Dear FTM Readers, As we shift from the serial version and prepare for next year’s print and ebook release, Kate and I are so delighted to share the new cover design of Glass and Feathers! This is one of so many firsts for us in the publishing of The Enchanted Press’s first book, and one of the most exciting. The design team at eBook Launch worked with us to create an image that captures the dark and magical feel of my Cinderella continuation that asks, “What happens after Happy Ever After?” We love the period font and glass slipper design, the somber yet sparkling color palate that feels so very fairy tale, the vines that offer a whispered hint at a pumpkin shape, and of course, the sparrow at the top. Glass and Feathers will be available in ebook and print in March of 2024, and we couldn’t have done it without you. Here’s to the next step of the journey. Thank you for walking this path with us!

FTM is pleased to present the winners of our Poetry Fundraising Contest below. Enjoy! POETRY GRAND PRIZE WINNER AND VERY LITTLE STONE by Margaret Fisher Squires They built the palace together. They used dreams and glass and very little stone. She did not notice the lack, distracted as she was by the motes of glamour that sparked the air around her prince. Perhaps she is not to be blamed. Perhaps he is not to be blamed either. The Fair Folk cannot help what they are. The Elf Lord quite enjoyed the playful labor. The woman’s flights of fancy matched his own as few other mortals’ had. Her dreams served for timbering and floors, fine-grained and richly hued like mahogany or teak. The pair were dazzled by their reflections in the ballroom’s mirrors. “We’ll give a ball!” he declared. She answered him, “Yes!” and he conjured fragile chairs of gilded wood, rich brocade draperies, candles of fragrant beeswax. The dainty cakes were real, with currants in them. He stole them by magic from the bakery in the nearest town. It did not seem to matter that the palace had no kitchen. Candle flames lit the ballroom and burned again in gilded mirrors, in guests’ jewels, and in his mortal lover’s eyes. Dancing with her was a joy at first. The time came when her every kiss, her every hand-brush felt like the peck of a small, hungry bird. Her eyes, bright with hope drained him. Besides, the party seemed to last almost a whole night or almost a whole year. (Despite long interludes with mortals, he still tended to confuse the two.) He knew, or believed in his fine ivory bones, that if he stayed a whole night or a whole year in one place, time would enspell him, stiffen his flesh until he was trapped in panicked immobility, an Elf Lord shaped entirely of something like mahogany or teak. Her chatter carved a numb hollow in his chest, He felt approaching dawn. He left her while the dance swirled all around them, slipping away through one of the tall glass doors into the darkness. He left her dancing with his reflection. Outside, he paused, and glanced back through the glass at the bright-eyed comely woman circling alone in her graceful dance. He heard a distant fiddle swinging into melody over the hill. He felt the music fill his chest with fire. His heels barely touched the earth as he crossed the hill but he remembered the woman for almost as many years or hours as it took for the palace’s timbers to collapse into dust. Margaret Fisher Squire’s poems have appeared in brass bell: a haiku journal, The Ryder Magazine, and the Five Women Poets’ chapbook, Birds of a Feather. Some can be heard in the archives of WFIU’s program “The Poets Weave” https://indianapublicmedia.org/poetsweave/ . Image: Amanda Bergloff POETRY RUNNER UP TO SURVIVE A FAIRY TALE by Deborah Sage Wear a cloak fashioned of a thousand furs Or a mask of illusion edged with Owl feathers and innocence. Always Erase your traces. Cast no shadow in moonlight. Sleepwalk Barefoot, across frosted fields, clad In gossamer and thistle-down. Tell no one your true name. Ask for no red roses. Choose camelias instead. Never unlock forbidden doors even If given the keys. Chain your heart with iron or A lover’s infidelity. Three bands of either are enough. Conceal your radiance. Cast a glamour To avoid the gaze of your mother, or In extreme cases, your father. Obscure your scent with Dragon’s Blood And Moroccan mint, best obtained from A disreputable source. Wear a gown of ashes, or choose One of ruby silk to blend with spilled drops of cabernet And bloodstains. Carry a carving knife for pumpkins, And wolves. Do not lose your slipper. Sleep in a canopied bed carved From the point of a spindle carved by A fairy’s curse. Braid your hair with Briars or threads of time. Wear a brooch of silver and shoes of iron. Trade your wishes for golden coins. Trade your voice to the sea For your heart’s desire and a crystal choker, Always expect the worst. Do not dance in Faerie forests, but if you must, Leave a trail of vanishing diamonds, Or starlight. Waltz all night But do not tango. Take care you are not followed. Do not answer those who would call your name, Willing you to let down your guard alongside Your hair. Flee before the clock strikes Midnight. Remember the power of passivity; Stay in the tower. Break the queen’s mirror. Risk the Seven year’s bad luck. Do not comb your raven locks with A poisoned comb. Leave the tangles. Never eat apples from a chest Nor a house of cakes and sweets. Despite your cravings, Do not steal from A witch’s garden. Starve instead. When pursued, seek shelter in deep forests. Hide between the roots of a rowan tree, In a thatched cottage, Or beneath a leaf. Be on good terms with