Editor’s note: This charming Throwback Thursday fable surprised and delighted us. IWe think you’ll find it as enjoyable as we did. Read on! Once upon a time, in the land of shadows, a terrible plague ravaged the countryside. Those afflicted suffered terrible boils and pains. Everyone who tried to treat them became infected, and entire villages became sick. Scared of succumbing to the disease themselves, the lords hid in their castles. The burgomasters shut the gates to their great walled cities. Left to suffer, the peasants cried out to the heavens for salvation. The Saints heard their pleas and asked God to intervene and save those sick. The Lord agreed and called upon Saints Cyprian and Justina. These saints bowed and listened as God commanded them. “Cyprian, in your lifetime, you wrote a brilliant book of spells, which you took to your grave. Travel the land of shadows with Justina. Disguise yourselves as plague victims and visit the eminent physicians there. The one who agrees to treat you is worthy to receive your grimoire, which contains a cure for the plague. Cyprian and Justina left Heaven, descending to that part of the land where the plague was worst. After disguising themselves as old beggars infected with the plague, they began their journey. They said, “Come, let us visit the physicians’ college and see if they will help us.” It’s painful to say, but their visit to the college was a grave disappointment. Though they knocked at the school’s entrance for an entire night, nobody bothered to answer. It wasn’t until the next day that they overheard a college servant say the school had closed. The doctors had fled to their homes to avoid risking infection by treating the sick. Though disheartened, Saint Justina said, “Come, let us see if the walled city over the hill will let us in and help us.” They came to the walled city, but nobody answered until after they had knocked for an entire day and night. It was the Burgomaster who announced, “Nobody is to enter the city until the plague has ended. May all the devils curse you for trying to bring the pox upon us!” Though she wept, Saint Justina said, “Come, I hope the lord across the valley will let us see his physician.” But they met with even less success at the castle. After knocking at the gates for two entire days, the castle’s men-at-arms shot at them with bows and arrows. The disguised Saints fled the rain of arrows, running through the surrounding woods. They didn’t stop until the next day, at which point they found themselves in the deepest part of the forest. Unable to find their way out, the Saints became overwhelmed by despair. They wailed and gnashed their teeth. Cyprian resolved that if they remained lost by nightfall, he’d destroy his book of spells. With heavy hearts, the Saints searched for a way out. It wasn’t until dusk approached that they found a clearing in the dense forest thicket. In that clearing was a small hut. Despite their trepidation, the two Saints approached the hut. But before they knocked, the door opened, an old woman rushing out to greet them. Despite seeing the advanced state of their sickness, she gestured for them to enter her humble abode. As she set a pot of stew and a kettle of tea atop her oven, she said, “Come and spend the night here. I will gather herbs from the garden to treat those boils.” That night, the two Saints ate hearty stew and drank comforting tea. While they relaxed after supper, the old woman treated their boils with an unguent. When at last Cyprian and Justina were ready to sleep, the old woman insisted they lay in her cozy bed. The old woman stayed up that night, knitting in her rocking chair. She kept careful watch over her visitors to make sure their illness didn’t get worse. But despite her best intentions, the old woman dozed off around dawn. When she woke up a few hours later, the two old, infected beggars were nowhere in sight. Instead, standing before her were the two Saints in their heavenly forms. Golden halos blazed around their heads. Instead of the tattered robes they had on the night before, they now wore luxurious robes of many colors. In Cyprian’s hands, he held a large, black codex. Cyprian offered the book to the old woman, saying, “Oh blessed crone! You, above all other healers in the land, have proven yourself worthy of this honor. Inside this book is a cure for the plague and multitudes of other ailments. Take this book and cure the land of shadows.” With a smile on her lips and tears in her eyes, the grateful crone accepted the book. She flipped through its pages. And indeed, each one contained a magical cure for a common ailment. She prostrated herself to them and said, “A thousand blessings upon you, Heavenly Protectors!” But Saint Justina grinned a knowing smile and approached the old woman. She blessed the old woman, saying, “Go now and heal the land. Then teach worthy people you find the secrets of the black book.” The two Saints then returned to heaven. Meanwhile, the old woman didn’t tarry in her new task. She set out at once from her hut, black book in hand. Following the land’s ancient paths, she made her way from one village to the next. At each place she stopped, she bid the locals bring her the sickened among them. She examined them and, using the spells and balms listed in the book, healed them back to health. Those treated by her survived. Not one person in the villages she visited died of the plague after her arrival. In each village she stopped at, she picked the kindest and most worthy among them to be the village healer. Before leaving, she had this apprentice copy out the black book by hand. This became the local healer’s private copy, preserved through the generations. This was the start of the cunning folk and how they got their magic. Daniel Allen is a writer based out of Boston, Massachusetts. He wrote and directed the 2017 short "Virgins Never Die". His writing has also appeared in Community X magazine.

