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It’s no wonder there is no Disney version of “All Kinds of Fur”; it’s one of the Grimms’ grimmer tales. While All Kinds of Fur (Allerleirauh, in German) has much in common with Cinderella (meeting a prince at a series of balls, magical gowns, recognition by an item), the beginning is far creepier than the neglect the girl in the glass slippers experiences. Instead of a wicked stepmother, Allerleirauh has a father who wants to marry her and make her his queen. In a desperate bid to keep the king’s unnatural desires at bay, the princess requires a number of impossible wedding gifts (three celestial gowns and a cloak pieced together from a thousand bits of fur). When he provides the garments, she must flee, using the fur cloak as a grisly disguise. “All Kinds of Fur” is a tale that begs for a feminist, trauma-informed interpretation, and Margaret Yocom delivers just that in her stunning erasure poetry retelling, KIN S FUR. Before creating these poems, Yocom made her own English translation of the German “Allerleirauh” to work from, uncovering some important but often-missed details along the way. This new translation makes up the grayed-out backdrop, and each bolded poem lifts phrases, words, and even lone letters from the Grimms’ tale. Yocom’s self-described aim in using erasure poetry was to create a dialogue between the third person narrative by the Brothers Grimm and All Kinds of Fur herself. The result is astonishing, breathing life into All KINdS of FUR and giving her a voice of her own. Yocom’s erasure poetry adds a unique element of participation, creating a puzzle for the reader to solve as they move between the two narrators. The audience reads not between the lines, but within them, unearthing the heroine’s experience and discovering her journey for themselves. Simultaneously playful and deadly serious, KIN S FUR is a moving exploration of trauma, identity, agency, and healing. For additional photos of and information about KIN S FUR, visit: http://margaretyocom.com/ To purchase: https://www.deerbrookeditions.com/kin-s-fur/ (it is also for sale at Amazon) Citation for the text photo: Yocom, M. (2018). All kinds of fur: Allerleirauh, Cinderella: Erasure Poems & New Translation of a tale from the brothers grimm. Deerbrook Editions. 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: Rarely understood are those that follow their own path. Perspective is everything in a tale, and Kiyomi Appleton Gaines' story offers a different view on a classic... I never meant to be a witch. You should know that from the start. You don't notice at first, and by the time you realize what you are, it's too late. I never wanted to be a mother. I always assumed it would happen one way or another. When you're young, you never imagine your life will look very different from others. Yet I was different even then. Odd. We married so young in those days, and I didn't want to marry just any man. Silly as they were, once girls were Mistress Baker or Goodwife Smith, they were no longer children. Girls my age started becoming mothers before we even knew what it was to be women. I didn't want that. I didn't want any of those things. My father, resentful of my lingering, said I must earn my keep, so I tended the midwife and learned from her how to ease pains and treat minor ailments. I never kept a garden well. Strange, since that is what I am now best known for. But I know a little of plants and children, birthing and dying. And living. I was old for a bride when I married my tinker. He came through with tales of distant places, and I dared to ask why I couldn't have that life too? Eventually, we settled in a place, a village not so different from this one. He offered services making repairs and traveled out every few months to bring goods from elsewhere. I had my garden and my knowledge of herbs, and so we made our way. The women there did not trust me, though, I with no small ones clutching at skirt and breast. They still came to me for those other things, to soothe a headache or a sour stomach, to heal a wound. But they did not trust me, and I knew what might come, and then knew that it would. I urged my husband to leave, but he didn't believe the threat in those evil looks. I left before their fears became dangerous. I met my tinker again later. Our little home was burned, and he was chased out after me. He returned to tinkering. I went to another place. The people came, though how they knew I could help, I don't know. I charged them nothing, hoping for goodwill, hoping to be left alone. You will understand my dismay when one evening I found a man digging in my garden, stealing ramps. I grabbed a rake and brandished it, demanded his account. He startled and had the grace to look ashamed. "Please, mistress," he said, "it's my wife. There's a little one coming. She says she must have ramps, or she'll die." "And you can find them nowhere