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The Princess Bride is one of my favorite novels. The Princess Bride is one of my favorite movies. So, when I learned there was an Unofficial Princess Bride Cookbook released in celebration of the movie’s 35th anniversary in 2022, I knew I had to read it, and it was no surprise that I loved every page! The introduction, which presents The Princess Bride as a story about stories, argues that food is a “great people-uniter”, recognizing the power of foodways to bring families and cultures together. Divided into sections like Drinks and Cocktails (Boooooooze!), Soups and Stews (Are you just ladling around with me or what?), Appetizers and Accompaniments (Do you always begin meals this way?), Main Courses (Prepare to dine!), and Cakes, Pies and Tarts (I’ll eat you both apart! I’ll bake you both together!), this book is designed to make the reader smile. The recipes, which are all accompanied by beautiful full color photos, include “Mostly Dead Corpse Reviver”, “Fezzik’s Restorative Stew”, “Pre-torture Nourishment”, and “Buttercup’s Perfect (Chicken) Breasts.” The author also proposes complete party menus for a “Feast of Insanity” and a “Storming the Castle Banquet”. Every page is full of mouthwatering nostalgia. In addition to the recipes, the book proposes a drinking game for watching the film, encouraging readers to take a sip every time Westley says “as you wish” or Fezzik rhymes a word. There are also tidbits of information about the book and movie scattered throughout the pages. Although I didn’t try any of the recipes, I absolutely loved this book and would recommend it to all fans of The Princess Bride. This hardcover volume would make a lovely gift for anyone who enjoys the story, and it may even inspire some Princess Bride Costume parties complete with the perfect snacks and drinks. Have fun storming the kitchens! 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 SHOP PAGE with our all new DIGITAL DOWNLOADS HERE

Editor's note: Today's Throwback Thursday is a fantastic article on "Hansel and Gretel" that will make you think of this fairy tale in new ways. Enjoy! "Hansel and Gretel" probably has done more to harm the reputation of stepmothers than any other fairy tale -- except, of course "Cinderella." But in many early versions, the mother figure wasn't a step at all. She was plain, old mom. Once people began to see fairy tales as children's stories, the stepmother label became more common. But let's not forget that the father in this story is a weak man who knows he shouldn't give into his wife but does anyway. Oh, it's a bad tale for parents, "Hansel and Gretel" is. Some other points to ponder: The mother figure and the witch are likely meant to be the same woman. The witch is burned at the end of the story and the mother is dead at the end as well. More telling is that both the "mother" and the witch call Hansel "lazybones." In a story where words are not wasted, these seems like it is probably not an accident. Next, it seems that Hansel and Gretel are meant to be "regular" children with the charm and shortcomings of real children. Gretel is a classic crybaby for much of the story and Hansel is a solidly dependable big brother figure. Yet, after the witch imprisons them, Gretel ..., well, she cries some more, but after four weeks, she has grown a lot and it is through her initiative that she and her brother break free. Also, note that when the witch first encounters Hansel and Gretel literally eating her out of house and home, she asks them who they are and they seem to blame it on The Heavenly Child. Wouldn't that have been a Baby Jesus reference? It's a weird little scene. Oh, notice the birds. They show up in important places in the story. That little bit about the mouse at the end of story seems to have been a convention of the time that sometimes showed up in these stories. Finally, the "gingerbread" house, you will note, is made of bread and cake in this version. Next to a great forest there lived a poor woodcutter with his wife and his two children. The boy's name was Hansel and the girl's name was Gretel. He had but little to eat, and once, when a great famine came to the land, he could no longer provide even their daily bread. One evening as he was lying in bed worrying about his problems, he sighed and said to his wife, "What is to become of us? How can we feed our children when we have nothing for ourselves?" "Man, do you know what?" answered the woman. "Early tomorrow morning we will take the two children out into the thickest part of the woods, make a fire for them, and give each of them a little piece of bread, then leave them by themselves and go off to our work. They will not find their way back home, and we will be rid of them." "No, woman," said the man. "I will not do that. How could I bring myself to abandon my own children alone in the woods? Wild animals would soon come and tear them to pieces." "Oh, you fool," she said, "then all four of us will starve. All you can do is to plane the boards for our coffins." And she gave him no peace until he agreed. "But I do feel sorry for the poor children," said the man. The two children had not been able to fall asleep because of their hunger, and they heard what the stepmother had said to the father. Gretel cried bitter tears and said to Hansel, "It is over with us!" "Be quiet, Gretel," said Hansel, "and don't worry. I know what to do." And as soon as the adults had fallen asleep, he got up, pulled on his jacket, opened the lower door, and crept outside. The moon was shining brightly, and the white pebbles in front of the house were glistening like silver coins. Hansel bent over and filled his jacket pockets with them, as many as would fit. Then he went back into the house and said, "Don't worry, Gretel. Sleep well. God will not forsake us." Then he went back to bed. At daybreak, even before sunrise, the woman came and woke the two children. "Get up, you lazybones. We are going into the woods to fetch wood." Then she gave each one a little piece of bread, saying, "Here is something for midday. Don't eat it any sooner, for you'll not get any more." Gretel put the bread under her apron, because Hansel's pockets were full of stones. Then all together they set forth into the woods. After they had walked a