The COVID-19 Pandemic marked a period of loss for so many. But while losses directly attributed to COVID made up a huge part of this, other sorts of losses did not stop. When Hollie Starling’s father committed suicide months into the UK lockdown, his surviving loved ones began the grieving journey, one that is at once universal and highly individual. On furlough from her job and at a loss of how to cope with the unexpected hole in her life, Starling dove into learning all she could about death through the lens of folklore from around the world. The Bleeding Tree, part memoir, part folkloric study, is interspersed with short stories inspired by some of the diverse beliefs and lore Starling encountered along the way. While telling her father’s story and her own, the author examines death from every angle she can find: rituals of mourning, memorials, remembering, body disposal, society’s treatment of survivors, and more. Relentless in her quest to make sense of her pain, Starling investigates grieving, ghosts, hallucinations, trauma, and the power of story. She also digs in to the factors influencing suicide such as mental health, stigma, austerity, and class. From the seaside memorial “Buck Beck Beach Bench” to the mysterious Japanese “Sea of Trees” to the last Sin-eater of the parish of Ratlinghope, her death lore discoveries are varied and fascinating. I loved the incorporation of several fairy tales, especially one featuring Death as a character, which is one of my favorite kinds. The language of The Bleeding Tree is beautiful, lyrical, and really drew me in. With a voice that is sensitive, curious, angry, self-deprecating, and funny, Starling is the perfect psychopomp to accompany anyone wishing to examine the ways we grieve. Lissa Sloan is the author of Glass and Feathers, a novel that tells the story of Cinderella after the “happily ever after.” The Enchanted Press will publish it next February.

Dear Enchanted Friends: It’s been a thrilling year here at The Fairy Tale Magazine. We’ve appreciated the support and generosity so many of you have extended. We will be making changes for 2024. When we started this year, we didn’t know what we didn’t know. Along the way we had a lot of fun, but I realized the four-issue schedule could not continue after this year. Here’s why: I’m healthy as of now, but as I get older I want to be a healthy granny as long as possible. Cutting back on time spent on FTM will help me achieve that goal. I will no longer be putting my own money into the publication. I would have had to reach this decision eventually, but 2023 pulled it into clear focus. People have been incredibly generous, though, and I appreciate it! I want to avoid burnout. I definitely do this because I enjoy it—I’m very proud of the magazine—but even good things can be exhausting! I’d like to continue to enjoy this passion project. To do so requires me to cut back on the time and energy I devote to FTM. The good news is that we will be publishing two issues in 2024. They will be free, because we want as many people as possible to read the magazine. We actually had solid subscription sales for the first year, but it hasn’t brought us anywhere near the number of eyes on the issues we’ve had in the past. So, we will do two issues, free to all. Spring/Summer will be published on May 1, 2024. Fall/Winter will be published on Oct. 1. They will be in glorious PDF form as only Amanda Bergloff, managing editor and art director, can do them! Just make sure you’re a current Fairy Godparents Club member or have signed up for our newsletter, and you’ll receive each issue. The site will also help get you to the PDFs next year. (The Fairy Godparents Club will continue next year. We will meet four times, and the cost will be $20 for the year if you sign up for the 2024 issues by Dec. 30. Stay tuned for instructions on how to sign up and pay.) We will be opening the submissions window for the spring/summer issue on Jan. 22 and closing it Jan. 29. The fall/winter submissions window will be June 17 to 24. The pay rate will be $25 and the lengths will be 1,000 to 2,000 words for stories and up to 500 words for poems. The theme is classic fairy tales as inspiration. We will be doing the fundraising contest in 2024. It will be our major fundraising event for the year. The contest window would be July 1 through July 30. The submissions page does not yet reflect the changes, but it will, very soon. We’ll alert you when the changes happen. I thank you all for taking this journey with me. Yours in Enchantment, Kate Wolford Katewolford1@gmail.com Image by James Jebusa Shannon, 1910