dwarves and witches. Always dress for flight, Or enchantment. Speak in a foreign tongue but remember Always to whisper, Tint your skin blue; wear sapphires. Reveal your thoughts only on The promise of anonymity. Be certain Your confidence will not be kept. Stay on the path, drink no wine Nor eat food proffered with a price Greater than gratitude. Do not engage in careless thievery. Avoid spinning either Straw into gold or Men into princes. Deborah W. Sage is a native of Kentucky, USA. She has most recently been published in Enchanted Conversation: A Fairy Tale Magazine, Eternal Haunted Summer, Literary LEO, Fairy Tale Magazine, From the Farther Trees, the 2022 Dwarf Stars Anthology and Amethyst Press All Shall Be Well anthology for Julian of Norwich. Image: Arthur Rackham POETRY RUNNER UP TRIPLE GODDESS PRAYER by Cecilia Betsill Come child, and drink from the Cauldron of Cerridwen. And when you rise Take the storm winds with you. Come child and drink. Suck on the breast of the Siren and let the manna drown you. Sinking, staining water pink. Come child, and lay your head on the lap of the Great Morrigan. Raven wings wide and Counting the dead. (Gaze across that battlefield, littered and crisscrossed with corpses of bastards ready to pay) Come child, and jump on the back of the Valkyries. And when you soar sing the Rune song of Mother & Crone. Come child and stand at the Crossroads of Hecate. Peer into the fates and the future and Tell your coven what you see. Ah, you maiden, you girl child, let your rage flow. Rage for the ones before you who burned and who hung. Be reborn in the castrated foam of your father. Oysters and mollusks widen their maws to spill pearls at your feet. You goddess, you storyteller - Child, you are eternal. You are me, and her, and she, Mother, Maiden, Crone, our Fury makes us one. Cecilia Betsill is an NYC-based Swede writing LGBTQ+ fantasy and witchy poetry. She is currently working on publishing her debut novel entitled Siren's Song. You can find Cecilia helping run a literary open mic in Brooklyn and occasionally illustrating the accompanying monthly zine. Image: Alphonse Osbert All three poems are included in our September issue, TALES FROM THE NIGHT QUEEN'S REALM ...packed with original fairy tale stories, poems, art, articles, and an interview with author, Alice Hoffman! FEATURING WORKS BY Ella Arrow - Amanda Bergloff - Cecilia Betsill - Tish Black Sarah Cannavo - Jayne Cohen - Sara Cleto - A.J. Cunder Sofia Ezdina - Alyson Faye - Hannah Grace Greer Kelly Jarvis - Rosanne E. Lortz - Leila Murton Poole Deborah Sage - Marcia Sherman - Margaret Fisher Squires Laren Stover - Brittany Warman You can find TALES FROM THE NIGHT QUEEN'S REALM single issue HERE and check out other past issues HERE

Editor’s note: It’s not often we get a submission that includes the work of a professional artist and writer like Lauren Mills. That’s right. The adorable image, “Berry Harvest,” that goes with this delightful and unexpected poem is also by Lauren. You’re going to love this! A fever led the witch to bed, Too weak to find a cure. Her ragged breath, her aching head, No more could she endure. A healer she had been to all Who dared to seek the crone; But none would heed a witch’s call She’d face her end alone. At dusk she spied a little light Float by her garden wall. She fancied that a fairy might Be tucked inside, quite small. She rose and stumbled out her door To see what might be there, Then crawled across the leafy floor With no one there to care. Then, one by one, she watched them come From out of mist and dew. Her heart like rapid wings did hum To glimpse them as they flew. Their hair like tufts of milkweed down Was lifted by the breeze. Each gossamer and silky gown As sheer as wings of bees. They sang and played a lively reel. Those dainty feet did dance Upon the tufted chamomile, A golden-fairy prance. With fragrance as a sweet caress Into a dream serene, Her eyes half closed in drowsy bliss; She saw the strangest scene. A tiny, wounded mouse was laid Across the blossomed-bed. A mossy pillow, fairy-made, Was set beneath his head. One wrapped him in a petal shawl. One kissed his tiny cheek. With thorn removed, he stood up tall, And thanked them with a squeak. The next to come was old brown toad. They set his broken toe. His gratitude he shyly showed By croaking rather low. At last there came a chickadee, Her feathers not quite right. The fairies worked so carefully To sew them back, snug tight. And just when she began to think Of taking slumber there The fairies turned and with a wink Wove flowers in her hair. What happened next, she could not say; The tunes began to fade. By dawn’s first light they flew away. She hobbled from the glade. When she awoke upon her bed, The dew upon the lawn, With fragrant herbs around her head- Her fever? It was gone! Lauren A. Mills has been a visiting art professor at the University of Hartford in Connecticut and Hollins University in Virginia. She is the author and illustrator of several books for children including, THE RAG COAT, THE DOG PRINCE, TATTERHOOD AND THE HOBGOBLINS, and FAIRY WINGS which she co-illustrated with her husband, Dennis Nolan, and which won the SCBWI (Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators) Golden Kite Award. She and her husband have a grown daughter. They live with their Italian Greyhound, Ollie, in Western Massachusetts at their homestead called Faun Hollow. Lauren, a self-proclaimed Hedge Witch, grows herbs that go into her Faerie Botanica of healing teas and body care products that she makes for her family and friends.