little way, Hansel began stopping again and again and looking back toward the house. The father said, "Hansel, why are you stopping and looking back? Pay attention now, and don't forget your legs." "Oh, father," said Hansel, "I am looking at my white cat that is sitting on the roof and wants to say good-bye to me." The woman said, "You fool, that isn't your cat. That's the morning sun shining on the chimney." However, Hansel had not been looking at his cat but instead had been dropping the shiny pebbles from his pocket onto the path. When they arrived in the middle of the woods, the father said, "You children gather some wood, and I will make a fire so you won't freeze." Hansel and Gretel gathered together some twigs, a pile as high as a small mountain. The twigs were set afire, and when the flames were burning well, the woman said, "Lie down by the fire and rest. We will go into the woods to cut wood. When we are finished, we will come back and get you." Hansel and Gretel sat by the fire. When midday came each one ate his little piece of bread. Because they could hear the blows of an ax, they thought that the father was nearby. However, it was not an ax. It was a branch that he had tied to a dead tree and that the wind was beating back and forth. After they had sat there a long time, their eyes grew weary and closed, and they fell sound sleep. When they finally awoke, it was dark at night. Gretel began to cry and said, "How will we get out of woods?" Hansel comforted her, "Wait a little until the moon comes up, and then we'll find the way." After the full moon had come up, Hansel took his little sister by the hand. They followed the pebbles that glistened there like newly minted coins, showing them the way. They walked throughout the entire night, and as morning was breaking, they arrived at the father's house. They knocked on the door, and when the woman opened it and saw that it was Hansel and Gretel, she said, "You wicked children, why did you sleep so long in the woods? We thought that you did not want to come back." But the father was overjoyed when he saw his children once more, for he had not wanted to leave them alone. Not long afterward there was once again great need everywhere, and one evening the children heard the mother say to the father, "We have again eaten up everything. We have only a half loaf of bread, and then the song will be over. We must get rid of the children. We will take them deeper into the woods, so they will not find their way out. Otherwise there will be no help for us." The man was very disheartened, and he thought, "It would be better to share the last bit with the children." But the woman would not listen to him, scolded him, and criticized him. He who says A must also say B, and because he had given in the first time, he had to do so the second time as well. The children were still awake and had overheard the conversation. When the adults were asleep, Hansel got up again and wanted to gather pebbles as he had done before, but the woman had locked the door, and Hansel could not get out. But he comforted his little sister and said, "Don't cry, Gretel. Sleep well. God will help us." Early the next morning the woman came and got the children from their beds. They received their little pieces of bread, even less than the last time. On the way to the woods, Hansel crumbled his piece in his pocket, then often stood still, and threw crumbs onto the ground. "Hansel, why are you always stopping and looking around?" said his father. "Keep walking straight ahead." "I can see my pigeon sitting on the roof. It wants to say good-bye to me." "Fool," said the woman, "that isn't your pigeon. That's the morning sun shining on the chimney." But little by little Hansel dropped all the crumbs onto the path. The woman took them deeper into the woods than they had ever been in their whole lifetime. Once again a large fire was made, and the mother said, "Sit here, children. If you get tired you can sleep a little. We are going into the woods to cut wood. We will come and get you in the evening when we are finished." When it was midday Gretel shared her bread with Hansel, who had scattered his piece along the path. Then they fell asleep, and evening passed, but no one came to get the poor children. It was dark at night when they awoke, and Hansel comforted Gretel and said, "Wait, when the moon comes up I will be able to see the crumbs of bread that I scattered, and they will show us the way back home." When the moon appeared they got up, but they could not find any crumbs, for the many thousands of birds that fly about in the woods and in the fields had pecked them up. Hansel said to Gretel, "We will find our way," but they did not find it. They walked through the entire night and the next day from morning until evening, but they did not find their way out of the woods. They were terribly hungry, for they had eaten only a few small berries that were growing on the ground. And because they were so tired that their legs would no longer carry them, they lay down under a tree and fell asleep. It was already the third morning since they had left the father's house. They started walking again, but managed only to go deeper and deeper into the woods. If help did not come soon, they would perish. At midday they saw a little snow-white bird sitting on a branch. It sang so beautifully that they stopped to listen. When it was finished it stretched its wings and flew in front of them. They followed it until they came to a little house. The bird sat on the roof, and when they came closer, they saw that the little house was built entirely from bread with a roof made of cake, and the windows were made of clear sugar. "Let's help ourselves to a good meal," said Hansel. "I'll eat a piece of the roof, and Gretel, you eat from the window. That will be sweet." Hansel reached up and broke off a little of the roof to see how it tasted, while Gretel stood next to the windowpanes and was nibbling at them. Then a gentle voice called out from inside: Nibble, nibble, little mouse, Who is nibbling at my house? The children answered: The wind, the wind, The heavenly child. They continued to eat, without being distracted. Hansel, who very much like the taste of the roof, tore down another large piece, and Gretel poked out an entire round