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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.

Editor’s note: Some of you may be familiar with Kristen’s brilliant refrigerator magnet poetry. I’m a huge fan, and am excited that Kristen is hard at work creating a chapbook of these astonishing poems—which FTM will be promoting! Enjoy this taste of her work. The image is by Kristen. (KW) Kristen Baum DeBeasi’s poetry has appeared iBlue Heron Review, The Muleskinner Journal, Menacing Hedge and elsewhere. She is a Best of the Net nominee and was Moon Tide Press’s Poet of the Month for July 2021. When she isn’t writing words or music, she loves testing new recipes and collecting leaves or twigs for her fairy garden.

Jess Armstrong’s novel The Curse of Penryth Hall, is a complete delight for fans of folklore, fairy tale, and murder mysteries! The story follows Ruby Vaughn, an American socialite living in England after World War I, who is asked by her boss, a rare book shop owner, to deliver a box of books to a folk healer in the Cornish countryside. Ruby uses the errand as an excuse to visit her old friend Tamsyn, the wife of Sir Edward of Penryth Hall. When Edward is brutally murdered, it appears he has become the victim of an ancient family curse, and Ruby must stay at Penryth Hall to investigate the true cause of his death in the hopes of protecting Tamsyn’s life. The folk healer who receives Ruby’s box of books is Ruan Kivell, a Pellar who serves the town with his insights, visions, and herbal remedies. There is both competition and attraction between Ruby and Ruan, and their tumultuous relationship sizzles as they uncover clues to help them solve the murder. Ruby, a woman who hates the past and appreciates science, believes the killer is human, but Ruan, the seventh son of a seventh son born in the superstitious Cornish countryside, must investigate the supernatural angles of the crime as well. The Curse of Penryth Hall is filled with exciting action, luscious Gothic detail, and fascinating Cornish legends and folklore. The landscape is both startlingly realistic and haunted by giants, witches, and Merfolk. The description made me feel like I was visiting an ancestral mansion, and the expertly drawn characters, each with a past full of secrets, kept me turning pages. I couldn’t put this one down! I highly recommend this story to fans of classic mystery novels. You can find 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 find her at https://kellyjarviswriter.com/

Editor's note: Happy St. Patrick's Day! We know you'll enjoy this imaginative take on leprechauns. It is midnight on March 17. Tellie’s eyes widen as she peers up into cloud-like puffs of shamrock green floating around her room. There is an aroma of fresh mint. She shakes her head back and forth, turns to her side, and is astonished to see a tiny person sitting on the edge of her bed. He is less than a foot tall, with red hair and dressed in green. A top hat sits snugly on his head and rests at the top of his eyebrows. “Aye,” he says, "‘tis time you woke.” She places her hands over her eyes, blinks rapidly and opens them. He is still sitting on the edge of the bed, watching her. “I…what…who?” “I am your little people representative, Shorty.” “Interesting hat,” she comments, giving herself time to contemplate. It’s about adding height,” he quips. He gives her a serious look. “I am here beckoning you to join me on a trip to meet our people.” Tellie’s eyes widen in fear and excitement. The two feelings aren’t all that far apart, she thinks. “You needn’t be afraid, I am friendly.” Shorty dances to an unheard rhythm with random, short hops. Tellie laughs but she hesitates. She considers Shorty’s twinkling eyes, and finally nods. “Now, close your eyes.” Shorty counts to ten. “Now, open.” Tellie, to her wonder, is Shorty’s height, "in ruffled elf design clothes,” she thinks to herself. She clicks her new turned-up-toe mint green shoes together, takes a few steps, and finds that she cannot keep from taking short hops. She laughs at her odd, gleeful feeling. Shorty takes Tellie’s hand and hops onto a cloud-like puff of shamrock green. She is leery, but they float easily through the open window. They travel upward, to the Milky Way. “The stars are much further apart when you see them up close,” Tellie says. Next, they stop on top of the moon. Turns out the man isn’t home. Their cloud-like vessel accelerates and skates around the rings of Saturn, and they fall about, laughing. The vessel scoots into the atmosphere and begins to slowly descend. Tellie’s eyes widen. “The stars are so bright, so crystal clear up here. Shorty nods. "'Tis true, it's a wonder." They both gasp as a group of stars shoot into the night air, like playful dolphins, acknowledging their presence. The vessel lands gently in a lush green meadow, where a large pack of Little People have gathered. A spokes-woman steps forward. "We have been looking forward to meeting you." "I… this surprise… why me?” Tellie stutters. “We have been watching you for years as you celebrated St. Patrick’s Day in honor of your grandfather’s birthday. You held parties, filled your house with green and purple shamrock plants, and acknowledged St. Patrick, our hero." Tellie raises her eyebrows in question. "Legend has it that he drove the snakes out of Ireland. This was a great