else but my garden?" I asked. He looked down at his little pile of plants, "None like these, mistress." I lowered the rake. I would have to spend the next day repairing my garden, but I did not want to take to the road again. "Take them and begone then, if she'll die," I snapped at him. "And don't let me find you stealing from me again." He scrambled to his feet, mumbling apologies and gratitude, and left. He returned a few days later bearing a hen and begged more of my vegetables. I kept the woman in ramps for months. You think you know what comes next, but you're wrong. They brought the child to me whenever it became ill, and I did what I could. It was a sickly baby. I wanted nothing to do with it. If it did not thrive, who would they blame? But they begged me to help, so what could I do? When she was a little older, she took a fever. I put her in a cot by the fire and tended her. For days I sat by that little cot. Her parents visited often at first, then less so. The fever passed, but she was still weak when her parents told me they had "happy news" once more. She was not their first nor only child. That isn't to say they didn't care for her. They just stopped coming. I called her my little Rampion, for the ramps that had brought us together. I taught her everything I could, and she grew up. I did not keep her prisoner. I wanted to protect her. I didn't want her to be stuck in the life I had fled, nor did I want her to pursue my path, which had produced its own dangers. I wanted something better for her. When I learned a young nobleman would be passing through the town, I took her there and put her in his way, again and again, for the duration of his stay. That was my mistake. When he left, she said he would never have gone without her, that he loved her, that I had trapped her. It was some few months later, when her condition was just showing, that she ran away. I searched for her. I went to the town. I begged at the castle for any hint of her. I went to the tinkers. I would not stray far or for long from my home in case she came back, but I asked them to look for her. They found her, with her child. When she came back to me, she was frail and sick, and never recovered. I laid her in the garden, and let the ramps go to flower over her. And I have raised her daughter, whom I have called like her mother, my Rapunzel. I own my mistakes, Sister, I will not see them repeated. She must be safe, warm, educated. I know well what you do to ones like me, who are odd, we witches. Yet here is my confession. Do with me as you will, only take her as a novice. Kiyomi Appleton Gaines loves folklore and fairy tales for what they teach us about what it means to be human. Her writing can be found at WORKOFHEARTKAG.WORDPRESS.COM. She lives in New Orleans with her husband, a one-eyed cat, and a snake. Cover Design: Amanda Bergloff @AMANDABERGLOFF

Editor’s note: The details of everyday modern life as an herb seller, coupled with the twist on one of the most famous classic fairy tales, made this story a fun, entertaining choice for Today's Throwback Thursday tale. Enjoy! It was Wednesday, one of my usual days at the Greenmarket. The sun shone bright as organic lemons on the lunchtime crowds. Customers carrying canvas shopping bags filled with produce and flowers walked from stall to stall, chatting and tasting toothpicked samples of cheese and fruit slices, families pushed their children in strollers and bought them small-batch ice cream in unusual flavors, and dogs strained at their leashes, excited by the scents. “How much for the lavender soap?” said a customer, a bearded man who wore a plaid shirt. A skinny guy in a red baseball cap stood behind him, eyes shifting back and forth, restless. “Five dollars for the large size, and two for nine,” I said. “What vegetable is that?” he said, pointing at a bell-shaped green bundle of leaves. “Rampion—it’s like spinach,” I said. Kale was especially popular these days, but I still grew rampion, a kind of onion, because it was a tradition in my family, though few people knew how to cook it. “Never heard of it. Maybe I’ll try it next time,” my bearded customer smiled. Then he said,” I’ll just take two soaps.” As I took his money and bagged the soap, the skinny guy jumped forward, stuffed a bunch of kale in his shirt and ran off. * * * It’s hard for us witches to make a living in the country these days from our magic gardens. Even with the popularity of vegetarianism in this century, it’s a subsistence living and my best customers were moving out of small towns like mine. I was getting too old to do it all by myself and my bad back made it difficult to grow and pull up the plants in my garden. I didn’t want to sell through a website because I still enjoyed customer interaction, so I decided to go to the city and sell my plants and herbs in the Greenmarket there. I had my own booth under a tent and filled the stalls with jams, scented pillows