Editor’s note: In today's Throwback Thursday tale, author Fanni Suto conjures up heartache and magic in very few words. Enjoy this little jewel of flash fiction! He thinks he knows what he is doing. Of course, he doesn’t. How could he when he only sees until the edge of Rosaline’s skirt. What worries me is that I don’t know what he is doing either. That’s the real tragedy. I know the inside of his head more than he does, but now he is slipping away. I don’t understand. That girl, woman, witch, whatever, is ugly! Exotic beauty and rare looks, the knobby kneecap of my great-aunt! And yet that’s what Albert and all the other bewitched boys say. Nice marketing, that’s what I say. That wicked woman put something in their food, poisoned them into loving her. The way to a man’s heart leads through his stomach, after all. Albert was supposed to marry me not her. He even gave me a ring! Now he’s asking it back. It was a mistake, he says, a midsummer madness. No-no, I won’t give up so easily. Yesterday the moon was full and I knew that she, the thief of my happiness, was going out to collect herbs on the hill. I followed her, melting into the shadows, praying to the spirits of the night to hide me. Rosaline had a long gown, the color of winter skies and a white basket that glowed with a silver light under the soft touch of moonshine. She filled the basket with herbs and leaves smelling of mint, the sunshine of the first spring day and the notes of a lullaby. A spell of drowsiness weighed down on me, but I resisted. My determination was stronger than any magic that witch could master. I had to discover how she was doing it, leading the village men by their noses, making them dance as she whistles. I followed her to her house at the edge of the dark forest and peered in through the window. Rosaline stood there heating a furnace; her flame-blonde hair flowing around her face. She threw leaves into the fire upon which the flames turned a deep violet. I could almost hear the cracking and feel their heat. She took a box from the corner and threw its contents into the fire. I could only catch a glimpse of the clay-colored objects, big as my fist. She cleaned her tools and kitchenware, then she returned to the flames and took out one of the finished products. I could see clearly now; it was a heart made of some strange, living material. The witch produced a hammer and slammed down, murmuring under her breath. A mist emerged from the heart, slowly taking the shape of a girl with gloom-black hair and olive skin. The apparition looked me in the eye and blood froze in my veins. It was me. Albert’s last memory of me disintegrated with a sad smile, and I understood that I'd irrevocably lost him. Fanni Sütő writes poetry, short stories and a growing number of novels-in-progress. She publishes in English and Hungarian and finds inspiration in reading, paintings and music. She writes about everything which comes in her way or goes bump in the night. Cover: Amanda Bergloff

In The Land of Lost Things, John Connolly returns to the redemptive power of words and stories that he explored in his earlier novel The Book of Lost Things. Although the new novel is a standalone tale, it does reference characters and places from the older novel. I read The Book of Lost Things years ago and was thrilled to discover Connolly’s new treatment of how stories and words can save our lives. The Book of Lost Things tells the story of David, a child searching for his lost mother, and The Land of Lost Things tells the story of Ceres, a mother searching for her lost child. Ceres’ daughter Phoebe has fallen into a coma after a devastating accident, and the book opens with Ceres’ attempts to come to terms with losing her daughter. Ceres moves her comatose child away from the city to a country facility, and it is here that she discovers the haunted house of the elderly writer who composed The Book of Lost Things. Ceres enters the forest, discovering another realm populated by wolves and woodsmen. She must navigate this new land in an attempt to restore her daughter to her. Connolly’s writing is for readers who love complicated plots with stories inside of stories. In addition to the main narrative, the book relays fairy tales that Ceres shares with her daughter, stories that she channels, and folklore she remembers from her own father, who worked as an amateur folklorist and a university librarian. Each chapter begins with a word from an ancient language followed by its definition, so as readers make their way through the text, they learn that Uhtceare is Old English for “lying awake before dawn too worried to sleep” and Teasgal is Gaelic for “a wind that sings”. Connolly’s story celebrates the power of language and proposes that “You can destroy a book. You can burn it, you can tear it to pieces and scatter them to the four winds, you can soak it until it reverts back to pulp or the ink turns the water black, but you can’t destroy the content of the book, or the idea of the book, not as long as there are those who care, who remember.” The Land of Lost Things beautifully explores the intimate relationship between readers and writers and between fiction and life. You can purchase the book here. Thank you to NetGalley for a free copy of the book in exchange for a fair review. Kelly Jarvis is the Special Projects Writer and Contributing Editor for The Fairy Tale Magazine. Her work has appeared in Eternal Haunted Summer, Blue Heron Review, Forget-Me-Not Press, Mermaids Monthly, The Chamber Magazine, and Mothers of Enchantment: New Tales of Fairy Godmothers. She teaches at Central Connecticut State University.