The Shadow Sister is a gripping Young Adult mystery debut from author Lily Meade. It tells the story of two sisters, Casey and Sutton, who struggle to get along with one another in their teen years. When Sutton is the third black girl in the area to go missing, Casey, who continues to harbor deep resentments for her sister, must put on a loving act so the press and police will focus attention on finding a black girl. When Sutton returns home with no memory of what she endured, her new relationship with Casey will unsettle everything Casey has believed about her life and her family’s past. The story is told through Casey’s first-person point of view, which allows for heart-breaking confessions about the complex nature of sisterhood. Sutton’s point of view punctuates Casey’s narrative in chapters which bring the reader back to the day she goes missing and to several days years before. Both girls struggle to understand their mixed heritage and take comfort in the love from their recently deceased grandmother, Remy, who left them a silver bracelet with a unique charm. Their father’s work includes personal and historical research into Hoodoo practices and herbal slave medicines that inform the modern spiritual practices of African Americans. This information greatly impacts the twist at the end of the story as the magic of family and sisterhood overcomes the ugliness and dangers of the world. Although the end of the book was a twist that may confuse some readers, Meade justifies her ending by explaining that she wanted to reclaim the narrative of victimhood that haunts black characters in American fiction. The Shadow Sister effectively combines authentic young adult voices with important historical and spiritual information to address the effects of intergenerational trauma and the potential for healing. The prose moves quickly, and the plot is engaging. This book will hold the interest of the adolescent reader while proving an adult audience with a deep look at how structural inequity impacts contemporary teenage life. This is a book I would consider using in my Young Adult Literature class because of its tight blend of personal confession, social commentary, and spiritual critique. 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.

Shadowland, by P.L Hampton, tells the riveting tale of Aaron Langford, a new University of Washington professor who has recently moved his family across the country to Seattle to conduct research on Sickle Cell Anemia, the disease that killed his grandmother and plagues his fourteen-year-old son. Aaron is haunted by the death of his parents who perished in a car accident when he has a child. Aaron, who was raised by his grandmother, Mother Dear, developed issues with guilt and OCD after the accident, and these mental health concerns resurface as the plot unfolds. Shadowland begins with a quotation from a Yoruba Fable, and the book is full of folklore and spirituality from West Africa. Early in the novel, Aaron and his wife receive a divination tray from an estate sale as a housewarming gift. The tray is described as an African Oijui Board carved with strange symbols. The board seems to open a portal between the worlds, and odd things begin to happen; the family cat disappears, Aaron’s wife starts to see shadows in the house, and their children go missing. Aaron, still suffering from guilt over his parents’ death and worried he may have somehow caused harm to his children, contacts Urbi Houna, the board’s original owner. She is a Vondu priestess who will help him navigate the “shadowlands” that lie between this world and the next. The fate of Aaron’s children hangs in the balance. Hampton provides readers with a fast-paced plot, plenty of mystery, and a deep cultural exploration of alternate spirituality. This was an interesting and entertaining read! You can find the book here. 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.

FTM is pleased to present the winners of our first Flash Fiction Fundraising Contest below. Enjoy! FLASH FICTION GRAND PRIZE WINNER "MEDICINE or POISON" by Ella Arrow The wise woman knows when she's called a witch. They called my mother “a cunning woman,” gladly buying her elixirs and simples on market day. But the village has changed since I took her place. Now more whisperers than customers pass my cart. A woman who lives alone has become a specimen strange and not always good. Simple people see what they want, the best or worst they can imagine. Salt is essential to the life of a man but kills the poor slug that eats the same cabbages. Poison or medicine. Witch or wisdom. Perhaps apple tarts with elderberry and feverfew will sell as a remedy for the chills. Slip medicine in with the mead. I lean deep into my bread oven and ash catches in the back of my throat, clings like a bat to the sore folds there. I hold my breath until the tarts are out and I can finally cough. The windowsill is already brimming with market day pastries, but as I set down the tarts, I noticed a gap in my pile of scones. "Nibble, nibble, little mouse. Who's been nibbling at my house?" "Never mind. It is the wind." I'm so shocked at the tiny voice that answers, I have to gather my wits along with my shawl over my head before rushing out the door. Two children stand outside my window, mouths agape, cheeks hollow, twigs in their hair. I'm not used to visitors, much less youngsters. The best thing about living alone in the woods is solitude. It’s also the worst thing. The little girl steps back as if I were the one who frightened her. The boy's fist clutches a green sponge. Are they so starved they would eat gutter growth? "What is that? Don't eat that!" My throat is dry; I creak like a crow. "You must be a witch," he whispers, "to have such a magical house." Medicine or poison, witch or wisdom. "Come inside," I say. "Eat and rest, whatever sweets you want." They sidle past me, too exhausted to argue, eyes wide and glassy. They fall on my food like wild things. I imagine them biting my fingers as I deliver extra pumpkin muffins. I’ve only one bed but I tuck them in, mother's quilt up to their chins. They seem nervous, thin arms around each other. Unsure how to talk to children, to help them feel safe, I stroke the girl's cheek and say, "Such sweet faces. I could eat you up." In the dark of night, a crash awakens me from my chair. The boy’s out of bed and has stumbled over the garden tools. He wrestles a rake, raining down crumbles of fragrant sage and henbane from their perch in the rafters. I cry out and grab him. He raves and shouts, slapping me. His eyes are still unfocused, seeing nightmares or gingerbread houses. I wrap him in a bear hug and drag him