and soaps, herbal salves, poultices, and potted plants as well as vegetables like rampion, lettuce and kale. My neighbor helped me by driving my produce and herbcrafts in his truck to the city three times a week, setting up my tent and selling. Then he decided it was too much work to do everything, so I needed to find an assistant to help me with selling. * * * But I knew how to deal with thieves on my own. “Freeze!” I muttered under my breath and waved a celery stalk like a wand at him. The man stalled in mid-run, his hat flying off his head as he skidded to the ground. I took the kale from his hands and held it up, shaking it in his face and glaring at him. He looked terrified and stammered, “Please! It’s not for me…My wife is pregnant and vegan and has strange cravings…” I had an idea. “You can have this back and take all the kale you want for your wife for free if you give me her child,” I said and handed him back the kale. “Anything you want,” he said, hastily agreeing, and ran away with trembling legs, skittering into the crowds, clutching the kale as my spell dissipated. When the time came I took the train to their house in the suburbs at night, walked through the wall, appeared in their bedroom and took the sleeping infant from the crib as they slept. “Don’t worry—I’ll take good care of her,” I told them, leaving a text message. The baby’s hair was a beautiful strawberry blonde and was surprisingly long for her age. I wrapped her in a blanket and put her in a baby carrier for the ride back to my house. When we got home, she and my black cat took to each other right away and it purred at her cradle. As she grew I taught the girl to sort lettuces, nuts and berries for the organic lunch salads, mix the dressings and portion them into plastic takeout containers. She also combined the dried chamomile, mugwort and lavender for our dream pillows and sewed the fragrant mixture into silk cases. After she got old enough to drive, she helped me transport plants from my garden and the salves I made from my ancestors’ herbal recipes, inventory stock and sell to the customers. I in turn learned to love my bright assistant like a daughter. I never told her what inspired me to name her Kaley. Lorraine Schein is a New York writer. Her work has appeared in VICE Terraform, Strange Horizons, NewMyths, and Little Blue Marble, and in the anthology Tragedy Queens: Stories Inspired by Lana del Rey & Sylvia Plath. The Futurist’s Mistress, her poetry book, is available from Mayapple Press: WWW.MAYAPPLEPRESS.COM. Image: Pixabay And check out our FLASH FICTION & POETRY Writing Contest currently going on GRAND PRIZE $100 PLUS Publication in an upcoming digital issue PLUS Publication on this website PLUS Publication in our printed yearbook DETAILS HERE

If you enjoy a story of magic, folklore and dark creatures from the Wild Hunt—but with a fairy tale twist—then Gilded, by Marissa Meyer, is the book for you. This YA novel, the first in a duology, came out in 2021, but it was new to me, and I’m glad I read it. Serilda, our heroine, is a girl with very unusual eyes, who is “gifted” with the art of storytelling by a god. She’s also a liar, who is only accepted by a delightful gang of small children who live in a nearby village. She lives with her father, a miller, and although her mother was lost to the Wild Hunt many years before, Serilda and her dad are pretty happy. Enter the Erlking and his hideous pack of beings from a dark court of cruelty. In a seemingly successful attempt to avoid the Wild Hunt, Serilda tells him she can spin gold from straw, and that’s when things really get going. Yep, this book is a “Rumpelstiltskin” retelling. When we meet Gild, the ghost of a prince killed by the Erlking, we find Serilda’s love interest who also spins gold from straw for her. What happens afterwards is a dark but engrossing twist on the famous fairy tale. The bad guys are really bad. But Serilda is a plucky heroine who never quite gives up. She learns and grows and begins to accept that she has a supernatural gift of her own, and that her stories have more power than she knows. Gilded is filled with good supporting characters and has a very well-built world. This book is a dark fantasy story that nonetheless is not depressing. It’s an exciting, magical read that I think most fairy tale and fantasy fans will enjoy. You can buy Gilded here. Kate Wolford is editor-in-chief of The Fairy Tale Magazine. And check out our FLASH FICTION & POETRY Writing Contest currently going on GRAND PRIZE $100 PLUS Publication in an upcoming digital issue PLUS Publication on this website PLUS Publication in our printed yearbook DETAILS HERE

