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Alice Hoffman’s newest book, The Invisible Hour, tells the riveting story of Mia Jacobs, a young woman who has grown up in an isolated farming community in the Berkshires. Run by a domineering man named Joel Davis, the community limits members’ interactions with the outside world and censors reading material. Although Mia and her mother’s experience takes place in the 21st century, it is an echo of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter, a book that saves Mia’s life when she decides to escape. Mia’s mother Ivy is married to Joel, but she never fully renounces the stories and fairy tales that helped her to navigate her own turbulent adolescence. Stories become the bond that helps the women “walk invisible”, and books become a way for Mia to understand the world and her place within it. Mia builds her adult life around the beauty of libraries, and she forges a romantic relationship with an author from the past to help her process the opportunities and limitations of contemporary women’s lives. Alice Hoffman is at her best when exploring magic, and The Invisible Hour oozes with it. Hoffman returns readers to the enchanted apple orchards and gardens of Blackwell, Massachusetts, a town made famous by the stories in her book The Red Garden, and transports readers to a fairy tale past. She lovingly presents complex relationships between generations of women and shows how even the simplest stories can change someone’s life. Her prose casts a magic spell over her readers, leading them to a deeper understanding of the power of stories and a recognition of the sacred bond between readers and writers. I loved every word of The Invisible Hour. Fans of Hoffman will find delight in her lush description and perfect pacing, and new readers will be spellbound by Hoffman’s storytelling prowess. Like The Scarlet Letter, a novel that reaches back to a Puritan past to comment on 19th century life, The Invisible Hour reaches back to the 19th century to comment on the 21st. Hoffman’s writing offers her readers both a romantic escape and a social exploration. The Invisible Hour celebrates the joy and potential of storytelling and will be remembered as an Alice Hoffman classic. You can pre-order the book here. Thank you for an ARC 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.

A farmer had five sons and when he died his farm was divided into equal shares, one for each son. The sons worked hard, married, and had good harvests for several years. One year, the sons loaded their extra produce on their wagons, drove to town, and sold their crops at market. On their way home, they encountered an old woman covered in mud. She sat crying near a stream. Her wagon was turned over and most of her belongings were scattered along both sides of the stream. Her two horses were mired in the mud. The brothers, being of good heart, stopped and helped the old woman. They dug her horses from the muck and mire. They uprighted her wagon and pulled it from the steam. The oldest and youngest brother repaired two broken wheels and the other three gathered the woman’s belongings from the stream. The middle brother brought the woman water to drink and water to clean herself. They hitched the woman’s horses and then helped her into her wagon. The oldest brother said, “What a beautiful day. We fared well at market and were rewarded by helping you in your difficulties. Safe travels.” The old woman replied, “Don’t be so quick to leave. I thank you. I am not just an old woman. I am a weather witch and I would reward each of you with a boon, a wish if you will. What would you have from me?” The brothers laughed among themselves for they were ones who believed in hard work rather than witchcraft. The youngest brother said, “Let us make wishes. It will make her happy and will do us no harm.” The youngest spoke first to the witch. “I hate winter. I hate cold and I hate chopping wood. I would have no winters on my land.” The second son said, “Spring makes my eyes water and my nose run. I hate rain. I would have no spring on my land.” “Summers make me sweat. I hate heat. No summers for me.” The fourth brother complained about fall and hating the hard work that comes with the harvest. “As you will,” said the witch. The oldest brother thought carefully and asked if he might wait before requesting his favor. The witch agreed and said that he could have a year and a day to make his wish, but no more. They agreed to meet at the same spot in a year and a day. The brothers and the witch went their separate ways. A year later, the four younger brothers came to the oldest brother’s house. The youngest complained. “Without winter, the soil didn’t have time to rest and my crops were weak and died during the hot summer. We’re