Editor's Note: "Children of the heart" can come in many forms, and women are not the only ones who have the knowledge of charms and remedies. Please enjoy today's Throwback Thursday poem of delicate beauty and timeless love by Melissa Yuan-Innes. For their fiftieth anniversay, He gave her a beast. No one would ever call it that, of course With its radiant white coat, Infinitely gentle brown eyes And most of all, The legend of its power And beauty. It raised its head To stare at her on the castle balcony. No bridle covered its lovely head. No groom held a pair of reins in his hand. Instead, the animal's cloven hooves Stood freely on the cobblestones. She licked her lips And turned to her husband. "My lord, I am nearly speechless. You know I am no maiden." He kissed her cheek and replied, smiling, "My love, have no fear." He’d retained a way with animals And an instinct for charms and remedies that She’d never encountered in purely human folk, So she descended the stone staircase Circling the cold newel stairs, And the animal did approach her As if sensing the loneliness in her heart Matched by its own. She cradled its head, Avoiding the horn Pointing toward her face. She dared not prick her finger As in another immortal tale. Instead, she stroked the soft mane And wondered why, in this half-century Of consecrated wedding vows, legendary love, and near-fairy tale bliss, She and her husband Had never created A single life in her womb. The villagers remained too afraid or superstitious To pass on their own babes No matter how ill or frail. So all her bairns Wore feathers or fur or scales. Today, she caressed the unicorn. Her tears dripped into its shining coat But she called up to her husband, "My lord, she is beautiful,” And kissed her newest beast. Melissa Yuan-Innes is a doctor who loves fairy tales. As Melissa Yi, she writes werewolf thrillers (Wolf Ice), teenagers who save the world by talking to animals (High School Hit List), and the critically-acclaimed Hope Sze medical mysteries. Find Melissa Yi Yuan-Innes on Facebook, @dr_sassy on Twitter, and WWW.MELISSAYUANINNES.COM. Art: "Woman with Unicorn" by Giorgione, 1510

The Forest Grimm begins with an evocative phrase: “Tell me again, Grandmere, the story of how I die.” Kathryn Purdie’s prologue opens when the novel’s narrator, Clara, is only nine. Her grandmother has already foreseen her future, which includes a premature death, in a deck of cards, and Clara longs to change her fate. When she learns her mother, Rosamund, has been given the same reading, she is willing to sacrifice her own life to ensure her mother lives to old age. The novel then leaps ahead seven years. An adolescent Clara is haunted by her mother who is one of 66 people lost in the Forest Grimm. The residents of Grimm Hollow, a village at the edge of the forest, were once blessed with a book that allowed them to make their wishes and dreams come true, but have now been cursed by someone who used the book for nefarious purposes. Each Devotion Day a hero is chosen to enter the forest and find the Lost Ones, locate the Book of Fortunes, and lift the curse on the town. Clara longs to be the hero who can save her mother’s life. The Forest Grimm is a Young Adult adventure filled with fairy tale references. There are red capes, rampion, wolves, stone towers, castles, and spinning wheels. The protagonists come across Rapunzel, Hansel and Gretel, and Cinderella as they travel through the Forest Grimm. The book explores life, death, fate, love, loss, and time, ending with a promise of more to come. This is a fun read for fairy tale fans and those who love a coming-of-age story. 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 is the Special Projects Writer and Contributing Editor for The Fairy Tale Magazine. Her work has appeared in Eternal Haunted Summer, Blue Heron Review, Forget-Me-Not Press, Mermaids Monthly, The Chamber Magazine, and Mothers of Enchantment: New Tales of Fairy Godmothers. She teaches at Central Connecticut State University.