As fans of The Fairy Tale Magazine know, we’re always looking for help to keep FTM growing and thriving—and to keep costs down. Now I’m asking if there’s anyone out there who would volunteer a few hours a month to help with bookkeeping for FTM. We are quite small and the bookkeeping required would only be keeping track of sales and donations, as well as expenses—none of these are diverse or tricky. (I simply do not have the time for it.) I would also need help filing quarterly taxes, which are extremely basic. We are a nonprofit but not a 501c3, which means the tax obligation and time burden are very low. We cannot pay for this position, but every issue of the magazine, every print copy of any book we publish, all club memberships, etc., would be free to the volunteer who takes the job. You’d also be named business manager. This job is perfect for a retiree or student with bookkeeping/accounting experience. I would expect a commitment of five to 10 hours per month. I hope we can find someone to fill this role. It’s an essential one, and we are eager to find the right volunteer to work with. If you’re interested, send me a resume at katewolford1@gmail.com. The position will remain open until we find the right candidate. Hoping for the best, Kate Wolford Founder and Publisher And check out our FLASH FICTION & POETRY Writing Contest currently going on GRAND PRIZE $100 PLUS Publication in an upcoming digital issue PLUS Publication on this website PLUS Publication in our printed yearbook DETAILS HERE

Editor’s note: The presence of nature spirits and a natural cure will grab your attention, as will the ending that will leave you pondering the protagonist’s future in today's Throwback Thursday story. Living on the edge of a bustling village, made so by a crossroad for travelers, lived a wise woman. She always offered her services for a fair fee, and it was because of this transient population that few bothered to give a thought to the life story of an old woman, let alone specifics such as her age or occupation. Until one day, when a boy of around 11 or 13 did notice, in the way that children do. He asked around about her in an innocent manner, but none could give an answer. He thought to ask the wise woman directly, but when he mentioned it to his ma, he felt his ear being clipped by the back of her hand, and so he thought better of it. Instead, he began to follow the wise old woman around like a shadow as she went about her business—in the village at first, and then, growing bolder, he began to follow her on gatherings within the woods. On this particular day the village was full of activity as preparations unfolded, revealing the scene that would burgeon into the Summer Solstice Festival that evening. Seeing the hustle and bustle, Ash gave a good-natured grin, his spirits high as he made his way towards the home of Hylde. He almost missed her leaving and quickened his step, as the old woman set a good pace. Into the mountains she went, a bird on her shoulder and her gathering bag swinging against her thigh. He followed along until midmorning, when the old woman disappeared behind a boulder. Ash searched for a way to find her while the sun rose; then, discovering a crevice hidden behind a large rock, he edged his way through, emerging into a sparsely covered area with a lake at its centre. The lake itself was a wonder, with luminescent lime green shining from its surface. Ash spotted Hylde making her way to the other side of the lake, gathering peach blooms as she went. Judging the distance and the light cover, Ash moved towards the lake. Kneeling at the water’s edge he skimmed his hand across the surface, able to see now how algae made the lake glisten. He turned his hand this way and that, examining it before having his attention was diverted to the sound of a violin playing. Ash looked up. A shadow had begun to fall across him, and the sun was obscured from its path. But Ash no longer noticed, nor did he hear the pleas from Hylde, who had stopped gathering blooms and had begun hurrying to reach the boy, stumbling on the smooth rocks in her haste, skirts giving hindrance in the bustling motion. Flying ahead, the small feathered companion of Hylde darted quickly to the dreaded water spirit Nokken, who, intent on the boy, continued to play his tune. Hylde’s bird dashed and darted in front of the water monster, but to no avail, as he was sent sprawling through the air by a gust of wind escaping from the Nokken, who was annoyed by the interference. Hylde’s screams penetrated the air. Meanwhile, Ash had risen from his place beside the lake, walking slowly, entranced by the violin into the luminescent water. From Hylde’s vantage point, she saw the two, boy and monster, moving ever closer to one another, and she searched frantically about herself for something to use against the Nokken; there was nothing. In desperation she called out: “Nykr! Nykr!” she bellowed. “Leave the boy alone. He knew not to enter the waters. It was a mistake,” she screamed, desperate. “You know the price, Huldra. You should not have bought him here. How long have you been sneaking here? Too long, but still the same as when I saw you last. Your husband remains uncured, I see. Annoying