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

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

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

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

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.