relief to us. The snakes thought of our people as delicious tidbits, ripe for eating. They could creep up on our people, what with them being so quiet and slinky. The snakes closed their throats around thousands of our people, suffocated and ate them. St. Patrick ended all that by pitching the snakes into the sea.” Tellie’s face inches upward and into the shape of a large hunter green exclamation point. “That stung,” she says, after her face snaps back into shape. The spokes-woman continues. “People often discount us because of our size, and we are sometimes spit upon. You, on the other hand, have many times toasted us as ‘little people with big hearts.” In unison, they place their hands on their chests, and the sound of a babbling brook rolling over stones fills the air--a dynamic sound, given the size of the crowd. “You also speak of us as gentle people, not mischievous tricksters, as is often told.” The spokes-woman steps forward and holds up a tiny shamrock-shaped mirror made of gold. “Made especially for you with pieces from our pot of gold. We can stay in touch through the mirror, and you can access the power it can bestow.” “How will I know how to…?” The spokes-woman interrupts. “You will know how to use it intuitively, if the need arises.” Suddenly, a menacing creature appears. It has a large square head, and prongs of thick striped skin extend from its wrinkled, rough body and short end-tail. It growls, shows long dagger-sharp teeth, chomps down on the golden mirror, and disappears into the woods. The spokes-woman cringes. “I must recover the mirror to stop that vile creature from transmitting evil, hypnotizing messages for its own gain.” She runs toward the woods, and the group follows. They rush through the trees, and ram into a dense, eye-watering fog. “The creature is using the mirror’s power to try and stop us,” the spokes-woman mutters. She tells everyone to lock arms and stay close together. “If we work in a united front, we can conquer this evil.” Her face is set as she moves further into the woods with them. The trees pull up roots and follow. They stare with carved, distorted faces, open-mouthed and menacing, and push to surround the crowd. Shorty pulls out a bit of leftover magic dust from his knapsack and throws down an invisible barrier. The trees reach out with knife-sharp branches in protest but cannot break through. The group proceeds further into the woods. Suddenly Tellie points a shaking hand at the striped end-tail of the creature in the distance. Remembering the quietness of the slinking snakes, she lays down, stretches out, and twists her body forward, moving toward the creature. The group follows her motions. They slither up without notice and form a circle around the creature. It reacts quickly, wraps its tail around the magic mirror, and crashes through the circle. The group watches as the creature races into the clearing. Tellie remembers the Peter Pan fairy tale and how he taught others to fly just by wishing they could. She wishes and pleads with an unseen force, and then sputters, and soars upward. The creature looks up, distracted by the soaring and sputtering. It arches its back and uses all its force to leap in the air and concentrates on annihilating Tellie. It fails to see the steep, hazardous cliff a short distance away—and plunges to its peril. Cringing, Tellie watches the creature fracture into pieces. Striped skin, cartilage and stomach contents crash down the cliff and explode on the rocks below. The creature’s severed head moves about in wild, zig-zag thrusts like that of a beheaded rooster. Tellie catches her breath, and when the movement stops, she swoops down and recovers the coveted mirror. When she walks into the clearing, the crowd shouts, and whistles with all their might. The elation echoes through the woods and softens the distorted faces of the trees as they sink back into their roots. Everyone dances back to the meadow led by Tellie, who holds the magic mirror tightly in her hand. The spokes-woman smiles, tips an imaginary hat, and nods at Tellie and Shorty. Graceful, like an orchestra conductor, she turns toward her people, and extends her arms. The air fills with a soft, light fog. When it clears, the little people are gone. Shorty and Tellie look at each other, surprised at the abrupt end to their adventure. The cloud-like poof sputters with impatience. "'Tis time to go," Shorty says. When they land at Tellie’s home, she climbs out, and looks at Shorty, teary-eyed, and her lips trembling. “Aye,” Shorty says, his voice shaking.They stand together in meditative silence until the vessel relays its impatience.Shorty faces Tellie and bows."Interesting hat," she says.Shorty chuckles, and floats into the night air. The next morning. "What an exquisite dream, a surreal adventure," Tellie says aloud. She turns to her side, and in awe, sees the tiny, gold shamrock-shaped mirror lying on her pillow. “I will look into this,” she whispers. She smiles as the aroma of fresh mint wafts through her room. Bio: Cheryl Israel captured family dialogue as an early attempt at storytelling. She self-published a novella entitled About Chessie. She wrote faculty and alumni profiles for the Dance Department, Kinesiology, and the Center for World Performance Studies at the University of Michigan before retiring. She holds an MFA from DePaul University.