We here at The Fairy Tale Magazine love Halloween, so today, we're celebrating it with some trivia, folklore, poetry, recipes, and art to inspire you to enjoy this fun holiday! SOME HALLOWEEN TRIVIA Halloween is thought to have been influenced by the ancient Celtic festival of Samhain (originating around 600 AD) which commemorates the end of summer and beginning of winter. However, some experts believe it began with the Catholic feast, All Saints Day. Halloween went by All Hallows’ Eve” until 1773, then the Scots began referring to it as Hallow-e’en. The first known person to put the words together was Scottish poet, Robert Burns, who penned the poem, “Halloween,” in 1786. Halloween was first celebrated in the U.S. around the1840s. There's a superstition that if you wear your clothes inside out on Halloween, you'll see a witch at midnight. The orange and black colors associated with Halloween are thought to be because orange represents pumpkins and the harvest, while black represents night, death, and darkness. If you have a fear of Halloween, it's called, "Samhainophobia." If a woman looks in a mirror while walking downstairs at midnight on Halloween, she will see the face of her future husband. It's thought that bobbing for apples on Halloween came from Roman traditions to honor Pomona, the ancient Roman goddess of fruit and trees. Scotland and Ireland were the first two countries to popularize Halloween costumes for trick or treating. Modern day trick-or-treating is thought to have originated from the Celtic/Samhain tradition of people putting treats or food out to pacify evil spirits. It's also thought that trick-or-treating could have been inspired by the medieval English tradition of "souling," where on All Souls Day, the poor would knock on doors and offer prayers for the residents' deceased loved ones in exchange for food. The custom of dressing up in Halloween costumes was thought by many Europeans (including the Celts) to repel spirits that were believed to come back to Earth on Halloween night. For Halloween decorations in the early 1900s, Americans used crepe paper, cardboard cutouts, corn stalks, pumpkins, gourds, and hay. Candy corn (originally called chicken feed) was voted worst candy to give out on Halloween in the U.S., followed by circus peanuts. The first "fun-sized" candy bars made to be given out at Halloween were Snickers and Milky Way. 21% of American adults pretend they're not home on Halloween to avoid giving out candy. The most popular Halloween costume according to Google is a witch. THIS IS HALLOWEEN ~Danny Elfman Boys and girls of every age Wouldn't you like to see something strange? Come with us and you will see This, our town of Halloween This is Halloween, this is Halloween Pumpkins scream in the dead of night This is Halloween, everybody make a scene Trick or treat 'til the neighbors gonna die of fright It's our town, everybody scream In this town of Halloween PUMPKIN FACTS & FOLKLORE Pumpkins, like other squash, originated in northeastern Mexico and the southern United States, and have been grown for almost 5,000 years. Native Americans fed pumpkins to their horses. The color of pumpkins comes from orange carotenoid pigments, including beta-cryptoxanthin, alpha and beta carotene, all of which are provitamin A compounds converted to vitamin A in the body. Although most people think pumpkins are vegetables, they are actually fruit. Pumpkins take between 90 and 120 days to grow, which is why it's recommended to plant them between May and July. Pumpkins are grown on six of the seven continents of the world, with Antarctica being the sole exception. Pumpkins were once thought to cure snakebites. The flowers that grow on pumpkin vines are also edible. Pumpkins are 90% water. The state that produces the most pumpkins in the U.S. is Illinois. If you're saving pumpkin seeds, they should last for 6 years. To slow decay, leave an inch or two of stem on the pumpkin when harvesting them. Pumpkins were once recommended as a cure for freckles. It was thought that a witch could turn an unsuspecting person into a pumpkin by eating the number of pumpkin seeds in that person's name. A pumpkin is not a Jack-O-Lantern until it is carved. The jack-o-lantern custom derives from Halloween folklore and was thought to ward off evil spirits. In the tale, Cinderella, pumpkins are useful, as the fairy godmother turns a pumpkin into a carriage, but at midnight, it reverts back into its original form. PUMPKIN PIE SQUARES Click on the video below for a super easy pumpkin dessert! BABA YAGA & THE HARVEST In Slavic folklore, the fearsome witch, Baba Yaga, was represented as a maternal effigy fashioned from straw during the fall harvest. Baba Yaga appears in agrarian folklore as both a guardian of crops and also as an ogress who could withhold humanity's bounty from the earth. This "Old Woman" was thought to exist in the fearsome twilight between culture and nature, dwelling in the unfenced borderlands that separated forest and field. Children were warned not to trample crops or wander through the countryside or they might be taken by Baba Yaga. Pedagogical fictions like this were used to prevent wanderers from damaging the grain crops before harvest, and it became ingrained in their folklore. Interested in reading some tales about this complicated and wonderful witch-character? Check out an anthology about her - SKULL AND PESTLE: NEW TALES OF BABA YAGA - by World Weaver Press and edited by Kate Wolford. HALLOWEEN POSTCARD