windowpane. Suddenly the door opened, and a woman, as old as the hills and leaning on a crutch, came creeping out. Hansel and Gretel were so frightened that they dropped what they were holding in their hands. But the old woman shook her head and said, "Oh, you dear children, who brought you here? Just come in and stay with me. No harm will come to you." She took them by the hand and led them into her house. Then she served them a good meal: milk and pancakes with sugar, apples, and nuts. Afterward she made two nice beds for them, decked in white. Hansel and Gretel went to bed, thinking they were in heaven. But the old woman had only pretended to be friendly. She was a wicked witch who was lying in wait there for children. She had built her house of bread only in order to lure them to her, and if she captured one, she would kill him, cook him, and eat him; and for her that was a day to celebrate. Witches have red eyes and cannot see very far, but they have a sense of smell like animals, and know when humans are approaching. When Hansel and Gretel came near to her, she laughed wickedly and spoke scornfully, "Now I have them. They will not get away from me again." Early the next morning, before they awoke, she got up, went to their beds, and looked at the two of them lying there so peacefully, with their full red cheeks. "They will be a good mouthful," she mumbled to herself. Then she grabbed Hansel with her withered hand and carried him to a little stall, where she locked him behind a cage door. Cry as he might, there was no help for him. Then she shook Gretel and cried, "Get up, lazybones! Fetch water and cook something good for your brother. He is locked outside in the stall and is to be fattened up. When he is fat I am going to eat him." Gretel began to cry, but it was all for nothing. She had to do what the witch demanded. Now Hansel was given the best things to eat every day, but Gretel received nothing but crayfish shells. Every morning the old woman crept out to the stall and shouted, "Hansel, stick out your finger, so I can feel if you are fat yet." But Hansel stuck out a little bone, and the old woman, who had bad eyes and could not see the bone, thought it was Hansel's finger, and she wondered why he didn't get fat. When four weeks had passed and Hansel was still thin, impatience overcame her, and she would wait no longer. "Hey, Gretel!" she shouted to the girl, "Hurry up and fetch some water. Whether Hansel is fat or thin, tomorrow I am going to slaughter him and boil him." Oh, how the poor little sister sobbed as she was forced to carry the water, and how the tears streamed down her cheeks! "Dear God, please help us," she cried. "If only the wild animals had devoured us in the woods, then we would have died together." "Save your slobbering," said the old woman. "It doesn't help you at all." The next morning Gretel had to get up early, hang up the kettle with water, and make a fire. "First we are going to bake," said the old woman. "I have already made a fire in the oven and kneaded the dough." She pushed poor Gretel outside to the oven, from which fiery flames were leaping. "Climb in," said the witch, "and see if it is hot enough to put the bread in yet." And when Gretel was inside, she intended to close the oven, and bake her, and eat her as well. But Gretel saw what she had in mind, so she said, "I don't know how to do that. How can I get inside?" "Stupid goose," said the old woman. The opening is big enough. See, I myself could get in." And she crawled up stuck her head into the oven. Then Gretel gave her a shove, causing her to fall in. Then she closed the iron door and secured it with a bar. The old woman began to howl frightfully. But Gretel ran away, and the godless witch burned up miserably. Gretel ran straight to Hansel, unlocked his stall, and cried, "Hansel, we are saved. The old witch is dead." Then Hansel jumped out, like a bird from its cage when someone opens its door. How happy they were! They threw their arms around each other's necks, jumped with joy, and kissed one another. Because they now had nothing to fear, they went into the witch's house. In every corner were chests of pearls and precious stones. "These are better than pebbles," said Hansel, filling his pockets. Gretel said, "I will take some home with me as well," and she filled her apron full. "But now we must leave," said Hansel, "and get out of these witch-woods." After walking a few hours they arrived at a large body of water. "We cannot get across," said Hansel. "I cannot see a walkway or a bridge." "There are no boats here," answered Gretel, "but there is a white duck swimming. If I ask it, it will help us across." Then she called out: Duckling, duckling, Here stand Gretel and Hansel. Neither a walkway nor a bridge, Take us onto your white back. The duckling came up to them, and Hansel climbed onto it, then asked his little sister to sit down next to him. "No," answered Gretel. "That would be too heavy for the duckling. It should take us across one at a time." That is what the good animal did, and when they were safely on the other side, and had walked on a little while, the woods grew more and more familiar to them, and finally they saw the father's house in the distance. They began to run, rushed inside, and threw their arms around the father's neck. The man had not had even one happy hour since he had left the children in the woods. However, the woman had died. Gretel shook out her apron, scattering pearls and precious stones around the room, and Hansel added to them by throwing one handful after the other from his pockets. Now all their cares were at an end, and they lived happily together. My tale is done, A mouse has run. And whoever catches it can make for himself from it a large, large fur cap. Kate Wolford. is editor-in-chief of The Fairy Tale Magazine. lIlustrations in order of appearance: Unknown Anne Anderson Jennie Harbour Ethel Franklin Betts Jennie Harbour Jessie Wilcox Smith Kay Nielsen Charles Robinson John B. Gruelle H.J. Ford Unknown And check out our SHOP PAGE with our all new DIGITAL DOWNLOADS HERE