starving.” The second brother said, “With no spring rains, my crops wilted and died in the over-long summer.” “Without a summer, my crops were not ripened when the first killing frost came. I lost everything.” The fourth brother hung his head. “With no fall to make the harvest, my crops died when winter came.” The oldest brother had made a great harvest and had food in abundance. He welcomed his brothers and their families and promised to feed them. The youngest brother promised to work hard and even chop wood for the coming winter. The oldest brother said, “It is good that you are here for tomorrow is a year and a day since you made your wishes. Come with me. We will meet the weather witch and I will make my wish.” The next morning the five brothers met the old woman at the stream. She greeted them with great cheer. “Hast your wishes worked as you hoped.” “No, they haven’t,” said the oldest brother. “They didn’t choose well. For my boon, I ask that you restore the seasons and the weather to my brothers’ lands. Make things as they were before.” The weather witch looked at the brothers. “Would you have me cancel your wishes?” “Gratefully,” said the youngest. The witch agreed and rode away. The brothers never saw her again. The five brothers all grew good crops the next year and the year after that and for many more years. They worked hard. They rested in the winters, planted in the springs, weeded and watered in the summers, and made harvests in the fall. They never complained about the cold or the heat. They laughed in the rain, sweated in the hot sun, and marveled at the lightning and thunder. They taught their children to take the weather as it comes, for nature knows what it needs. There are reasons for the seasons. Robert Allen Lupton is retired and lives in New Mexico where he is a commercial hot air balloon pilot. Robert runs and writes every day, but not necessarily in that order. Over 180 of his short stories have been published in various anthologies. Cover: Amanda Bergloff

Check out Kate's fabulous finds that you can enjoy, too! This week's pick: Spray Edged Books Hello Enchanted Friends Well, a cold I thought I’d kicked is back—there’s a very nasty non-Covid cold going around these days and it’s not done with me after all, so this pick will be very short and sweet as I am exhausted. My pick is sprayed-edge books! Many of you are probably familiar with them, as they are commonly part of specialty book subscription boxes like Fairy Loot. Sadly, most of these subscription services have lengthy waiting lists and are known for sometimes sending their boxes months late. So I checked out Etsy for “sprayed edge books,” and there are a number of shops catering to readers who love books with gorgeous covers and edges. You can do your own research on Etsy just by putting the phrase above in the search. There are a ton of options, so take your time and research what you want. (You will notice that YA dominates this kind of book art.) The photos you see here are all from Kathy’s Bookish Shop, and her prices in euros are about right for the average sprayed edge book. (She’s not on Etsy, but everything else is comparable.) These books are an affordable indulgence for yourself or a friend. Enjoy! Yours in Enchantment, Kate

Editor’s note: Oh the traps that are laid for protagonists in fairy tales! That’s what this poem conjures up for me. It also makes me think of Andersen’s “The Nightingale.” It’s a lovely spell of a poem. Bird, girl, you perch upon words as if they were something solid like trees instead of shimmering notes of nothing. You have yet to learn that whether they are kind or unkind matters little. Betrayal is just an exposure of rotted wood beneath auburn leaves. Comforting nests, too, may only be made of twigs. Storms blow things apart, whether weak or well made. What have you then—as you look outward to vast sky? It is too simple to insist on you soaring on wings magnificently unfolded—for yours have been clipped and pinned. You’re not sure how they work. And so, I suggest you burst into flame instead: regold your glory outward. Become a purification of your own making, a sharpening of beak, an opening of throat, sing a keening or a calling, let it be yours, and yours alone. Whatever cage they wish to lock you in, whatever trap they’ve laid or sprung, never let the weaving cease, never let them hold your tongue. To learn more about the mythical Philomela, you can go HERE. Christine Butterworth-McDermott’s latest collection of poetry is Evelyn As: Poems (2019). Her poetry has been published in such journals as Alaska Quarterly Review, The Normal School, The Massachusetts Review, and River Styx, among others. She is the founder of Gingerbread House Literary Magazine, an online venue for fantasy and fairytale. Image from Pixabay.