toward the back of the house where the chicken coop opens by a little grate. “Wolves will devour us!” he shouts. “In the woods, wolves and witches will devour us.” He looks straight through me, naming me as wicked. I shove him in with the chickens and slam the grate shut. Call and scream as he might, I do not let him out. I search my books for what fruit of the forest could give them visions of sugar plums and baby-boiling witches. Finally, near dawn, I find the concoction. Purge and purify, thyme and burdock. Then restore: red clover, prunella, lady’s mantle. I know the girl heard the ruckus last night. She only comes out for porridge, hunger overwhelming fear. I get her to tell me through tears how they heard their stepmother’s plan to abandon them in the woods. No wonder they’re mistrustful. On the second day starving, they ate white berries that looked like dolls’ eyes. They stumbled onto my little house, mistaking sweet smells and a window bakery for a candy cottage conjured from a starving child’s dreams. They purge. I clean. If this is what having children entails, I'm glad my mothering is temporary. My magic can heal the body and salve the spirit, but it doesn’t mend their tiny broken hearts. Market day comes and goes. They've eaten my stores anyway. I try to think what to do with them; they clearly cannot go home. I try to put meat back on their bones, but my throat has gotten worse, my eyes are red and runny. I don’t speak much, but when I do, my temper is as brittle as a dried stalk. The girl weeps on the little pallet I've made for her bed. The boy screams whenever I come near. I fear for my safety if I let him out. It doesn't matter that the visions have passed, the toxins purged. The poison ideas have left a scar. I've decided I'll take them to the village. Someone there will help, take them in, someone who isn’t me. I haven’t told them, because I plan to give them a sleeping tea and put them on the cart. That way is safest, so they don’t run away and get lost in the woods again. While I still have the extra hands, I ask the girl to help me clean my oven. I show her the brush and how to lean far in. I promise her a cookie if she helps me, but she knows I've got a secret. These children have no trust left to give. She pushes me with tiny might and mountainous fury. My head thumps the oven and I roll behind the door, moaning, out of sight. She opens her brother's cage and cries, “We're free! The old witch is dead!” “I’m not old,” I mumble, holding my head. “I’m 37.” Knowledge is a knife that cuts both ways. People see what they want. You can’t feed them medicine if they believe it’s poison. So says a wise woman. Ella Arrow believes in magic, especially the kind we make for ourselves. Her book, The Flight of the Starling, A Fairy Tale, is available on Amazon and in bookshops. She writes stories and makes art in her home near Madison, Wisconsin. Join her quest for a magical life on www.ella-arrow.com. Image: Jessie M. King FLASH FICTION RUNNER UP "EVER AFTER" by Tish Black You know, the people who write “they lived happily ever after” aren’t the people living the ever after. They don’t know. They just stop the story after the wedding and assume that marriage makes everyone happy and that happiness sticks around forever. My father had promised my hand in marriage to whoever could rescue me from the ogre. A sensible transaction; without a daughter, his family line could not continue, and a man strong, brave, and clever enough to defeat an ogre is the kind of blood you want in your family line. Of course, I didn’t know I was being sold to the highest bidder, I had more pressing concerns at that moment. I wasn’t the only girl the ogre had stolen. Five of us huddled together for warmth at the back of the ogre’s cave, devising a plan of escape. If anything, this guy ruined our plan. It’s amazing that we all still managed to escape. And rescue him from the ogre on the way out. This guy was a better storyteller than a rescuer. His recounting of the events didn’t sound familiar to me, but my father bought it, so the wedding was planned. My fellow captives became my bridesmaids. We all agreed that the flowers were lovely, the dress was lovely, the groom was lovely, the castle was lovely. Yes, it was a much lovelier place to be held captive than an ogre’s cave. So, we huddled together and devised a lovely plan of escape. And so, there was a wedding and the bride did live happily ever after. Just not with the groom. Tish Black is a writer, content creator, and film programmer. She creates fairy tale & folklore content as Tales with Tish, including video essays exploring fairy tale films. Her first book of short stories inspired by fairy tales will be published in late 2023. Find her online at TishBlack.com. Image:The Public Domain Review Both these tales are featured in our September issue, TALES FROM THE NIGHT QUEEN'S REALM ...packed with original fairy tale stories, poems, art, articles, and an interview with author, Alice Hoffman! FEATURING WORKS BY Ella Arrow - Amanda Bergloff - Cecilia Betsill - Tish Black Sarah Cannavo - Jayne Cohen - Sara Cleto - A.J. Cunder Sofia Ezdina - Alyson Faye - Hannah Grace Greer Kelly Jarvis - Rosanne E. Lortz - Leila Murton Poole Deborah Sage - Marcia Sherman - Margaret Fisher Squires Laren Stover - Brittany Warman You can find TALES FROM THE NIGHT QUEEN'S REALM single issue HERE and check out other past issues HERE

Editor’s note: Just when we thought we'd seen every possible permutation on “Snow White,” Marsheila came along with this dark yet strangely lighthearted take on the old classic. We think you’ll see why we were delighted by this story. Enjoy! The witch checked her basket one last time before approaching the cottage in the woods. The apple on top was plumper, redder, and shinier than all the others, making even her mouth water. She pulled the gingham back over the fruit as she reached the cottage door and knocked timidly, settling into her guise. A young girl soon opened the door. She had corpse-pale skin, moondark hair, and lips like clotted blood, features no mirror would ever call fair. “Yes?” “Hello, dearie! I am selling these lovely apples, the finest—” the witch began, her voice crackling with illusory age as she uncovered her wares. The girl’s eyes lit up with hunger. “I’ll take the whole basket!” the girl interrupted, disappearing back inside for a moment and returning with a small pouch. “This should be more than enough to cover it,” she said, flashing the neck open to show a sparkle of diamonds. “Why, yes, but—” the witch began again, flustered, but the girl snatched the basket away and shoved the pouch into her hands in its place. “No