Today we officially welcome Lissa Sloan as a Contributing Writer at The Fairy Tale Magazine. It feels a bit funny to do that, as she’s been a friend to the publication, and in real life, for a long time! Anyway, we feel very fortunate to have her on the team, and welcome aboard Lissa! (KW) So, I have a confession to make. I write recipes on old envelopes. My mom would occasionally lament that she wasn’t the housekeeper her mother was (and had not passed those skills on to me and my sister). My grandma was neat and tidy, an accomplished seamstress and excellent baker. I have a few of her recipe cards, written in her careful handwriting. My mom used recipe cards too, but she also improvised, as did my dad and especially my mother-in-law. So in my house today, our recipes, while sometimes printed out or saved as a document, are other times written out on tiny bits of notepaper, receipts, and envelopes. Here, then, is a print-out and an envelope that frequently come out this time of year: Sloan birthday cake with butter icing. You see, all four of us in my household have our birthdays within three weeks, and Mother’s Day is not far behind. These days we may only make it once during that time, and we may only make half the recipe because it’s so rich. But the cake (adapted from the Cook’s Country recipe for Hostess-style cupcakes) is moist and dark, and the butter icing (from my mother-in-law) is creamy and a tiny bit salty, and all together it’s just so devilishly good! For 24 cupcakes, a 9 x 13-inch cake pan, or two 9-inch round layer cakes: Cake: 2 cups all-purpose flour 1 tsp. baking soda ½ tsp. salt 1 cup hot coffee (decaf is fine if you don’t want to be up all night) 2/3 cup cocoa powder 2/3 cup semisweet chocolate chips 1 ½ cups sugar 1 cup sour cream 1 cup vegetable oil 4 large eggs 2 tsp vanilla extract Butter Icing: 1 ½ cups milk 7 ½ T. flour 1 ½ cups sugar 1 ½ cups salted butter 1 ½ tsp. vanilla Make the cake: Heat oven to 325 degrees. Grease and flour cake pan. Combine dry ingredients (flour, baking soda, and salt) in a bowl. In a second bowl, whisk together hot coffee, cocoa, and chocolate chips (this melts the chocolate) until smooth. To the chocolate mixture, add sugar, sour cream, oil, egg, and vanilla, and mix until combined. Then bake until a toothpick comes out with few dry crumbs attached, 35-45 minutes for 9 x 13-inch oblong or 2 9-inch rounds, 18-22 minutes for cupcakes. While cake is cooling, make the icing (we often make the cake the day before the icing): Whisk together milk and flour (or shake in cup with a lid). Then heat in a saucepan, stirring constantly, until mixture thickens. Remove from heat and refrigerate until very cool. When mixture is cold, soften butter, then cream butter, sugar, and vanilla with an electric beater until fluffy. Blend with the thickened milk mixture until thick and smooth. Spread on cake and eat immediately or refrigerate it to set the icing a bit. IF there is any left, keep refrigerated. These days, we make half a portion (just one 9-inch round), so we cut the cake recipe in half and make 2/3 of the icing (or you could make the whole batch and get in some graham crackers to help you finish off the extra). If you are a fan of dark chocolate, give our recipe a try. I think you’ll love it! 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.