They say long ago when this land was still barren and dry, there was a girl who was born with a heart made of diamond. Her skin was like that of frosted glass, and as her mother gazed down at her daughter, she could see it clear as day. A diamond heart, shimmering as it pumped liquid gem blood throughout the newborn's body. The midwives and the clerics who assisted with the birth were awed by the sight, and word quickly spread. Soon, people all across the land knew about the little baby girl with a diamond heart. But word travels across all circles, good and bad. When bad men heard the stories, many of them spoke of finding the girl and cutting out her valuable heart. Whispers carried back to the child’s mother and father, who were very worried for their daughter. They prayed to the Gods in the Sun and the Moon to protect their baby girl. The gods heard the parent’s prayers, but gods have a reputation for being merciless and absolute, and the Gods in the Sun and the Moon were no exception. Gods are powerful, and although they could not take away or change the girl's heart because it was a part of her, they could give her the power to defend herself. They came down to the baby girl one night and they filled her with poison. “Her diamond heart is far too pure for her to ever willingly use this, even against those who wish to harm her.” The God in the Sun said. “Then we will give her sharp nails and teeth that will excrete the poison, and we will turn her skin into poison as well. And anyone who will touch her will die a horrible, painful death,” the God in the Moon nodded. So the little girl grew up, but as she grew, she changed. Her fingers split open into poisonous barbs, and her teeth grew into long fangs that dripped venom. Her skin became like sandpaper, coarse and sharp, every inch of it poison to the touch. The tears that poured from the girl's eyes when her mother could no longer hold her were poison. And the cold sweat that dripped from her pores as she rocked herself to sleep alone at night were poison. And she looked up at the sky at night and begged the God in the Moon to take the poison away, and she’d look up during the day and beg the God in the Sun the same, but the Gods couldn’t take away or change her poison because it was a part of her now. They turned their backs on the girl, content that if nothing else, she was now safe from the bad men who wanted to steal her heart. The bad men who came for her died, but so did her friends that reached out to comfort her, and her lovers who were desperate to hold her. She lived a life of sadness and longing, and she cursed the gods for afflicting her with a poison that took everything from her. One day when the loneliness was too much, the girl threw herself down into a stony creek, and she broke her neck on the rocks. And all that poison she was filled with trickled out of her eyes along with her tears. Yet even after death, even after rot, her tears still trickled out. And when they evaporated in the light of day and weighed heavy in the clouds above, those same tears rained back down to the lands, harder than any storm we’d ever seen. Finally free of the poison that plagued her tears in life, in death, the girl’s tears hit the earth far too pure to cause any harm. Instead they quenched the barren soil and breathed life into it. Soon grass grew, and then trees. Then forests, stretching for hundreds of miles, tall and full of life. They say it’s the girl's spirit in her tears that makes the towering trees of this land twist to block out the Sun and the Moon, the Gods that cursed her and turned their backs on her. And they say that somewhere at the bottom of the swamp, her poisonless body still cries, cradling a heart of diamond no one ever knew. Cover Design: Amanda Bergloff

Urbanshee, by Siaara Freeman, is a collection of poems that is marketed as a retelling of fairy tales and mythology through an urban lens. The book explores how the physical world can be a part of your identity and discusses blackness in America with raw emotion. Freeman’s poems cut to the heart of modern struggles, shocking you and forcing you to reconsider the fairy tales you remember from childhood. Freeman’s poems circle around the “hood” where she grew up, the loss of her father, and the pain of feeling like an outsider. One poem, “World in Which the Word Father Is Replaced by Hood” presents the neighborhood as a stand-in parent, while a series of poems such as “Once You Know What Your Father’s Brain Looks Like” and “Fearless Sounds Like Fatherless on the Right Tongue” confront the pain of losing a father to violence. Freeman also contemplates her mother in the poem “On the Day I Learned My Father Was Murdered, I Learned” when she writes “My mother is a person. A real one. / Not just a mom person, not just endless / love, not just mine.” Fairy tale images permeate Freeman’s deep emotional explorations of growing up in urban America. Freeman’s poetry is experimental with some poems unfolding in unique ways. She writes several poems that feature frames of words and one poem with large blocks of ink blocking out words. She curses, uses vernacular language, and references pop culture like “flaming hot Cheetos” and the television series “Orange is the New Black”. She returns again and again to colors in poems titled “Haint Blue”, “Haint Pink”, Haint Green”, and “Haint Glitter”, and attempts to capture the experience of a girl growing up in a liminal urban space. Freeman’s collection is more real world than most fairy tale retellings, and the harsh tone of the poems is not for every fairy tale lover, but it will make you think about poetry, fairy tales, and urban life in new ways. You can purchase the book here. Thank you to NetGalley for a free copy of the book in exchange for a fair review. Kelly Jarvis 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.