time, grandmother. Be careful in the woods. There are wolves about.” And with that, the girl slammed the cottage door and was gone. The witch stared at the closed door, flummoxed. This was not how she had envisioned her encounter with her runaway stepdaughter taking place. Still, if it got the job done…. She pressed her ear to the door to listen. There. The crunch of teeth biting into the flesh of an enchanted apple. Perfect. The witch turned and headed back into the woods, smiling as she tucked the pouch into her bodice. Soon she would be the ailing king’s only heir. And his darling daughter had just paid for—and hastened—what would be a very lavish funeral, indeed. * * * The girl watched from behind a curtained window while her stepmother disappeared amongst the trees. Had the old bat really thought she wouldn’t be recognized, or that her peddler’s disguise would hide her true identity from one who knew her so well? One to whom she had taught the same tricks of illusion, once upon a time? She had tasted the flavor of the other woman’s magic immediately, and spit out the bite of fruit the moment the witch was out of earshot. This wasn’t the first time the witch had tried to kill her, and it wouldn’t be the last, and one of these days, the girl would fail to soften the huntsman’s heart or detect the hint of poison, and then what? She’d be dead, and all for a kingdom that hated her because she was not, and had no desire to be, her mother. The girl eyed the basket of apples on the low table, topped by the one she’d bitten into, its flesh already browning. It did seem a shame to let her all her stepmother’s effort go to waste…. * * * That night, when the girl’s companions returned home from the mines, carrying bags of uncut gemstones and hunks of golden ore to add to the hoard already stored in their ever-expanding root cellar, she served them vegetable soup, acorn flour bread with goat butter, and mugs of that same goat’s milk. She watched them eat, longing as always for the taste of red meat, but the brothers were strict vegetarians. The one whose snoring kept her up most nights sloshed soup out of his bowl with every spoonful. The one who thought himself a jester regaled the stupid one with poorly-told jokes they all knew by heart, and acted offended when one or another of his brothers would blurt out the punchline prematurely. The sullen one glared at the one with social anxiety for some imagined slight, making the anxious one cry snotty tears into his mug. The one who was always sick coughed something wet and sticky onto the butter dish. While the girl hurried to clean it up, the one who fancied himself a healer prescribed a concoction of common herbs she knew would be fatal in that particular combination. She said nothing. When they were finished with their supper, the girl served them each a bowl of freshly made applesauce, still warm from her cauldron. She watched as they wolfed down the dessert, and obliged with a smile when they asked for more. A smile that only widened when the first one paled, the second one began to sweat, the third one clutched his stomach in pain, the fourth one began to foam at the mouth, the fifth one began to seize, the sixth one vomited into his bowl, and the seventh one, finally, began to scream. * * * The witch returned to the cottage a few days later, expecting to find the girl’s companions mourning over her lifeless body. Instead, the cottage door stood open, the sickly-sweet smell of death reaching her from across the clearing. She approached cautiously, then stood at the threshold, peering inside the silent abode. As her eyes adjusted, she could see upended chairs, scattered bowls, and bodies. Seven corpses lay about the table, innards bared with whatever had been near to hand—pickaxes, butter knives, their own black-nailed fingers—to try and remove the poison burning through them. To no avail. The witch also noted the open cellar door and a trail of spilled gold and gems. It led toward a back door, and the horse and wagon she knew without looking would no longer be hitched there. She had wanted the girl gone, to eliminate any claim the child might have to the witch’s throne. And gone she was, fled with all the riches she would ever need, someplace where the witch would have no reason to follow. She smiled. It seemed the girl had been a better student than she let on and the crafty apple hadn’t fallen far from the cunning tree. Their rivalry hadn’t ended how she’d imagined, but the witch would take it. Whatever got the job done. Marsheila (Marcy) Rockwell is a Rhysling Award-nominated poet and the author of twelve books and dozens of poems and short stories. A disabled pediatric cancer and mental health awareness advocate and reconnecting Chippewa/Métis, she lives in the desert with her family, buried under books. Image: “The Poisoned Apple,” by Wanda Gag, 1938.

If you’ve ever felt silly whilst attempting to learn the tarot, or thought about learning but fear you’ll be out of your depth, Maria DeBlassie’s new book is just the one for you. Conversations With the Tarot is a concise and interesting depiction of learning the tarot, helpful in making new learners comfortable on their own journeys. DeBlassie describes how she spent seventy-eight weeks writing a seventy-eight word description of her connection to a card that she drew every morning. Her practice of writing a word for every card for seventy eight weeks straight deepened her respect and understanding of the tarot and she takes the reader right along on a journey with her. For each of the cards, DeBlassie writes a short poem on the card itself, and then a seventy-eight word report on her insights on the card and how its representation applies to her life. Upon her drawing of the High Priestess she discusses the “divine feminine energy” of the card and how “she is one with herself and one with the world in all its aspects.” The book cultivates the reader’s relationship with the cards through the example of interpretation before any personal practice has begun. As a wary learner of the tarot myself, DeBlassie explains the cards in a way that makes them seem much less like frightening and mystical objects used only in books and movies, and more like a healthful spiritual practice applicable to everyday life. She encourages readers to “take comfort in knowing that none of us know what we’re doing when we first start developing a relationship with the tarot but, in retrospect, we see patterns emerging in terms of how we read and understand the cards.” You can find a copy HERE. Madeline Mertz is FTM's editorial intern and is a Truman State University student with literary journal experience.

