnips that grow between them When I have breadcrumbs I sprinkle them for the birds I do not need to save them up I know where to find wild strawberries in the wood When they are ripe I eat them with cream When they are rotten I leave them alone I can tell the difference now I tend my garden Greens, potatoes, carrots, peas Mint, garlic, rosemary, sage I tend my chickens, cow, and bees They give me Eggs, milk, and honey I know what I'm hungry for And eat what I like Potatoes fried with onions and butter Wild greens and herbs and mushrooms Thick brown toast with blackberry jam But never gingerbread There are some things I have had enough of Enough to last a lifetime Lissa Sloan is the author of Glass and Feathers, a dark continuation of the traditional Cinderella tale. Her fairy tale poems and short stories appear in The Fairy Tale Magazine, Niteblade Magazine, Corvid Queen, and anthologies from World Weaver Press. She is also a contributing writer at FTM.Visit Lissa online at lissasloan.com, or on social media. Image by Arthur Rackham: “The Lady Enters the Forest.”

Oh, love, you are whispering willow, me beneath branches, breathing in oak, moss, watching lichen grow. Drift me away into far mountains, into ice, rugged your bark pulls me back into my own coloratura, dew on leaves tangle me vibrato, mud on feet, my palms, surface roots prodding me safe from freeze, canopy tendrils tickle as I natter away. You, patient, greening, flavor sunshine, choreograph our musky jade caress. You firm, tall, bring our twigs into unison, understand, all patience and wisdom. I warble a capella melodies, you lullaby me through wind and frost. Such cadences, such arias, we blister in our sunshine, our voices spinto and bel canto. I would die beneath your branches, ache out my love, my heart verismo and your fingertips bowery coffin. Kim is a poet and writer who dabbles in archeology and historical literary research. She is a differently-abled advocate and her email is open to the public. She writes because the alternative is unthinkable. Check out her website: https://www.kimmalinowskipoet.com/ Image (filtered), from Pixabay.