Editor's Note: Today's Throwback Thursday is a sweet variation on "The Ugly Duckling" story with the thought that everyone should find where they belong. Enjoy! “However will you get ahead in this life?” the mother chided her ugliest duckling. She tilted her iridescent neck to the side. Of all her bright yellow children, this one, unworthy of even a name, had stringy gray feathers and hopeless eyes. The duckling glanced with shame at his tar-black feet. His brothers and sisters had feet the color of evening skies. With sudden ferocity, the mother swept in, beak stretched. The duckling scattered back onto the riverbank, but in a snap, she plucked soft feathers from his tender wing. The mother paddled off spitting his gray feathers into the east blowing wind. Her duckling was left by serpentine roots under an enormous weeping tree, alone. He stayed, flat feet firmly planted, shivering with worry. As the summer sun set turning the river from green to vibrant crimson, long boats from beyond emerged. They sailed towards the gray stone castle towering on the hill. The boats, some of dull unvarnished wood, and others boldly painted, held mostly young men. A few had the luxury to recline as their personal rower swiftly traversed down the sunset river. Other boats were packed full of those sharing a ride, rotating the oars themselves, toward the black iron gates. The duckling, forgotten on the riverbank, followed the boats all the way through the gates, which were open wide in welcome. The ugliest duckling’s feet were tired, but he kept paddling until he reached the place where boats were moored. He hopped into the tall grass, still warm from the bright day, and nestled deep where he would not be easily spotted. Never had he been so far from home. The sun had vanished and sounds he had never heard lit the night. Crowds of people laughed—a merry noise delighting the duckling. As they clinked glasses of rosy liquid, melodies composed of strings and reverberations wafted on unseen winds. The darkness became less haunting and more splendid. The crescent moon cast a glowing smile from its starry perch. Small fires burst to life along the castle grounds sending up charcoal streams of smoke. Men were dressed identically in black, but the women swirled along stone pathways in more colors than the summer garden knew. Emeralds, reds, and buttercream yellows, illuminant in the torchlights, they adorned the grounds. Unlike his mother, who had left him with a bleeding wing, these women seemed both beautiful and kind. The duckling had a dull ache, but he didn’t mind it now. Especially when a woman pointed right to him. He burned warmly in that moment. The woman passed her glass to her partner and, with tea sandwich in hand, approached. Removing the top piece of white bread, she crumbled it for the duckling, and popped the rest between her rose lips. The duckling pecked at the soft pieces on the earth. They were fresh and soothed him in this unknown place. As the couple smiled at him, he tried smiling back. The people behind them began meandering away from the river. Flamethrowers, somersaulting blazing torches into the air, grabbed everyone’s attention—including the kind couple’s. Once again, he was forgotten. Dusk was melting, stars were on the verge of fading, and the duckling had fallen into deep dreams of being human. A human that could pluck tea sandwiches from trays, run fast so as not to miss everything he wished to see, and one who could dance as he saw couples that night: entwined, happy, and gliding, as if children on skates upon a frozen river, despite having only firm earth beneath them. The ugliest duckling half-woke to a crunch, and leaned out of his dream to listen, and with another crunch, he was wide awake. The boats had disappeared. He waddled on short legs to the river and leapt in amongst the lily pads. No sooner did he leap than a girl with midnight curls and a lace dress appeared at the riverside. Her strappy shoes dangled from her fingertips. She sat down and plunged in her bare feet with her gown gathered around her knees. She sighed. The duckling tugged on a water lily to bestow upon the sad girl, who like him was unpaired, but the firmly rooted lily refused to come loose no matter how hard the duckling tried. The sound of wild laughter split all silence. It startled him so much that he paddled back, but then, it delighted him once more. He swam closer. “Look at your poor wing.” She extended her scratched hand. “This is why they don’t let me pick my own berries.” She let it rest in the water. The duckling hesitated, but crept closer. She raised one finger and stroked his good wing. “Here I was about to pray upon the last star of the night for my freedom. There are so many boring men, who don’t read poetry, you see. But, I’ll give my wish of the night to you…may you find where you belong.” The stars understood belonging for they were born into clusters, and just then, dawn washed away the last one. With one hand she scooped up the duckling. He flapped his good wing, but as she brought him close, he settled down and she gently kissed his head. She placed him in the grass beside her and stayed a moment longer before returning to the castle. Soon after she disappeared, a light from the turret overlooking the river