ART GALLERY The late 1800s marked the beginning of the golden era of postcard art in England and America. It was the Victorians who turned Halloween into a genteel holiday about parlor games, romance, and child's play. Halloween postcards were affordable greetings that the middle-class were able to send to one another to celebrate the holiday. Publishers like Raphael Tuck & Sons, John O. Winsch, and Marcus Ward & Co., printed these cards using the same chromolithography technique used to print paper dolls and the baseball cards of the day which made them an inexpensive way to enjoy the day with friends and family. These turn-of-the-century postcards usually featured Halloween icons such as witches, black cats, jack o'lanterns, and costumed children, but they were adorably cute versions instead of the traditional scary ones. Some also included little poems or bits of folklore sayings on them to accompany the image, such as this one: HALLOWEEN PRECAUTIONS: If you take ten seeds from a pumpkin shell, and go to the woods where the witches dwell, Plant them in front of the door in a cross, you'll be rid of them without remorse. Although the main trend of sending Halloween postcards lasted until around 1918, we've collected some examples of this weird and wonderful vintage artform below for you to enjoy! SONG OF THE WITCHES ~William Shakespeare Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and caldron bubble. Fillet of a fenny snake, In the caldron boil and bake; Eye of newt and toe of frog, Wool of bat and tongue of dog, Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting, Lizard's leg and howlet's wing, For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and caldron bubble. Cool it with a baboon's blood, Then the charm is firm and good. And here's some ideas for your own Witch's Night Out HALLOWEEN PARTY Treats, a Cocktail & a Movie... Chocolate Witch Hat Cupcakes Recipe: FUN SQUARED Witch's Finger Bread Sticks with Maple Mustard Dip Recipe: EPICURIOUS The Perfect Halloween Meat & Cheese Board Recipe: SUGAR & CHARM Witches Brew Jello Recipe: LADY BEHIND THE CURTAIN Witch's Brew Cocktail Recipe: SUGAR & CHARM After you've enjoyed some treats & cocktails, gather your friends for this wonderfully witchy flick, I MARRIED A WITCH Click below for the full film! And finally, some MUSIC Sharing one of our magical favorites for Halloween! HAPPY HALLOWEEN TO ALL! The Fairy Tale Magazine's contributing editor, Amanda Bergloff, writes modern fairy tales and speculative fiction. Her work has appeared in various anthologies, including Frozen Fairy Tales, After the Happily Ever After, and Uncommon Pet Tales. Follow her on Twitter @AMANDABERGLOFF

Timing: The moon need not be waxing. It need not be the second Sunday of Spring, Or quarter-past midnight on the Dark Sabbat, But the magick will be most powerful On the anniversary of your first breath, That day when the sharp intake of cold and painful air Set your mortal cries in motion. Materials: A frosted cake (at least two layers), a candle, and a match. Instructions: Gather those you love around you. Place the candle deep into the soft soil of the cake. Strike the match. Light the wick. Chant a familiar tune. Watch the flame flicker; watch shadows spill like liquid night. Inhale--and in the pause Between one breath and the next, Summon your wish from the secret spaces of your soul. Do not speak. Do not share your wish. Words bring great danger and may result in ruin (Like an unsightly sausage stuck to the tip of your nose). Exhale—let your breath extinguish the flame. Your silent wish will rise upward with the candle’s smoke, An offering and a prayer. Kelly Jarvis is the Special Projects Writer and Contributing Editor for The Fairy Tale Magazine. Her work has appeared in Eternal Haunted Summer, Blue Heron Review, Forget-Me-Not Press, Mermaids Monthly, The Chamber Magazine, and Mothers of Enchantment: New Tales of Fairy Godmothers. She teaches at Central Connecticut State University.

Twelve-year-old Tasha is relieved to leave her friends and move north with her parents to her ailing grandfather’s farm. She is not the same since what happened at Claw’s Edge. She doesn’t pursue new friendships and no longer goes exploring, opting instead to help around the farm and spend time with her family, for now she knows she cannot trust others to keep her safe. She must rely on herself. All the same, she is lonely, and on the first snowfall of the year, she wishes the snow girl she made with Grandpa would come to life and be her friend. What follows is magic Tasha had never dreamed of. The Snow Girl is acclaimed author Sophie Anderson’s retelling of the classic Russian tale “The Snow Maiden” for middle grade readers, but readers of all ages will love snuggling in with this touching and sensitive story. As Tasha’s friendship with the snow girl Alyana grows, Anderson explores trauma, discernment, trust, and self-confidence. She creates a cozy, timeless atmosphere, deliciously detailed with Russian food and folkore, making it a perfect story to curl up with on a winter night. Stunningly beautiful gray and blue illustrations and page decorations by Melissa Castrillón swirl throughout the book, making it even more of a pleasure to read. A moving tale of bravery, hope, friendship, and letting go, The Snow Girl is simply magic. Lissa Sloan is the author of Glass and Feathers, a novel that tells the story of Cinderella after the “happily ever after.” The Enchanted Press will publish it next February.