Editor’s note: Today's Throwback Thursday tale mixes charming details with some familiar and delightful fairy tale standards, and the result is thoroughly entertaining. Enjoy! The miller’s daughter had been left a ring by her mother which was slightly too big for her finger, so she often took it off and put it on; took it off and put it on. One day she walked by the millpond and heard croaking, high and low, for all the world like a conversation. Nearer she crept and nearer, fingers idly playing, till she saw a knot of toads: one large one surrounded by many smaller ones, for all the world like a king and his court. She laughed, but, laughing, slipped on the soft pond edge and plop! in she went like a toad, and plip! more quietly, in went the ring. She flopped and floundered, floundered and flopped, and made it back to the bank, where the smaller toads with their high-pitched croaking sounded like they were laughing, till the large one, with one deep croak, silenced them. When she sat on the bank, she noticed she had lost a shoe, and it new. Thinking, she took the other one off and put it safe, then waded in and by luck more than judgment found the shoe. Utterly covered in mud, only now did she notice her finger did not shine. Knowing she had trodden the pond bottom thoroughly, she also realised she had probably trodden the ring deep into the mud. And so she flopped and floundered to the bank where she cried and cried, till the tears cleaned her face and restored some of her looks. The smaller toads had all vanished, but the larger one watched her gravely, and eventually it asked, “Whatever is the matter?” “Oh,” she sobbed, “I have lost my mother’s ring that she left me, and I likely never to get it back!” “I should laugh at you as you laughed at us,” said the toad. The miller’s daughter, irked, snapped, “I heard you laughing.” “I did not laugh,” said the toad. “No,” said the miller’s daughter, slowly, “you didn’t.” “If you will promise faithfully to do me a favor when I ask it of you,” said the toad, slowly, “I will find the ring.” “I promise,” replied the miller’s daughter. Plop! in went the toad. For days she did not see him, then there he was in her garden, and at his feet the ring. “Oh, thank you!” she cried, and put it on her finger at once. “I like this garden,” remarked the toad. “It is neat and pretty, with soft, damp soil. And near the pond. May I live here?” “Of course!” cried the miller’s daughter. “Of course!” And so began the friendship between a toad and a miller’s daughter. The would have long conversations about whatever took their fancy, and if the miller’s daughter thought he was strangely educated for a toad, she was smart enough not to press the point. From time to time the smaller toads visited the garden, too, and then the knot of toads would form, and the croaking, high and low. Each night after this happened, deep in the dark hours, the miller’s daughter would hear long, hoarse croaks like sobs. Eventually she went down to the garden despite the night air and the dew and found her friend. “Whatever is the matter?” she asked. “I have a jewel in my head, and it pains me,” replied the toad. Now, the miller’s daughter knew that toads carried jewels in their head, and that alchemists and wizards would pay a pretty penny for toadstones, but she had never heard that it pained the toad before. But then, she had never met such a well-educated toad before, so she took it in her stride. “It must pain you greatly, to cry out so,” she said softly, picking him up and, she thought, noticing a shining beneath the skin on his head. “It does, and it grows worse,” replied the toad. “I need to ask you—will you take it out for me?” “But that would kill you!” she said. “Nevertheless,” he insisted. “I did not cavil when it took me a week and a day to find your ring.” “No more you did,” she said thoughtfully. “Leave the matter with me.” She consulted the witch who lived further down the river about how to remove a toadstone. “Put it on a piece of red cloth,” remarked the witch. “If that doesn’t work at least it will soak the blood when you smash its head.” She walked a long way to consult a cunning man, pretending she was interested in the things he was interested in. “I hear,” she said to him, “that toadstones are sovereign in the curing of fits. Is this true?” “Only if taken from the head of a living toad,” he said. “Here, I’ll show you.” Alas, all of his demonstrations resulted in the death of the toad, and the miller’s daughter’s spirits fell. Still, she pretended she was interested in the cunning man’s medicines, and walked there every week pretending to study with him and reading his books, but she found no way of removing the jewel in her friend’s head without killing him. And soon she noticed that the cunning man had more than a teacher’s interest in her, so she stopped going. When she got home, she went to find the toad in her garden. It was coming on night, and the smaller toads had gathered. “My toad,” she said, “I have read and studied as widely as I can, and I can find no way to remove the jewel that pains you that will not result in your death. I do not wish to kill you. You are a good friend to me. “Are you still of the same mind you were?” The toad nodded. “There is a way, but if you cannot find it in your heart, then it is not to be found,” he said. His words turned and turned themselves in her mind till, suddenly, she had an idea. She picked her friend up carefully, and, hoping against hope, removed the jewel with a kiss. Immediately a young man stood before her, with a ruby in his hand and a grievous head wound. He fell to the floor. The smaller toads, transformed into his friends, and each with rubies in their hands, rushed to surround him, and carried him off. The miller’s daughter rushed to her room in tears, though she knew not why. Some days later, bandaged but alive, he appeared again in the garden, and held out his hand to the miller’s daughter. “My dearest friend,” he began, “many years ago I unwisely employed a dishonest man in my retinue, who stole a ruby necklace from a sorceress and planted it in my possession. She, finding it among my things, cursed me and my true servants to be toads, with a ruby in each of our heads, until such time as someone. knowing nothing about me, would find it in her heart to remove it. “You have proved not only to be wise of counsel but wise of heart, and you have learned not to act without thinking, as once you acted by the millpond. Will you, then, come with me, and be my wife?” “Gladly,” said the miller’s daughter, and in time they came to the young lord’s lands, where he was wonderfully received. They married and become renowned for their kindness and wisdom—and they kept their gardens neat and pretty, with soft, damp soil, for any toads who might be passing by. Jennifer A. McGowan won the Prole pamphlet competition in 2020, and as a result, Prolebooks published her winning pamphlet, Still Lives with Apocalypse. She has been published in several countries, in journals such as The Rialto, Pank, The Connecticut Review, Acumen and Agenda. She is a disabled poet who has also had Long Covid for 15 months at time of writing. She prefers the fifteenth century to the twenty-first, and would move there were it not for her fondness of indoor plumbing. And check out our SHOP PAGE with our all new DIGITAL DOWNLOADS HERE