darkened. Gardeners came to water flowers. People moved with urgency. In the afternoon, an older woman with a glistering crown meandered with a few finely dressed companions to drink tea from tiny cups. She complained of her spoiled daughter who dreamt of love. Anyone who overheard her wondered if she had anything else to say, or if she was spellbound to repeat herself for eternity. Nobody bothered the duckling. In the late afternoon, the crowned woman’s daughter returned with her wild laugh and inspiring eyes. She had a book in hand to read to him. He didn’t know what she was saying, but he loved the way she said it. Sometimes when her voice quickened and she smiled as she read, he shook his tail to let her know he was happy too. This is where he belonged. Days collected into a year. The duckling stressed as his neck grew like a crooked tree. Eventually, it was no longer just his feet that were tar-black but his entire body. A flock of green iridescent ducks bobbed through, but as soon as the ugliest duckling came close, they flapped back to where they originated. His wings were vaster and his feathers had grown in longer. He was monstrously large compared to his mother, with her short neck and pleasant chubby face, and to all the ducks he had just frightened away. But the girl never treated him like a monster, and sometimes she packed a picnic for them. Always there was a new book. They’d sit upon a soft blanket and her reed basket would hide tea sandwiches. Under green foliage turned gold by summer, she’d munch on the cucumbers and raspberries from in-between and feed him the bread from her hand. Sometimes the bread was brown, other times white, and she even learned not to bring him the bread with seeds. His distress settled. Other days, she had picnics with different company. Sometimes, when her companion wasn’t paying attention being overly invested in his own words, she would look at him and roll her eyes. Like any other day, a table had been set up by the riverside. The girl appeared with her nagging mother. The mother kept her hands folded in front, but her tone was as sharp as the vengeful beak that had left the duckling bloody. “Do not ruin this with your silly notions that have no place in reality. I warn you.” She smiled for the sake of those watching, then turned her gaze to the duckling who felt small again in her towering presence that loomed like the castle she came from. “Scat, you filthy disease. Scat.” The duckling flapped back into the shadows and stayed there. When the crowned woman was gone, her daughter peered into the gloom cast by the arching trees. “Sorry,” she whispered. A man came with a tall sunflower, which he gave with a smile and a bow, before taking the seat across from her. Before he even reached for a slice of cinnamon cake, the duckling sensed something. Instantly, he disliked him. That day remained golden by the riverside. They took morning strolls and often had afternoon tea. On a different day full of songbirds’ music, the duckling saw his instincts realized. When he heard their tones crescendo, he paddled from the shadows. Never had he heard her speak so harshly. The man seized her wrist and had it nailed to the table. She tried jerking free but then, she lifted the emerald kettle and poured. Steamy brown liquid splashed onto his skin. He let go and raised his hand. The duckling stretched his vast wings, lifted his long neck, and flew. With power unknown to him, he chased the man far from the table and kept after him, squawking and snapping. The man sprinted all the way across the yard, nearly tripping over his feet, and was still running after the duckling stopped. That was the last time she was unaccompanied during a date. Once she seemed so happy that it filled the duckling’s own heart to see her cheerful. A few nights later, she was crying with her feet soaking in the river. The ugliest duckling now had the strength to snip the water lily from its pad and rest it in her lap. He leaned his head there too. With gentle fingers, she stroked his neck until tears stopped falling on his head like salty raindrops. While the nights still embraced him warmly and before the moon had time to grow fat again, a black swan, his river reflection, came closer gliding like those couples on the night lit by stars and fire. He offered the dark swan a yellow lily from the water before she could disappear. With her there, so close, she was the most beautiful surprise ever to occur in his life. With her came the realization that he was not meant to have a short neck and chubby face. He was not mangled, nor monstrous. He was just like this potential friend. And all those worries that he kept about his lonely future, buried deep inside, he released. Just like those iridescent green ducks, they offered him nothing. Together they swam until the stars faded, and when only the last one was still glowing, he made his wish, remembering the sounds that had brought him so much pleasure. He looked to the window overlooking the river where the light flickered on and off at all odd hours, and thought: may she find where she belongs. It was then that the last star of the night faded out. Juliana Amir is a graduate of the NEOMFA. She enjoys the stars. Imagining all the stories unfurling beneath them, this story was dreamt.