choice, a bird really. Huldra, couldn’t you have transformed him into something a little grander to keep his life unspent?” “Nykr. The boy wandered here by accident, a shadow he has been to me. I thought I had lost him today,” she said. “I am hungry, Huldra. I may have spared your husband’s life when last we met, but this boy is nothing, he is not one of us.” Hylde remembered back to a time when she was known as Huldra the forest spirit. Her marriage to a human was to have been the start of a new life, but it had been short lived when they had happened upon the Nokken, Nykr. Hylde’s now-recovered bird swooped again and again at the Nokken who fended the bird off, swinging bow and instrument about. The pause in music broke the trance Ash had been under long enough for him to run to shore. Falling to the ground with exhaustion, he lost consciousness. In an instant, Nokken submerged, his prey lost to the Huldra. Hylde quickly went about stripping the wet clothes from the boy and laid the blooms she had gathered at several points along his limp body. As the color drained from the flowers, the blue tinge that had spread across Ash’s skin abated, and his natural color returned. When his eyes opened, they looked directly into the blue eyes of Hylde, which were bordered by the creases of age. “It's your lucky day Ash, for on any other day, before or after Summer Solstice, these blooms would be near useless for gathering—one of the shortest windows for gathering I know of, and I know many.” “The blooms have many uses,” she continued, “but most especially, they draw the poison of the lake's algae from the blood streams of unsuspecting adventurers, such as yourself. Mind you, most will not know this, even if they make it back to shore.” She shook her head sadly. “Unlike you, of course, most will spend time being digested in the belly of the Nokken, but those that do find the shore again will usually be drawn into a deep sleep and be eaten slowly alive by the creepy crawlies.” Hylde had said her piece, and before Ash could reply, she motioned for him to follow her. And he did, as all shadows do. Ellie A. Goss lives and works nestled between the Tarkine Forest and Cradle Mt National Park. She is published in books, ezines, magazines and anthologies across genres. She likes forests and old buildings and strangely trains. Image by Theodor Kittelsen And check out our FLASH FICTION & POETRY Writing Contest currently going on GRAND PRIZE $100 PLUS Publication in an upcoming digital issue PLUS Publication on this website PLUS Publication in our printed yearbook DETAILS HERE

Weep, Woman, Weep tells the compelling story of a young woman named Mercy who believes she has been “built for tears”. Growing up in a semi-rural small town on the banks of the Rio Grande river in New Mexico, Mercy has witnessed suffering of women who have been “claimed” by La Llorona, the legendary ghost who once drowned her own daughters and now looks to drag new victims into a watery grave. Mercy and her best friend Sherry dream of escape, and it is only after years of fear and setbacks that Mercy discovers a way to cultivate new growth from the collected tears of her pain. In DeBlassie’s hands, La Llorona is both a terrifying legend and a metaphor for generational trauma. The Weeping Woman haunts puddles and waterways, but she is also a mythic presence that keeps women frightened and subservient. To combat La Llorona, Mercy must learn to listen to the land, cultivating a garden and learning to balance her independence with the joys of true romance. She must understand her mother’s pain without succumbing to it, and her journey to find and harness her own powers is poignant and inspiring. This story blurs the line between the mythic and the ordinary, locating magic in seeds, soil, flowers, music, and kindness. I loved Mercy’s voice which narrates the novella. Mercy is honest in describing the beauties and horrors of the world around her and she wields a humorous control over own revelations, reminding the reader that this “is {her} story, and {she’ll} tell it the way {she} wants”. The themes of DeBlassie’s novel are also beautifully explored in her books Everyday Enchantment, a series of essays and vignettes that helps readers to see, learn from, and create magic, and Practically Pagan: An Alternative Guide To Magical Living, which is an instructional personal narrative about reclaiming identity and practicing sustainable routines that lead to a life of enchantment. Maria DeBlassie expertly explores loneliness and helps her readers transform the broken into the beautiful. Weep, Woman, Weep is aptly described as “a Gothic fairy tale about ancestral hauntings”, and it teaches readers that “we are the seeds we plant, not the histories forced upon us”. The magic and hope Weep, Woman, Weep offers will stay with readers long after they finish the final page. 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.