Welcome to the season of the liminal, and the opening of Curiosity Shoppes everywhere! It's October, the month of “O” and "oh" and "ooo…”—that time of year when the human world begins to decorate with icons of Other. The smell of magic is in the air and stores everywhere—on land and online—throw out their lures, charming you into lingering among tantalizing displays of age-old charms and rose-wreathed skulls—of spellbooks writ with raven feathers and iron-weighted keys smudged with rust. Or is that...blood? "Come buy, come buy," and you roll your eyes. The chant is the same every year. Then, as always, your gaze alights on some goblin fruit you swear you'd never seen. In your mind's eye, it already sits as your seasonal centerpiece, potent and brooding over your forks, knives, and guests—your visitors' eyes glinting in the aftereffect of spellcast; just as you secretly wished. What a magical evening this fruit promises! You must have it after all... Folklorically inclined fellows seem particularly susceptible to these offerings. Though we happily join the masses who give into the annual tradition of adding a new seasonal element to their tablescapes, landscapes, or personal masques, it's us folkloric folk who especially feel our senses hum. When certain objects appear in the mundane world of the everyday store shelves and virtual shop windows, we feel a sense of synchronicity, of destiny. Even poor imitations, made of resin, plaster, and plastics—yes, even those!—draw our eyes and our imaginations. How can we resist a skull entwined with briar thorns and rosebuds, handmade twig brooms, foreboding crowned ravens, imperfect (and suspiciously second-hand) cauldrons, teetering spellbooks with shaky hand-inked titles, and haunted typewriters that declare "I love you...to death..."? If we are truly honest with ourselves, we realize we don't. And we don’t want to. Even if we don't hand over our preciously-saved pennies to add such compelling echoes of fairy tales to our collections, the images of these made-manifest symbols of stories fill our thoughts and dreams, making us feel that this season we have stepped one length closer to that elusive mist we think of as Other... Because, in a sense, we have. But there is a dark underbelly to these portals of promise. Why are we drawn toward this carnival of wares every year? Do our hearts harbor greedy little gnomes, lusting after anything new and shiny? Or is something more at work here? The trick with Goblin Fruit is that it leads you to believe "... this is your one chance..." to grab it, to taste it but within the truth is also a great lie. It's not just about that unique taste but of being part of the Great Magic that the fruit promises, yet there are so many, many paths to enchantment; these cunning little fruits are only one of them. Let's take a step back, out of the heady aroma, beyond the tangled webs of enchantment, to see what it is we're truly craving, and why it's so easy to hungrily buy (literally) into the goblin-ridden world of Halloween goods. We all love the staples—the cauldrons, the brooms, the skulls, the black roses—but it's those familiar motifs with a fresh twist, combined with new items seemingly straight out of a tale, that make us stop and look again. These objects, for many of us, sing a particularly strong siren song, but why is it that particular items can have such an ensorcelling effect on our senses (and wallets)? Because they are telling our stories. In a time of overwhelm and discord, (also known as "now!") sometimes something as simple as holding a large rusting key in our palm, grounds us, stops the world spinning, and focuses our minds on Story. Items that represent tales and pieces of folklore, especially if they are Our stories, help bring those tales to our dimension, to life; our tangible present connecting us to both wondrous pasts and magical possibilities of the future. And let's be honest, those items with that darker edge, at this time of year, feel a little more magically-real in difficult times. A darker talisman brimming with potential and an escape into Story. How is that not alluring? Who doesn't wish to revel in magical possibilities? It’s true that each fairy tale aficionado will have their inner chords thrum a little differently, according to the song (we are individuals after all) but despite how tired we are of the overused canon, we cannot help our heads turn on seeing a flash of red cape disappear through the trees, or a single, bright apple held out toward us for the taking. It's our shorthand and immediate door into "once upon a time,” yet it’s not a given that we will succumb and fall under the spell. We know, more than anyone, there is a way out of these darkly enchanted woods; we just have to remind ourselves that we can't quite see it. Yet. To browse with awareness helps you stay on a path of your choosing, rather than feeling, and becoming, lost. To recognize what’s happening is to become more aware of discovering true treasures versus transient cravings; to scent the true nature—goblin or not—of that fruit you’re about to bite. So look, dream, imagine, and wonder. Heed the siren call if you must. And if you fear you'll find the fruit too tempting, take a fairy tale friend along for the ride. There's nothing like a sister, or bosom friend, to watch your back in a Goblin Market. Just take care which curiosities you add to your basket. The fruits are many and the stalls bigger than they appear—ready and waiting for you to take just one step further and Come Buy, Come Buy… Gypsy Thornton (she/her) is the Guardian of a chicken-legged coffee cup with a mind of its own. A night owl forced to get up with larks, she often describes herself as liminal and is forever trying to do impossible things before breakfast. She can only be seen in her true form after midnight. fairytalenewsblog.blogspot.com medium.com/@inkgypsy Images: "Goblin Market" by Warwick Goble, 1920 "Goblin Market" by Arthur Rackham, 1933