Editor’s note: The oddness of this poem and the seemingly random maladies listed grabbed our attention and held it. There’s a lot to think about! When hunting for fairies, always plug in your ears: the cry of a dying fairy can damage your hearing. Dry them for two weeks before you proceed by hanging them out of a window or dumping in the dark corner. Grind fairies in a mortar till a smooth mass and take orally twice a day before meals. This nostrum treats cough, arthrosis, snuffle, it breaks fears, anxiety, and nicotine breath. It eradicates fatigue, dispels anger and spleen; it drains your eyes and voice and emasculates your words. Although, as side effects, for years you’ll dream fairies’ death. But for such visions there is a good decoction on page 4. When hunting for dvergrs, do not think about your loved ones. Sofia Ezdina is an emerging writer and queer woman from Russia. She befriends stray animals and whispers eerie things. Her works appeared in Jalada Africa, FU Review and The Revelator. One of her poems was also named as a runner up for Barjeel Poetry Prize. Image: from Halloweenforum.com.

Once upon a time there was an ambitious young enchantress named Daisy Bigelow who was just finishing her internship at the enchantment firm Madame Chlorisse and Associates. Daisy had just finished her final task as an intern and hoped to become a junior associate with the firm. Confident that she had handled the case perfectly, she looked forward to her performance review with Madame Chlorisse and regarded the interview as a formality. The case had involved two young women, sisters. One had been very sweet and generous to Daisy when she appeared at the drinking well disguised as an old beggar woman who could offer her nothing in return for a drink of water. To reward the girl’s kindness, she caused diamonds and pearls to appear whenever she spoke, ensuring her a life of prosperity. Her sister had failed the same test, refusing her a drink even though it would have cost her nothing. So she caused toads and vipers to appear whenever she spoke. Confident of her success, she was confused by the icy expression on Madame Chlorisse’s face as she handed her next week’s newspaper. Daisy studied the headlines and read out loud. “Local girl mysteriously speaks diamonds, will marry prince next week.” Daisy beamed. “I’m so happy for her! Why do you look so sad, Madame?” “Some princesses find a palace to be a prison and their prince a jailor. Read on.” “Woman found dead in wood surrounded by toads. Served her right! Why are you looking at me like that?” “Remember last week’s proverb?” “An act of grace can turn a beast into a beauty, but sudden riches can corrupt an angel.” Daisy’s eyes began to water. They were both silent, and Daisy began to weep. Chlorisse took the clock from the mantle, opened the glass, and turned the hands back several times. Then said, “I believe in you, child. I’ve turned back the days. Return to the well, and we’ll see how things turn out.” Daisy waited at the well. She took the form of a pleasant-faced middle-aged woman. Eventually, a young woman approached carrying her water jug. “Please miss could you draw me out some water? I’ve lost my pitcher.” “Of course, ma’am.” Daisy drank and thanked the girl, saying she wished she had something to give her in return. “It’s all right ma’am. I’m just happy I could help.” Daisy returned every day to the well and got to know the girl. She found out that her name was Ellarose, that she had a crush on the baker’s son, and that she loved to garden. Sometimes Daisy would bring flowers or seeds to her. Ellarose, in turn, would bring Daisy books, and they’d talk about their favorite authors. One day Ellarose told Daisy that she was the best friend she’d ever had and how she blessed that day she’d asked her for a drink. Then one day Daisy found Ellarose weeping at the well and asked her what was wrong. It was the first time Ellarose had ever spoken of her family. She told of how her father had died, leaving just her and her mother and her sister Fanchelle. How they abused her and called her names and made her do all of the work and never allowed her to go out except to the well. “I can’t take it anymore. I’m running away. But I can’t bear to leave you, Daisy.” “Come stay with me. You can live in my cottage just across the wood. I think my garden would love you. I have such a black thumb.” So Ellarose and Daisy left together that very day. They passed through the woods and came to Daisy’s cottage. She saw so many beautiful plants and flowers she’d never seen before, and knew that Daisy underestimated her gardening skills. “Perhaps you can find a way to keep the slugs away.” Ellarose loved working in the garden. And even though she worked just as hard as she had at home, sometimes from sunup until late at night, she couldn’t have been happier. But Daisy had been right about the slugs. They were impossible to get rid of, and they ate almost everything. They were unlike any other slugs she’d ever known. They were the size of her hand, moved almost as fast as she walked, and learned to recognize her traps very quickly, so Ellarose used almost all of her free time devising new ways to trap them and kill them. Daisy still went to the well because Ellarose was afraid her family would see her and make her go home. One day Daisy was at the well, and a woman approached who could only be Ellarose’s sister. “I see you are tired from the walk here. Let me draw some water for you.” Fanchelle grunted a thank you, took some water, and turned home. Every day Daisy would draw water for Fanchelle getting only a grunted thanks in return. And after a few days Fanchelle began acting entitled to having Daisy draw water for her. “I can’t see that there will ever be any beauty in that one. Maybe I should just curse her and be done with it.” But being afraid to disappoint