The Narrow Cage and Other Modern Fairy Tales is a beautiful collection of stories written by a social activist who urges radical transformation. Vasily Eroshenko was a blind Ukrainian writer who adopted Japan and China as his home during the political turbulence of the early 20th century. Renowned fairy tale scholar Jack Zipes explains in his foreword that Eroshenko uses an experimental prose style to expose the racism and hypocrisy at the core of western civilization. Taken together, the fairy tales in this collection provide a message of hope and transformation. I loved this collection of fairy tales. The writer, who lost his sight during his childhood, fills the tales with beautiful images like gold and silver butterflies and a setting sun that looks like “a purple shipwreck on the horizon”. The collection, which is divided into Japanese and Chinese tales, is permeated with characters who are physically or metaphorically blind, and many of the stories feature characters who try to escape the cages which confine them. In the title story, a tiger dreams of freeing animals who are fenced into pastures and people who are imprisoned in palaces, but each is a slave of man and is afraid of freedom. Other stories illustrate the common fate of the rich and poor who wait while Death, “drunk on the fragrance of spring”, stalks the halls of the hospital wearing her long white veil. My favorite stories explore the depths of true love. One features a goldfish and firefly who fall deeply in love and sacrifice their coveted scales and wings for one another when they are captured and placed into a bowl and a cage. Another, “The Tale of the Paper Lantern”, reads “she lit me with her love and lined me with the words I love you only. Indeed, her love was life itself, and brightly did I shine by it”. The collection is also full of sadness; a scholarly young mouse who reads the books lining a politician’s shelves meets a terrible fate at the hands of a cat, a woman raises a baby she finds abandoned in a grove of pines, and a tree stands witness to human joy and pain as its young leaves sing hymns to the sun, the night, and the stars. Beneath this heart wrenching melancholy is a strain of hope that beautiful stories can save the world. The Narrow Cage and Other Modern Fairy Tales is the kind of collection that can be read over and over. It is a wonderful complement to traditional fairy tales. Highly recommend to all who are interested in the power and beauty of storytelling! 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 SHOP PAGE with our all new DIGITAL DOWNLOADS HERE

Check out Kate's fabulous finds that you can enjoy, too! This week's pick: The Fairy Tale Magazine's ZAZZLE Store This week’s pick is our Zazzle store. If you haven’t been there in awhile, you’ll be surprised. We’ve added a lot of new merchandise and I’m adding even more today and tomorrow. And every penny of profit goes to The Fairy Tale Magazine. You’ll notice that we have some gorgeous merchandise with images designed by Amanda Bergloff, our art director. I genuinely love her work, especially “Moonrise” and “Moon Maiden.” I’m also a fan of notebooks, and we’ve got some terrific ones for sale with Amanda’s images and some great work by beloved Golden Age illustrator Ida Outhwaite. We also have some items featuring Arthur Rackham’s delightful “Piccalilly” garden illustration. There are numerous other items with classic illustrations, and even some just featuring our name. We’ve got everything from lapin pins to mugs to t-shirts and posters. If Zazzle isn’t your thing, then please check out our shop here on this site. Just go to the menu and hit “Shop” and you’ll be there. (Or just follow this link.) We’re not only selling the books I’ve edited, we’re also selling fantastic digital images, including some with the same images we use on merchandise at our Zazzle store. And even more great work by Amanda is at our shop. The images cost only $2 each, and there are no restrictions on how you may use them. The pictures you see here are for sale in our shop as digital downloads and are featured on Zazzle merchandise as well. They are, in order, “Moonrise,” “Moon Maiden,” by Amanda, and Arthur Rackham’s “Piccalilly.” I hope you find something that enchants you! Kate

Editor’s note: The rhythm and sweet symmetry of this lovely story, and its classic structure, makes it a pleasure to read. Enjoy! Once there was a farmer’s wife named Hildreth who was pregnant with her first child. She and her husband, Gerald, were very pleased, and when her time to give birth arrived, she labored for many hours until her husband began to fear for her life. At last the farmer hurried into the forest in search of the wise woman who had birthed babies for many years. Now Gerald was afraid of the wise woman, as many were, but love for his wife pressed him on. At last he found her cottage and rapped on the door. “Please, my wife’s labor goes poorly,” he said. “I will pay whatever you ask.” The wise woman saw that he was in earnest, so she agreed to go with him. But first, she told him to pluck three things from her garden: a thorn, a petal, and a vine. So he did, though the thorns made him bleed and the flowers made him sneeze and the vines did not want to come loose. When at last they both arrived at the farm, his wife had fainted from the pain. The wise woman examined Hildreth as slowly and calmly as if she were a ripe vegetable. “Not one baby,” she said, grinning. “Your wife carries