Once upon a time a farmer’s wife stood looking out of her window. “If only I had a daughter with hair the color of our wheatfield,” she sighed, “I would love her, even if she could speak no more than the wind rustling through the sheaves.” And soon enough a little girl was born to the farmer and his wife; her hair was a golden as ripened wheat, but she never made a sound. They named her Hush, and she learned to write and draw, chattering away as gaily through her scribbles and drawings as any child ever did through speech. The girl was as pretty as a picture and as good as gold, and no one ever minded her silence, or the way she had of staring as if drinking them up. Hush drew things into herself and poured them out again in paint. By the time she was a young maiden the farmhouse was decorated with Hush’s paintings, beautiful things that glowed as if with an inner light. But one day the farmer’s wife fell ill. Hush sat by her mother’s bedside, stroking her hand, but her mother did not respond. Days went by, and her mother worsened. Hush and her father sat silently together as the mother’s breath slowed, and finally stopped. Hush looked up through her tears to see Death standing at the head of the bed. But Death was not looking at her mother. He was looking at the painting behind Hush, a golden summer afternoon. Then Death looked at Hush. “There is little beauty in my home,” he said. “Come to my house, paint the most beautiful picture of your heart for me, and I will spare your mother.” Hush nodded. At the empty castle of Death the dead souls filed by the arched windows, silently, endlessly. Death brought paints and canvases and brushes, and gave Hush a wide dark room lit by many candles. “Paint,” he said. Hush painted. She painted from her memory, the animals and landscapes and people she had loved every day of her life. But she felt that something was not right, and tore the canvases apart. More paints, Hush wrote to Death. Silent, he brought pots and tubes and jars from all over the world. He bought colors she had never seen before, heavy blocks that had be ground into fine powder and mixed with water. Hush painted. She painted from her imagination, storybook creatures and mysterious grottos and fairy lights dancing. The wondrous pigments gave her paintings an ethereal quality they had never possessed before. Yet still something was not right, and again Hush destroyed her paintings. More candles, Hush wrote. Death brought tall white pillars and surrounded the easel with flames so that the room was as bright as noon. The souls filing by the windows shielded their eyes with their withered hands. Hush painted. She painted from her dreams, shadowed and ominous. Her paintings were as dark as the room was light. Grim faces seemed to leer from her backgrounds, and her subjects grew strange and tormented, mouths twisted in silent screams. She did not destroy these, but sat troubled, looking at them as they dried. Death came to look at her latest works. “You can no longer paint beauty,” he said. “You must return and I will take your mother.” Hush raised her hands in mute despair. “One last night,” he said. All night Hush sat in front of her canvas. Not a single beautiful image would come; her mind was in darkness and turmoil. Finally she began painting, slowly at first but then faster and faster, as the candles burned lower. When morning came she collapsed to the floor and slept. Death returned and looked at Hush’s final painting. It was not beautiful. It was a portrait of Death himself, and he saw that it was more terrible and magnificent than anything she had painted yet. He leaned in and looked closer, seeing himself the mirror of Hush’s despair. She had drawn him into herself and poured him out again on the canvas. Hush awoke in her own bed, with her father and mother holding her hands on either side, crying with joy at her return. Hush squeezed her parents’ hands and smiled. But she did not understand why Death had sent her back and spared her mother when she had not fulfilled her promise. She stood by the window, staring out at the wheatfield. As the wind rustled through the sheaves, she felt her heart lift. She picked up her brush. Amy Bennett-Zendzian holds an MA/MFA from Simmons College and an MA from Boston University. She is a Lecturer in Writing at Boston University, where she teaches courses on fairy tales. She has published poetry in Gingerbread House Literary Magazine and the NonBinary Review, and her short plays have been produced around the Boston area. Cover: Amanda Bergloff @AMANDABERGLOFF