Madame Chlorisse again, she continued to draw water for the ungrateful Fanchelle. One day Daisy waited until well after sunset, and Fanchelle hadn’t arrived. Thinking she’d finally seen the last of the ingrate, she decided to leave. But then she saw Fanchelle walking hurriedly towards the well looking more unpleasant than usual. When she got there she ordered Daisy to draw water for her and to be quick about it. Daisy had had enough. “Vipers and toads! Get it yourself.” she spat. And she threw the pitcher at her and walked away. “How dare you!” Fanchelle croaked as a toad jumped from her mouth. “Get back here and draw my water!” A viper emerged from her mouth, and she ran off into the woods in fright. Daisy thought no more about Fanchelle as she and Ellarose started up a produce business that brought prosperity and health to all of the surrounding villages. Sometimes their yields were smaller because of the slugs, but they always had enough. Sometimes the slugs seemed to outsmart them, but Ellarose always found a way to control them. One market day Daisy developed a bad cold, and Ellarose had to go town with her produce. She was no longer afraid of her family, so she set off with her goods. Halfway through the woods, she spotted a woman lying on the ground surrounded by toads. She got out of the wagon and went over to her. She recognized her sister at once. She thought she was dead at first, but a flicker of her eyelids told her otherwise. All of the memories of how she’d been treated flooded her mind, and she turned back to continue her mission. Then, a pang of mercy made her turn back to her sister. She helped her to her feet, put her into the wagon and drove her back to the cottage where she slept for several days. Ellarose attended to her sister, and when she awoke she fed her the best soups and vegetables to help her grow strong. Soon, Fanchelle had regained all of her strength; unfortunately her temperament was the same as Ellarose had remembered, and she regretted saving her life. Fanchelle demanded her meals to be ready at certain times, complained if the flavor was even slightly off, and called Ellarose every foul name she could think of. The cottage soon became infested with vipers and toads. One day, after one of Fanchelle’s tantrums, Ellarose calmly said to her: “Fanchelle, I did not have to bring you here; I could have left you to die. Because I stopped to help you, we lost a lot of revenue and will have to sell at least twice as much produce to keep the cottage. Please request things nicely or go out into the woods. I will not have our cottage and garden overrun by toads and vipers. If Daisy were not still ill, I would drive you back to mother’s right now.” Fanchelle altered her behavior immediately because since Ellarose’s departure her mother had become unbearable, turning all of unpleasant attentions on her. She pitched in with all of the chores and spoke as sweetly as Ellarose. Market day came again, and Ellarose went to inspect the week’s harvest. Slugs had eaten all of the squash and were advancing on the cucumbers. Their prospects of keeping the cottage were diminished significantly. Fanchelle lost her temper. “Curse theses slugs!” And out jumped a toad who ate all of the slugs. The two sisters laughed and ran around the garden together yelling “Curse these slugs!” They’d found a solution to their slug problem, saved the cucumbers, brought in record profits that day, and begun to be friends. Daisy, feeling much better, smiled at them through the window. The next day a letter arrived for Daisy with Madame Chlorisse’s seal. * * * Dear Ms. Bigelow, We would like to offer you the position of Junior Associate Enchantress at the firm of Madame Chlorisse and Associates. We are much impressed by your work as an intern and by your creative use of garden slugs in the case of Ellarose vs. Fanchelle. Please contact our office at your earliest convenience to negotiate your terms of employment. We look forward to having you as part of our team. Sincerely, Madame Chlorisse Penny Jo McAllister is a US-based writer. Art by Amanda Bergloff @AmandaBergloff

“Rooted at dusty crossroads, dirt in palm.” In the opening line of The Best of Eternal Haunted Summer: A Thirteenth Anniversary Edition, poet Kim Malinowski gives a tantalizing hint of the magic in store for readers. Created in 2009 by writer and editor Rebecca Buchanan, Eternal Haunted Summer is an ezine featuring pagan, polytheistic, and witch-related writing. Embracing Greek, Celtic, Norse, Middle Eastern, and Caribbean lore, this collection showcases stories and poems of gods and goddesses, psychopomps, reptile women, necromancers, witches, fairies, immortals in disguise, monks, and even a queen bee. Settings range from ancient to modern to the future, including themes of passion, creativity, climate change, and more. As with nearly all anthologies, some writing resonated more than others with me. That being said, there’s so much to love in this collection. There are soaring, visceral poems of fierce goddesses by Sandi Liebowitz, Gerri Leen, and Steven Klepetar and sensitive explorations of loss and transition by Shannon Connor Winward and Adele Gardner. There are clever commentaries on the magical world and its rules by Elizabeth R. McClellan and Kaye Boesme, compelling tales of action and romance by Allister Nelson and Laurence Raphael Brothers, and lush, gorgeous poetry by Kim Malinowski, Dr. Sara Cleto and Dr. Brittany Warman, and Kelly Jarvis. Among the standouts are Michaela Macha’s playful Norse myth take on Poe, “The Ravens,” and Sarah Sadie’s dark, sensuous “How to Become Queen of the Underworld.” From the opening invocation to the final ride out with Colleen Anderson’s hog-riding “The Storm Witch,” The Best of Eternal Haunted Summer is a cornucopia of enchantment. 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.