Fairy Tales Can Change Your Life is a book that presents folklore and fairy tales as solutions to life’s problems. Alison Davies explores the characters, symbols, and plots of well-known stories, uncovers deep narrative meanings, and offers practical and creative exercises to help readers enchant their lives. The book covers the power of storytelling, the hero’s adventure, love and relationships, fears and desires, and transformations. The first chapter provides an overview of fairytale origins, making connections between the tales we know and ancient myths and legends. Each subsequent chapter focuses on a few well-known stories before providing the reader with questions, activities, and writing prompts that help them apply the lessons to their own lives. Davies believes that there is power in using fairy tales as a springboard for creative writing and storytelling, and she encourages all readers to find their voice. This book was a fun, accessible, and easy read. At times, Davies lacks an understanding of cultural context in relaying the tales and uses sweeping generalizations about “universal” fairy tale themes. For example, she spends time discussing the jealous anger of queens who worry their beauty is fading without ever exploring the complexities of intimate family relationships in fairy tales like Snow White, but her passion for using fairy tale symbols and images to better her readers’ lives shines through these types of generalizations. She introduces new fairy tale scholars to characters such as the trickster and encourages readers to find the heartbeat of each tale. The book is a fun introduction to how fairy tales can relate to contemporary human life and presents easy ways to deepen creative thinking. While many of the suggested activities deal with writing or telling stories, others offer ways to improve daily life by transforming thinking and behavior. Fairy Tales Can Change Your Life is a blueprint for taking simple fairy tale inspired actions that will bring enchantment to the everyday world. 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 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.

Mountain Magic (publication date February 14, 2023) is a beautifully illustrated collection of the history and presence of magic and folklore in the Appalachian Mountains. Rebecca Beyer, an Appalachian ethnobiologist who was born in Western Pennsylvania and still lives in the mountains, dedicates the book to the diverse people who occupy the land. She teaches readers that the folk magic of Appalachia is ever present but difficult to see. Beyer notes that the Appalachian culture has been long misunderstood and badly represented by outsiders. She lovingly restores faith in the “old Wild Thing” that shrouds the hills and valleys with magic. The book is divided into sections including The Calling (a breakdown of the different types of Appalachian witches), Mountain Medicine (an overview of the landscape and the folk knowledge of the region), Occult Uses of Appalachian Herbs (such as blackberry, mandrake, goldenrod, and ginseng), The Workings (charms and curses), and Seasonal Lore and Mountain Astrology (a look at the rotating weather and movement of the heavens). Each section is accompanied by beautiful illustrations, recipes, and anecdotes about Appalachian life. Mountain Magic is full of surprises for the average reader. Beyer explains that Appalachian witches are often practitioners of Christianity who traditionally doctor their families with herbs and charms. She shares that mountain medicine has been heavily influenced by native cultures along with the arrival of Spanish, African, and Scotch-Irish immigrants. She teaches that blood, which can be high, low, thick, or thin, is the most important part of the body when it comes to staying healthy and living in balance with the community and environment. Although residents of Appalachia may be reluctant to share their folklore with outsiders, Beyer argues that Burn Whisperers (who can take the heat from a burn) and Blood Stoppers (who can heal wounds) have always existed in the mountains and continue to practice today. She explains the gendered rules of magic, reminds readers that forests existed before pharmacies, and shares healing recipes for wild salad and spicebush tea. I found this short book utterly fascinating and would like to read more books in the Modern Folk Magic series. Mountain Magic skillfully creates a portrait of a place that is steeped in mystery, and readers will come away with a new appreciation for the magic found in the world around them. You can pre-order the book here. Thank you to NetGalley for a free copy of this 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.