three within her womb.” The poor farmer was struck dumb at that, thinking his wife and all his children had perished before he had even met them; but with a muttered ministration, Hildreth woke, and with the wise woman’s care first one baby was born, and then the second, and finally, with a monumental effort, the third child arrived: daughters three. They were very small and did not cry at first. “Quick,” the wise woman said, “put this thorn to your firstborn’s finger.” Gerald did so, and the child cried out as a drop of red blood sprung from her finger. “Quick,” the wise woman said, “put the petal on your second born’s tongue.” Gerald did so, and the child swallowed it and let out a good wail. “Quick,” the wise woman said, “wrap this vine around your youngest’s leg.” Gerald did so, and the child whimpered, but never cried. But Hildreth put her to nurse first, and so, by suckling all her children, granted them what only she could, and all the terrors of birth fell away into the realm of the past. “What would you have for payment?” Asked Gerald. He was grateful and more than a little stunned. “You must only let your children be what they will be,” answered the wise woman. “That is payment enough.” The three children grew up, the pride and joy of their parents. Aline, the oldest, became a woman whose strength evoked admiration and awe in all the nearby farms and villages. Alessa, the second, sang as she worked, composing songs that lightened their days. Annika, the youngest, was neither strong nor clever, but she had a kind heart, and she worked as best she could. One by one they left home. Aline built her own mill by hand, then rescued a woodcutter from a fallen tree and married him. Alessa moved to the city and joined the minstrel’s guild. And Annika, when her parents asked her what life she might seek, said only, “I am happy here with you.” What could they do? She was not very helpful on the farm, though she tried her best. She had no voice for song, though Alessa had tried to teach her. Perhaps, they thought, a kind businessman might love her and give her a suitable life. So her parents took her to visit her sister in the city in the hopes that she might introduce her to someone, and indeed she did. One of her poet friends spun sonnets in praise of Annika’s kindness and beauty until she fell in love with him. They were married, and remained in the city. It was a poor livelihood, being married to a poet. She did not mind the poor conditions, for they were well matched in temperament and love, but Annika missed the country dreadfully. And she was no more suited for city occupations than she was for farming. Then one day her husband said, “I fear my poor mother is dying. I must go to her in the country. Will you come with me?” “Of course I will,” she said. Though she grieved for her husband, she was secretly pleased to go home. They rode out of the city and past her sister’s mill. They rode past her parent’s farm. They rode into the woods and stopped at an old cottage in an overgrown garden. And there, in bed, lay the poet’s mother, who was of course none other than the wise woman who had delivered Annika and her sisters long ago. The couple was saddened to see her so weak. But the wise woman smiled at them. “Quick,” she said, “put a thorn to my thumb.” They were reluctant at first, but she assured them it would help. As a drop of blood fell from her thumb, her pain ebbed away. “Quick,” she said, “put a petal on my tongue.” Annika did so, and the wise woman spoke the wisdom of midwifery and healing, all manner of remedies and balms. “Quick,” she said, and her voice was fading, “wrap my leg in a vine, to ease my passing.” They did so, and a smile spread across her wrinkled face. “Thank you, my children,” she said. “Now I bless you both.” And so she died. The poet and his wife wept for her and buried her in the garden. They stayed on in the cottage. The poet wrote in the peace and quiet of the woods, and Annika, who remembered all that the wise woman had said, spent her days making poultices, easing fevers, and delivering babies. And though they are poor, to this day the young wise woman and her poet husband are very happy. Stephanie Ascough is the author of A Land of Light and Shadow, an MG fantasy, and is working on too many projects at once. When she isn’t parenting or feigning housework, she can be found exploring fairy tales and folklore, reading, or playing guitar or mandolin. Image by Annie Spratt

Magic Casements, by Pamela Sherwood is a delightful collection of stories that echo the tropes and themes of fairy tales while still being fresh enough to feel new. This is a solid group of stories overall, but I did have favorites, including “The Knight of the Gillyflower,” which bends the traditional ideas about what women can do. I also loved “The Magic Stove,” because it’s told from the point of view of the stove, and I love that kind of thing—anthropomorphizing is extremely appealing to me, and this stove lives a varied and useful life. My third favorite is “Nine Lives,” which journeys through time to show us how cats have a varied and remarkable (magical) connection to humans. Sherwood also has a strong poem at the beginning of the book called “After Ever After,” which offers the reader a thoughtful focus on some of the most famous fairy tales. I also enjoyed a chapter near the end of the book called “The Story Behind the Story,” which explains how each story came to be. I didn’t love every story, of course, because that’s the nature of such collections. “The Faun and the Fae” was sweet, and eventually, I enjoyed it, but it suffered from large paragraphs of dialogue that functioned as info dumping. “Fatal Flowers” was hard to follow, and even though I adore cats (and stories about them), “Catspaw” just left me confused and uninterested. I think any lover of fairy tales will find at least half of the stories worth reading—but probably more. And, while there are stories I didn’t love, there isn’t a true dud in the collection. I will definitely be on the lookout for other work by Sherwood. You can buy a Kindle copy of the book right now, and the paperback will be available on Amazon on March 30. Thank you to NetGalley for providing me with a copy of this book. Review by Kate Wolford. editor-in-chief of The Fairy Tale Magazine.