Check out Kate's fabulous finds that you can enjoy, too! This week's pick: Baba Yaga is My Copilot! We have a Zazzle store, and every penny we earn from it goes to FTM. I’m proud of our wide array for merchandise, and I’m especially proud to be showing off a favorite new T-shirt today! Our “Baba Yaga Is My CoPilot” T-shirt is a collaboration between me and Amanda Bergloff, or Art Director and Managing Editor. I came up with the words and Amanda did the art, and I think the results are great. The T-shirt is fully customizable for all sizes, ages and genders, so don’t let the picture here fool you. There are tons of choices. I buy giant long-sleeved men’s T’s on Zazzle and wear them year-round in the house. I’ll be wearing my purchase of this T at our Zoom meeting for Fairy Godparents Club members. It’s at 7 p.m., EST tonight. That’s when we’ll have our night of celebration for all of the achievements of our members—whatever it is you’d like to share, share it! And I’ll be proudly sharing the Baba Yaga T. I’ll also be giving one short-sleeved T away! (If you aren’t a member of the Fairy Godparents Club yet, it’s not too late—you can even join today. Find out how to join here.) If you don’t like this T-shirt (but how could you not?), we’ve got tons of other cool merchandise at our store, so check it out! Yours in Enchantment, Kate And check out our FLASH FICTION & POETRY Writing Contest currently going on GRAND PRIZE $100 PLUS Publication in an upcoming digital issue PLUS Publication on this website PLUS Publication in our printed yearbook DETAILS HERE

Lies We Sing to the Sea by Sarah Underwood tells the story of a young oracle named Leto. The novel opens with a reference to the scene from The Odyssey when Penelope’s twelve maids are tragically executed as collateral damage to help Odysseus reclaim Ithaca as he returns home from his journey on the sea. Now, generations later, Poseidon casts a ring of scales around the necks of twelve girls who must be sacrificed for Ithaca every spring. This year, Leto and eleven other unlucky girls are to be hanged and deposited into the ocean prevent their land from being destroyed by the god of the sea. Although nothing can save Leto from her fate, she magically survives her ordeal and finds herself transformed on a secret island where she meets a being named Melantho who teaches her to command the power of water and explains that the curse of Ithaca can only be stopped by the death of its prince. Although this book is marketed in the tradition of Madeline Miller’s Circe, it is quite different from retellings of mythology which alter readers’ perceptions by giving voice to characters often unexplored by ancient poets. Underwood is not attempting to retell a mythic tale, but she is asking her readers to consider a key unexplored act of gendered violence from The Odyssey and to contemplate the outcome of that violence generations later. Beneath the coming of age plot and the sapphic romance aimed at her young adult audience, Underwood explores themes about loss and grief and offers a commentary on how sins against women can reverberate through the ages. Audiences will be drawn in by the characters who are all trying to navigate circumstances thrust upon them by the barbaric actions of Odysseus and the men from The Odyssey. Underwood does manage to spin an engaging story that casts light on the silenced women of The Odyssey, but her book falls short of transforming the content of her source material. Her characters (Leto, Selene, Hekate) are not the characters readers may know from their own study of Greek mythology, they are simply girls who share names with famous women and goddesses. Her plot also lacks convincing details about the daily life and customs in Ancient Greece. Nevertheless, Underwood provides an interesting story with a heart-breaking quality that will force readers to think about intergenerational trauma and its lasting effects. Lies We Sing to the Sea is a gripping tale for those who love mythology and Young Adult fantasy fiction. 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. And check out our FLASH FICTION & POETRY Writing Contest currently going on GRAND PRIZE $100 PLUS Publication in an upcoming digital issue PLUS Publication on this website PLUS Publication in our printed yearbook DETAILS HERE