Editor's Note: With Valentine's Day fast approaching this month, we thought this love-themed twist on a classic fairy tale would be the perfect fit for today's Throwback Thursday tale. Enjoy! From her position at the kitchen table, Anya watched her great grandmother flit across the room, her sly expression concealed beneath the hood of her frayed and faded red cape as Anya pleaded, “Grannie will you tell me how you met Grandpa again?” "Anya, aren't you tired of that tale by now? It’s ancient history.” “Anya, I told you not to nag your great grandmother.” Annoyed, Anya glanced at her Mother who sat darning a red cape, her brow furrowed before shooting a hopeful glance towards Grannie, pleased to see the other smiling broadly. "I don’t know Grannie; she always wants to hear that tale even though I keep reminding her that everyone needs to be here for it to be told right." The exasperation in her Mother’s voice made Anya frown, but unwilling to concede defeat she retorted, “We’re all here now." "Your father and grandpa aren't here," Red pointed out Aware that her request was perilously close to be being denied, Anya shot an appealing glance towards her great grandmother as she added in a wheedling voice, "But they'll be back soon. The two women exchange a look, and then Grannie pulled out a chair, “Well, why not? Anya squealed in delight and then aware of her Mother’s scowl, she sat down as the other commenced. “It was one of those warm spring days, and I was bored, so my mother decided to send me here, to my grandmother’s house with a basket of cakes and a bottle of wine. Your great grandmother was feeling poorly.” The note of sarcasm in her mother’s voice bypassed Anya, but her great grandmother took exception protesting, “You make it sound like I was an invalid Red, the truth was I had dyed my hair bright orange, and your grandmother was so embarrassed that she forbade me from venturing into town until it had dulled down a little. Didn’t you wonder why I was wearing a night cap in the middle of the day Red?” “Of course I did, but I was more interested in trekking through the forest and escaping chores,” Red said with a laugh, “Will you stop interrupting already, you’ll get your turn in a minute.” Grannie sighed, but refrained from commenting as Red continued. “So I’m walking through the forest, sticking to the path as directed, when I hear a voice call out, where are you going little red riding hood.” As her mother mimicked the voice Anya pulled up her hood and Grannie chuckled softly, “And of course I paused.” “Of course,” Her great grandmother's dry tone made Anya giggle even as her Mother reached out to push her hood down, before tousling her hair. “Alright, I was young, but you have to admit there was something enticing about his voice. It was like molten chocolate.” For a moment Red stared into space and then she shook her head, “So I turned around and there he was, the big bad wolf leaning against a tree with a quizzing expression.” “Where are you going little red riding hood? He asked, and though I recalled my mother’s warning, his brooding dark looks and his debonair smile sent my pulse racing, and bemused, I blurted out the truth, I’m off to see my sick Grannie.” “That’s enough of this sick grandmother nonsense.” Her mother smirked. “Why don’t you take her some flowers. She’ll be sure to love them. Now, I glanced around and sure enough, there were stacks of flowers, so I thought why not and began to collect them.” At these words, Anya swung round towards her great grandmother, anticipation etched into her features as the other smiled broadly in response. “I was at home alright. I was getting ready for my morning run,” At this, her great grandmother winked and Anya giggled. “You can imagine my surprise when there was a knock at the door, but that only lasted a second when I laid my eyes on the huge, strong, muscular creature that filled the doorway.” “Mesmerized, I watched as he leant closer whispering, time’s up, Grannie. I swear I almost swooned at his words and then as he leant forward to take a bite, I took my chance. I puckered up and our lips met, and I swear it was thunderbolts and lightening. He staggered back, and I gaped. I’d just kissed a wolf and mortified, I ran past him intent only on escape.” “And there I was heading to Grandma’s house completely unaware…” “That the wolf lay in wait.” Anya finished with a squeal of excitement. “Exactly, even as I fled something was plaguing me, and eventually I came to a halt,” Grannie continued, “Perplexed I wondered why a dark and handsome wolf had appeared on my doorstep, a dark and dangerous wolf who kissed like heaven on a stick. There was only one reason, and it made me turn quick smart, but I suspected I would be too late.” “For I had already knocked on the door, only to hear a voice call out, I’m too sick to get out of bed granddaughter, please come inside.” Red continued with a smile as she mimicked the wolf's husky drawl, and Anya grinned as her mother continued, “There was something funny about the voice. It was a rolling smooth sound which was so unlike Grannie’s that I was already suspicious even before I walked inside to see an unfamiliar figure lying in the bed.” As Anya leant forward, Red grimaced with a rueful shake of her head advised, “I knew this wasn’t Grannie but the figure in the bed was watching me so intently I said, oh grandmother, what big ears you have! To which the figure replied with a decided lack of enthusiasm, all the better to hear you with. I frowned, but