Editor’s note: What a charming story. Miriam took a truly famous fairy tale and gave it fun and unexpected twist! We love it when someone finds a new way into a well-worn tale, and the result in this story is very entertaining. Enjoy! The gilded, horse-drawn carriage came to a halt in front of the castle entrance. The King, Queen Matilda, Prince Rupert and the younger princes and princesses waited to welcome the Princess Alice. They saw a delicate foot shod in white leather hesitating on the carriage step, followed by rustling, billowing skirts, and then the princess herself emerged “Ah!” they breathed. For she was almost supernaturally beautiful. Hair of a blond almost silvery; smooth and glowing pale skin, olive-black eyes under arched eyebrows. There was a glow about her. She advanced and dropped deep curtseys in front of the King and Queen. Prince Rupert gaped, recovered himself, and bowed. His brothers and sisters bowed or curtsied in turn. The King took her arm with a proprietary air, and led her forward into the castle. The Queen observed Rupert’s bewildered air. He was half smitten already. “We shall see,” she said. At dinner, Alice ate only a slice of soft white cheese and a couple of figs, refusing wine and asking for linden-flower tea. “I’ve never been a very big eater,” she said, apologetically. But she was a good conversationalist, talking wisely and wittily—and a good listener too. Everyone was enchanted with her. Rupert drew her aside after dinner to talk privately before everyone retired for the night. The Queen Mother left the great hall to give the maids some orders. The King, who’d regaled Alice with some of his well-worn stories, reluctantly left the young people alone. “You must know that my parents are pressing me to marry,” Rupert said. Alice said, “I appreciate your directness, Prince. And you must know that my parents are putting me forward in hopes of uniting our kingdoms through marriage.” “I like you,” Rupert said, pulling his chair closer. “All other princesses I’ve interviewed have—not pleased me.” He looked deeply into her black eyes, whose contrast with her blondness gave him a small thrill. “Oh yes, you’re famously picky. But for this to work, I must like you, too, Prince Rupert.” Alice gazed back at him steadily, confident in her worth and beauty. She patted down a yawn, for it was late, and she’d traveled far that day. The Queen Mother appeared, with a maid behind her. “You must be exhausted, Princess,” she said kindly. “Stella here will show you your room.” Alice took her leave with soft goodnights, and followed the maid to her room. “Everything she does is so graceful,” Rupert said to his mother, following Alice’s exit with his eyes. “She’s so proud, yet so delicate. Other women I’ve met look coarse, compared to her.” “We shall see,” said Queen Matilda. Alice appeared at breakfast next morning looking tired. Her eyes had dark shadows under them, and she yawned a few times. “Didn’t you sleep well, my dear?” asked the Queen, handing her a dish of porridge. “Thank you, ma’am, I would like only milk and a little fresh fruit,” said Alice, looking at the steaming dish. “I’m sorry to say that I could hardly sleep at all. Despite the lovely soft mattresses and feather comforters, there seemed to be something hard underneath them. Look, I’m all bruised.” She extended a lovely bare arm, which sure enough, showed several blue bruises. “Heavens,” said the Queen, “How very sensitive you are! I confess, my dear, that I placed three hard-boiled peas under the bedding. Only a true-blooded princess would have felt them. Now,” she said to Rupert, who was stirring sugar into his porridge, “You may marry Alice, if she agrees.” Rupert put his spoon down and took Alice’s hand across the table. “And do you agree, Alice?” he said tenderly. “A funny way to propose marriage, but, will you?” Alice dropped her eyes. “Yes,” she said. But took her hand away. The Queen noticed that any little pressure on the flesh seemed to bother the princess. “Hm,” she thought. “We have a problem. How will she bear children if she can’t stand to be touched?” That evening, Matilda took Alice to the midwife, Ethel. Bunches of medicinal herbs hung from the roof rafters. Pots and jars stood on the worktable. Ethel came forward, taking off her apron. Matilda said, “This is the Princess Alice, soon to wed Rupert. I’ve ascertained that she knew nothing of how children are born, and furthermore, that she is so extraordinarily sensitive in her body that she won’t be able to sustain her wifely duty. In bed,” she clarified. Alice, uncomfortable, explained that when she was born, a fairy blessed her with great beauty and sensitivity. As for children, her mother had told her that a stork brings babies in the night and puts them under the cabbages in the garden. Matilda rolled her eyes at Ethel. “Do you understand? I had to educate her in the ways of men and women. Most embarrassing. Now, can you lift the spell off her?” “I can, Your Majesty,” Ethel said, “But,” turning to Alice, “Some of your beauty will fade. Are you prepared for that?” Alice was tired of looking for a husband, and Rupert looked like a good prospect. She decided to risk it. Ethel held her hands and chanted over her, then sat her down to eat a large chickweed salad laced with a garlicky dressing. Chickweed is first cold, then becomes hot, she explained. It will melt your coldness. And garlic cleanses body and soul. When Alice had eaten her fill, Ethel massaged her with oil of roses, leaving her relaxed from head to toe. And sent her to bed. Alice awoke next morning after a restful night. Her mirror showed her still beautiful, although the silvery glow about her had vanished. Yet she was comfortable in her body as never before. Rupert hung over her every word and movement at breakfast. She blushed, and returned his hot glances with caressing looks of her own. “Hungry?” he asked her. “I could eat,” she admitted. “Pass the porridge, please. Miriam Kresh is an American ex-pat living in Israel. She writes about the ecology in the Middle East and culinary culture. Image by Eugenio Recuenco.