Check out Kate's fabulous finds that you can enjoy, too! This week's pick: My Mom’s Okra Soup I don’t like okra, but I do like this soup. It’s an old, cheap favorite from childhood, and most people will eat it, even if they fish out the okra bits, like I do. The ham bone adds a meaty richness to it that makes it filling, and the vegetables add a bit of bulk and sweetness to the broth. As for okra itself, it originated in Africa, and was brought over to the U.S. by enslaved people in the 18th century. It is grown in hot regions around the world, including the southern U.S. You can buy it fresh, but probably not in the Midwest, where I live. Frozen is just fine for this recipe, which is a gumbo, or stew, using okra both as an ingredient and thickener. (Do not use canned okra. The texture of the soup will be ruined and the okra will be gooey.) Okra can be slimy, and I don’t love it fried or in almost any form, but tens of millions of people disagree with me, and you may be one of them. Okra soup/gumbo “must haves” vary wildly, but in our family, okra and tomatoes are a must, as are the ham bone, bacon and onions. I think some diced celery and peppers sautéed with the onions might add to the savoriness of the soup, but as you can see, it’s not in the recipe. I also think a cup or two of diced ham in place of the ham bone would be just fine. Over rice, with a salad, this would feed four people very easily, with leftovers. The rice will change its soupiness into more of a stew, but it’s still good. My mom, a South Carolina native, made this for us all the time growing up. My Mom’s Okra Soup Four 28 oz. cans whole tomatoes, chopped (Don’t substitute diced tomatoes) 1 ham bone 3 strips of bacon 2 medium yellow or white onions, chopped 1 pound okra (fresh or frozen) trimmed and sliced into half-inch pieces 2 cups corn (fresh or frozen) 2 cups lima beans (frozen) In a large pot over medium-high heat, sauté bacon. Add onions and cook until onions are translucent. Discard bacon (or eat it, like me). Stir in tomatoes and add ham bone. Cook on low heat for 3 hours, stirring occasionally. Remove the ham bone from the soup and add okra. Cook okra for 20 minutes and then add lima beans and corn. Continue cooking on low for another 20 minutes or until the okra and lima beans are tender. Serve over long-grain rice, if you’d like. Enjoy! Kate (Vintage image is a botanical drawing of okra, source unknown.)

The title and description of the poetry collection, Velvet Dragonflies, drew me in, but when I first started reading, I wasn’t sure I would love it. The book opens with the word “flight” and the phrase “the path back to yourself will be unique”. The collection seemed like a self-help book written in verse with advice like “nostalgia will keep you renting space in toxic places”, “honesty is like cardio for the soul”, and “love for yourself can never arrive too late”. But, as I continued reading the poems, which are surrounded by large amounts of white space, I did realize that the book offers some beautiful words and worthwhile ideas. The book is divided into sections labeled “viscose” (a solution used to manufacture rayon), “koigu” (a type of yarn), “damask” (a patterned fabric formed by weaving), and “charmeuse” (a lightweight fabric with satin weave). The content in each section seems to build and replicate rather than being distinct, and with this structure, the poet implies that a tapestry is being woven from ideas about self-love and forgiveness. The last section, called “landing”, brings closure to the opening “flight” and states that life has no order of events. This made me realize that the repetition in each section is purposeful, allowing the reader to flip back through the pages and read the small poems without worrying about narrative order. The collection offers thoughts on how fear and ego can hold us back and on the importance of letting go of relationships that no longer serve us. The focus lies with courting self-love and appreciation through the healing of personal wounds and the acceptance of individual faults. The poems speak to the necessity of boundaries and propose some phrases that will stay with me such as “home is not a place, it’s a feeling”, “do not waste ink trying to rewrite someone’s narrative of you”, and “the universe reacts to your intentions, not to the opinions others have of you”. Self-help books are not my favorite genre, but I did enjoy this interesting collection of poems and will certainly circle back to pages which spoke to me and helped me to see my life and the world through a new lens. Velvet Dragonflies is a beautiful read for those who enjoy innovative poetry and philosophical thinking. You can purchase it here. Thank you to NetGalley for a free copy of the book in exchange for a fair review. Kelly Jarvis teaches classes in literature, writing, and fairy tale at Central Connecticut State University, The University of Connecticut, and Tunxis Community College. She lives, happily ever after, with her husband and three sons in a house filled with fairy tale books. She is also The Fairy Tale Magazine's special project’s writer.