Hello Enchanted Friends: If you’re new to FTM in the last two years, you may not know that we were called Enchanted Conversation: A Fairy Tale Magazine, for many years. That’s where all of our Throwback Thursday material comes from. Today, I’m sharing the link to the archived site for those of you who’d like to check it out and explore. Here is the link. Why haven’t we shared the link before? Because by doing so, we will drive views away from this site, which is where we actually now live online, to the old site. The old site was on Blogger, owned by Google. By sending people to the old site, we may very well be pushing this site further down on search results. This site is on Wix; Google privileges Blogger over Wix. However (and I really have resisted saying anything about this, but realize I have to), the many inquiries by writers about the old site and/or Throwback Thursday (some of them very pointed and demanding) have finally pushed me to provide the link to the EC archive. A work per week through Throwback Thursday is what we can manage. I can only plead that we don’t have the womanpower for more than that. We can’t just merge the sites. We’ve tried. And I also need to give an announcement, that I previously thought would have been obvious: This site will not go on forever, and it too will be archived or maybe disappear. I don’t own the Internet. In fact, it will no longer be an active site after the end of 2026, unless someone else wants to run it. That’s just before I turn 65. There are many reasons why, but the fact is, I’ve been at this for well over 15 years already, and I’ll definitely be willing to pack it in by then. I enjoy the work, but it’s very time consuming, and I have fantastic help from Kelly Jarvis, Kim Malinowski, Madeline Mertz and Lissa Sloan. Even with their truly stellar efforts, the site is a lot of everything. (But they really are an awesome bunch.) There are many moving parts to this effort that most readers and writers never see. That’s because I want you to just enjoy yourselves. But the pressure of writers’ expectations over the last two years has become too much. Hence this post. I do want to make it clear that most writers are lovely to work with! If they weren’t, I’d quit. But as with any endeavor, the malcontents really bring down the vibe. Asking polite questions is fine! I encourage them, I promise. But if you do have questions, email them to me. Don’t put them under this post or on another public forum. My email is in many spots on this site, and it’s the official email for the entire enterprise, but here it is, again: katewolford1@gmail.com. One last thing: A shoutout to the Fairy Godparents Club. Your suppprt, in every way, helps make FTM better. Thank you! The Club is closed for this year, but will open again in January. Best, Kate Wolford

Fairy tale readers expect reversals. Princesses are exiled, tailors become kings, poor children become rich. But Rebecca Buchanan takes reversal to a whole new level in her searing poetry collection Not a Princess, (But) Yes, There Was a Pea & Other Tales to Foment Revolution. You know the fairy tale about the girl who arrives at the palace in a storm and gets a heck of a lot of scrutiny from the queen before she proves herself to be a princess by having a really thin skin? What if that rain-soaked heroine, instead of going from a down-on-her-luck princess to scoring an advantageous marriage, had a far different reversal in mind? This is only one of many “what ifs?” in Buchanan’s inciting arsenal. Not a Princess’s Content Warning page is more than an alert about potential triggers; it is a call to arms. It prepares the reader to expect the traumatic elements of both the fairy tales to follow and the real world we inhabit (ecological destruction, murder, abuse, and much more). But it also warns of the rewards of action and speaking up against injustice—things like hope, compassion, and courage. Like her titular poem, Buchanan’s other chosen tales will be familiar to most readers, making her pointed commentary all the more striking as she deftly pivots to examine stories from multiple angles. For instance, one Frog Prince poem features a princess who’s more than a little spoiled and entitled, while another’s heroine just isn’t okay with having a creepy stranger in her bed demanding kisses. Taking aim at greedy rulers and abusive parents as well as sexism, economic inequality, and injustice, Buchanan confidently invites readers to join her revolution or consider their own. Her voice is sharp, authentic, and filled with hope, and her words never miss their mark. Not a Princess, (But) Yes, There Was a Pea is heartbreaking, bold, and breathtaking. You can find it 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 appear in The Fairy Tale Magazine, Niteblade Magazine, Corvid Queen, and anthologies from World Weaver Press. Glass and Feathers appeared as a serial in The Fairy Tale Magazine last spring. Print and ebook release from The Enchanted Press was on March 26, 2024. Visit Lissa online at lissasloan.com, or connect on Facebook, Instagram, @lissa_sloan, or Twitter, @LissaSloan.