Her Dark Enchantments tells the story of Myravelle Sinner, the healer of the King’s Sleepy Woods Company, who uses her dark magic to wake soldiers infected with a cursed sleep by draining the life forces of her canvases (men chosen to bond their will with her power). Myravelle’s newest canvas, Byzarien Dumont, a man physically and emotionally scarred by his own past, performs his duties reluctantly, though over time, he, like all the canvases before him, falls under Myravelle’s seductive spell. Myravelle is a complex character both hated and feared for her power. She grew up in an isolated tower in Eglantyne Castle, watching her enslaved mother spin gold for the King. Now, Myravelle’s magic has become something to be coveted and controlled, and as she discovers her lineage and comes to terms with her own difficult past, she wears her grief “like heavy chainmail.” Her power and pain earn her the labels “Spider”, “Witch”, “Wicked Fairy”, and “Mistress of All Evil”, but though she ultimately seeks dark revenge, her story elicits sympathy as readers discover she is far more than the labels that are applied to her. This book was a delightful romance which tells the origin story of Sleeping Beauty’s villain. I enjoyed the detailed presentation of the beautiful but dangerous fairy world which features creatures like water fairies, flame fairies, and plant fairies working in delicate balance with nature. I also loved the consistent return to the act of spinning and the mantra of “draft, pinch, spin, park, and repeat.” Fans of fairy tales will find much to love as they meet a classic villain and consider her actions in the context of her own painful experiences. If you enjoy “Sleeping Beauty” and “Rumpelstiltskin”, give Her Dark Enchantments a try! You can order 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. And check out our FLASH FICTION & POETRY Writing Contest currently going on GRAND PRIZE $100 PLUS Publication in an upcoming digital issue PLUS Publication on this website PLUS Publication in our printed yearbook DETAILS HERE

Editor’s note: Today's Throwback Thursday poem is rich in detail, and the storytelling will fire your imagination.... Enjoy! You must remember that I smiled daily through sleep-stained eyes, accepted jewels from your hand, each gem a weight on my neck, a cruel pressure that stopped up my throat and caged my voice but nonetheless let it rest. When one night of marriage flipped into two, then three, then four, it was as though the whole palace seized and sighed, and servants began to look me in the eye and heed my requests. My sister commanded an army of couriers: sent them to the Maghreb, to the Mamluks, to el-Andalus, to the Chola dynasty, to warring Seljuqs and Jalayirids, and oh the stories they brought back: calligraphy on lamb-skin parchment, papyrus, even paper from farther east. Before, I had enough stories in me – some from books, some from mouths – to number as many as ants drawn to honey. Within weeks, I had enough stories to compete with stars in the sky, enough to keep me alive, but still one was missing: the story to buy my freedom. An emissary from the clever Kabyles laid one manuscript at my feet: spooling threads of Maghrebi calligraphy almost overflowing and spilling onto the rugs, threatening to dye tassels with its rich blue ink written in lilting Tifinagh script: twenty tales, and one a key. The peasant man switches places with a caliph (my mind catalogues the motif, coming up with 31 similar tales immediately) who enjoys his loquacious inebriation and dresses up the peasant in his clothes, making him caliph for a day. The peasant thinks himself caliph, makes advances to the slave girls, caresses them with words and callused hands until one agrees to come to his bed: but first, a meal, one she peppers with banj, and the sleep that comes for him is swift, his memories muddled. Swallowed