Clytemnestra, by Costanza Casati, is a book that aims to overturn your thoughts about Greek heroes by presenting the story of a woman who has historically been relegated to the shadows of the tales. Written in the tradition of Madeline Miller’s Circe, this debut novel focuses on Clytemnestra, daughter, sister, wife, mother, warrior and queen. The story begins when Clytemnestra, daughter of Leda and sister to Helen, the most beautiful woman in the world, is a princess living in Sparta, a place where women are trained in the martial arts so that they will only submit to the most vicious of men. Although Helen is the beauty, it is Clytemnestra who possesses intelligence, fierceness, and a desire to protect her family at all costs. By the end of the novel, Clytemnestra will have watched her brothers go off to adventure with the Argonauts and witnessed the fall of Troy as the Greeks reclaim her sister Helen from Paris, but the book is about the life of an incredible woman who endures a difficult marriage, suffers immeasurable loss, and exacts revenge upon those who have wronged her. Clytemnestra features characters and stories from Greek mythology and will delight those who enjoy The Iliad and The Odyssey because it gives readers a chance to revisit these stories through a feminine perspective. There is a family tree located in the front of the book for readers less familiar with the traditional tales. I loved that characters like Leda, Helen, Penelope, Iphigenia, and Clytemnestra all become more than they are in the hands of traditional tale tellers. The book provides a harsh and beautiful look at the lives of women who suffer through great pain to find fleeting moments of love and happiness. The writing is full of images that stay with you from the Spartan gorge when criminal bodies rot to the bathhouse where Agamemnon meets his fate, but the story truly sings when exploring the complex relationships between the women. Clytemnestra has been vilified in many stories, and forgotten in many others, but this novel celebrates her triumphs and explores her losses, and in doing so, elevates the lives and experiences of all the women whose stories have never been told. I truly enjoyed this book! You can order it 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.

Her sorcery-cloaked sisters come seeking her spells. The Sea Witch asking for An ocean tempest for a prince’s doom and A mermaid’s voice. The Ice Queen willing To pay for a shard to pierce an eye and Freeze a heart. The Enchantress in need of Gloom and rain to seal a merchant’s fate and A daughter’s loss. Stirring storms of fire and ice, Water and wind, Shadow and light, The Weather Witch obliges. Chanting Meteorological incantations, she conjures Cold nights for lost children and Dry wastelands for sightless lovers, Sea squalls to drown sailors and Blizzards to blind travelers. Her cauldron brimming with Gale and flood, she speaks the spells Her sisters seek. Brewing Air and atmosphere, The Weather Witch obliges. Deborah W. Sage is a native of Kentucky, USA. She has been published in Enchanted Conversation, Eternal Haunted Summer and Literary LEO. A former business executive who after years of being committed to the bottom line is gaining equilibrium in her psyche through her endeavors in folklore. Cover: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AMANDABERGLOFF

Editor's Note: We have a St. Patrick's Day treat for this Throwback Thursday, and remember to be careful of your heart's desire, for it could be something quite unexpected. Enjoy today's flash tale by E.K. Lekman, and happy St. Patrick's Day to all! Fat raindrops slapped against the broad-leafed alders above Seamus. The smell of the impending storm grew potent, petrichor and condensation. Earth and water. The elements of the natural world, which dominated him. The inescapable duty that the rainbow brought. More than a decade had passed, but the regret still haunted him. Digging his feet into the mud and listening to the cacophony of greenfinches above, Seamus did his best to distract himself. Despite his best efforts, though, the memories plagued him, vivid and insistent. The two of them had been right here all those years ago, beneath this very canopy of leaves. The other man had been panting from the exertion of smuggling the gold away when Seamus found him. The look in his eyes when they finally saw one another had been impossible to place. At the time, Seamus clocked it as anger, perhaps greed. In hindsight, he realized it was pity. The man had pleaded with Seamus not to take it, to leave him alone, to forget this had ever happened. “Trust me,” he had pleaded, “save yourself.” But Seamus had only smirked as he had shoved the old man out of the way. The burden, the sorrow, and the inexplicable weight of the treasure descended upon Seamus the moment his fingers gripped the wrought iron. The sight of the rainbow shook Seamus out of his reveries. It settled at his feet now, as it always did. He sighed and leaned into the familiar vessel to haul it away, barely glancing at the shimmering riches that weighed it down. And the evening passed much as it always did, Seamus at the mercy of the elements, bearing the burden he had coveted so badly, once upon a time. E.K. Lekman lives in Celebration, Florida with her two young daughters. When she isn’t busy pondering the fantastic or the improbable, she can be found enjoying Bob Ross reruns or re-reading Nikola Tesla biographies. Painting by: Boris Kustodiev, 1925 Layout: Amanda Bergloff