continued on with, but grandmother, what big eyes you have, and at this the wolf sighed languidly before declaring, all the better to see you with. I must admit, I was getting nervous by now and edged closer to the door as I uttered, but grandmother, what a big mouth you have.” “And that’s when I stepped through the doorway,” Grannie stated with a wide smile, “and said real loud, which is so damn good at kissing, I want to do it again.” “To which I replied,” A voice said from the doorway of Grannie’s cottage, “And so do I, come her Grannie, you’re mine.” At the wolf's words, Anya started, and then with a wide grin, she threw herself at the huge muscular figure which towered above her, “Grandpa you’re back.” “Hey sweetie, I couldn’t leave your great grandma alone now, could I? She might run off with any old wolf that came along.” “Idiot,” Grannie stated affectionately, reaching over to kiss her husband on the cheek, “You know there is no one else for me.” “And Grannie kisses Grandpa, and he turns into a handsome prince.” Anya stated cheekily as her mother, Red rolled her eyes. “Perhaps not a handsome Prince, in this case,” Red noted dryly as her husband walked through the door. “And they lived happily ever after.” Anya continued, determined not to be thwarted. “That’s only in fairy tales sweetie,” Red muttered absently as she eyed her husband, who was determinedly avoiding her eyes and keeping his hands behind his back, “What have you gone and traded the cow for this time Jack? Beans, you traded the cow for beans? Here give them to me.” Deb Whittam is a graduated from Macquarie University Bachelor of Arts, recently she has had the honor her work being published in The Crux Anthology and The Rabbit Hole Anthology. She has also published a number of titles online which available through Smashwords, which includes the Daddy’s Angels series. Cover: Amanda Bergloff

What a month it’s been! We received hundreds of submissions for 12 spaces—so only about 3 percent of the submissions were accepted. More about that after I list the names. Here are the authors whose work will appear in the March or June issues: Kim Malinowski Brittani Jenee’ Cal Deborah Sage Jessie Aktin Peyton Dupree James Dodds Henry Herz Odyssa Abille Esther Ra Carter Lappin Marisa Montany Melissa Yuan-Innes These authors will join Marcia Sherman and Sara Cleto and Brittany Warman (the scholars behind The Carterhaugh School) in writing for each of the four issues in 2023. In addition, our contributing editor, Kelly Jarvis, will be contributing both fiction and nonfiction to each issue. Amanda Bergloff, our art director, will be doing her magic with some visual delights, and I’ll be writing several articles as well. I would have gladly chosen more submissions if we could afford it. While it’s true that uncounted submissions (because why put myself through that?) were unusable because the authors showed no familiarity with our publication or the submissions guidelines, the top 40 or so were very, very competitive. Really excellent work fell by the wayside. I hope people who read this and haven’t become subscribers yet will do so today. Remember, the only way to read what we publish will be through subscription. We will not be publishing anything more free on this site, so please sign up! A lot of old friends from our previous site as Enchanted Conversation are under the impression that we’re still providing a free magazine, but we aren’t, so please help out this little nonprofit and what I know is a great magazine, today. Image: by Christen Dalsgaard

“Shut Up and Write the Book,” by Jenna Moreci, is a book I hope all would-be novelists will buy and use. I say that as a reader and a publisher, and I hope it will become a bestseller. Yet, packed to the brim with thoughtful, detailed and highly practical writing advice as this book is, Moreci isn’t here to teach you how to promote or sell your book. Her advice is strictly about setting, world building, editing, characterization, plot development, outlining, dialogue writing, and all manner of writing pitfalls to avoid and skills to develop. (And that list is only partial.) “Shut Up and Write the Book” delivers a huge amount of thoughtful, practical advice for the novice writer or the experienced one who wants to be reinspired or brush up on their skills—without being intimidating. I enjoyed “Shut Up and Write the Book” for its wisdom, as a publisher, but I think a lot of readers would enjoy it as well. It reminds you about what good writing should be, and just how much hard work and imagination writing a novel takes. Jenna Moreci is an independent, successful dark fantasy romance author, and the funny and wise voice of a popular YouTube channel, Writing With Jenna Moreci. In the book and on her channel, Jenna employs racy humor and potty jokes to amuse readers while they learn. But don’t let the funny tone fool you, Jenna Moreci knows a lot about writing and genuinely wants other writers to succeed. The best testimonial I can make about “Shut Up and Wrote the Book” is that I love it, and I normally detest bathroom humor and am not a big fan of sexy romance either. I love romance novels, but only slightly steamy, thank you. None of that matters. Jenna is compassionate, funny and professional. She knows writing is a tough business and she has the empathy a teacher needs to help your writing along. “Shut Up and Write the Book” is worth your time and money. Highly recommended. Review by Kate Wolford. editor-in-chief of The Fairy Tale Magazine.