by sleep, the peasant wakes in his own bed: was he a caliph dreaming of being a peasant, or a peasant dreaming of being caliph? Two more nights the caliph tricks him; two more nights the slave girl drugs him. Eventually the caliph reveals the ruse, rewarding the peasant with wealth for life. No more is written of the slave girl. She disappears from the story. The court chemist finds me banj, laces it with poppy milk and other gifts from loyal diplomats. Loyal to me, I should specify. I know how much you love your tea before story-time. You’ve loved it for months now …how many months? Ah. Good question, but the main question now is: Should you disappear? Or should I? Jeana Jorgensen earned her PhD in folklore from Indiana University. She researches gender and sexuality in fairy tales and fairy-tale retellings, folk narrative more generally, body art, dance, and feminist/queer theory. Her poetry has appeared at Strange Horizons, Quatrain. Fish, Liminality, Glittership, and other venues. Image of Scheherazade by Virginia Sterett. And check out our SHOP PAGE with our all new DIGITAL DOWNLOADS HERE

You may have already read Lessons in Chemistry. It was a bestseller last year, and is already slated to be an Apple TV+ series later this year. But I came late to the party with this book, and only discovered it about a week ago, but I’m very glad I did. In Elizabeth Zott, our main character, we find a scientific genius who is also extremely pretty and is probably on the autism spectrum. This may make her seem like a Mary Sue, that dreaded avatar for naive and self-regarding first-time novelists, but she isn’t. Everyone suffers, and so does Elizabeth Zott, but she is written with clarity, asperity and heart. She’s not interested in fitting in, and she won’t go along to get along. In reading Elizabeth’s story, we see her grow, develop, overcome real hardship, experience love, and problem solve through chemistry. If you want a more thorough summary and analysis, here you go. She also manages to build a true family by the end of her story. I’m more interested in explaining why this novel is being reviewed on a fairy tale site. Here’s why: Elizabeth may be brilliant and beautiful, but she’s a Cinderella character. She’s had a hard upbringing and comes across countless obstacles (usually in the form of dunderheaded Mid-century men) during the book. Indeed, if you are leery of books that are critical of misogyny in both men and women, this isn’t for you. Stephanie Golloway wrote about resiliency in Cinderella stories recently, and it’s a good read! I mention this because Elizabeth Stott is resilient. That’s a big reason why I consider her a Cinderella figure. Elizabeth gets knocked down pretty hard, but, eventually, she climbs back up, no matter what. And because the pace of the book is sprightly, readers do not find themselves wallowing with the story even when tragedies happen. It’s ultimately a hopeful tale. I should also add that there is a fairy godmother figure in the story and there is a “supernatural” character too, so she has help and friendship. Throughout the book, there is always someone who will try to help Elizabeth, even if they don’t always come at the perfect time and can show up in surprising ways. The book also has great supporting characters in the form of a brilliant and quirky daughter, a downtrodden babysitter and some other improbable friends. And Six Thirty is a Very Good Dog. If you read the book, you’ll see what I mean. About the only thing I want to add here is a content warning: Assault and abuse happen in this book. Both are handled with sensitivity and the author does not dwell on them. Garmus is also pretty hard on religion, so if that will really upset you, you’ve been warned. Garmus has written a highly entertaining, absorbing, enchanting and touching novel in Lessons in Chemistry, and for once, I can strongly recommend a popular novel that is not overhyped. Enjoy! You can buy Lessons in Chemistry HERE Kate Wolford is editor-in-chief of The Fairy Tale Magazine. And check out our SHOP PAGE with our all new DIGITAL DOWNLOADS HERE