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Editor's Note: Today's Throwback Thursday features author Avra Margariti's wondrous poetry that makes us want to wander an apothecary shop and discover its secrets... When I was the baker and the butcher’s daughter I never once visited the forest where lost princes or peasants fall in bramble patches, frozen ponds, early graves, where tree boughs claw and bleed you dry, and fairytales go to die, happy endings like pulling rotten teeth. When I was my parents’ child, I shied away from the city, with its dubious characters and roaring automobiles, its electric lights and dawns of progress of what a girl can do, or be. A witch visited my parents’ conjoined shops one day. After watching me work with gimlet gaze, she left me a book, although I told her I could knead dough and pluck chickens but could scarcely spell my own name. You know where to find me, the witch said nestled in her skirts, the scent of lavender and thyme, the stink of smog and petroleum. I traced my name in the fungi section, later. Amanita, she of agaric mycelia and fruiting bodies. Mushrooms that can kill, as easily as cure. When I devoured every word and illustration, the ink swirls memorized even after the book was snatched from my hands and thrown in the oven, when I could no longer call myself my parents’ daughter, I retraced the witch’s footsteps through the forest. I followed the scent of lavender, of thyme, nothing to my name but the rags on my back. I slept in rabbit warrens and badger burrows, supped on the leaves and bulbs deemed edible by the witch’s botanical grimoire, avoiding the conniving camouflage of poison. I dressed my blisters in natural salve and gauze, my scratches I smeared with honey. When at last I caught the subtle scent of smoke and oil, it led to a little shop tucked between the city and the forest, anathema to both my parents’ superstitions. The witch stood behind the apothecary’s worktable, before an astringent array of phials and tins. Child, the witch said, looking up from pestle and mortar, Amanita, are you ready to learn my craft? When every particle of me wanted to protest, say I’m not good nor smart enough, I’m not made of the stuff of cunning folk, I hushed the aching parts of me with promises of healing. I stepped farther into the pharmacopoetic altar, the witch welcoming me inside her herbaceous citadel. Avra Margariti is a queer author, Greek sea monster, and Pushcart-nominated poet with a fondness for the dark and the darling. Avra’s work haunts publications such as Vastarien, Asimov’s, Liminality, Arsenika, The Future Fire, Space and Time, Eye to the Telescope, and Glittership. “The Saint of Witches”, Avra’s debut collection of horror poetry, is forthcoming from Weasel Press. You can find Avra on twitter (@avramargariti).

Once there was a proud and independent prince. Although respectful in his duties and affectionate with his family, he was the first to leave state dinners and wander the gardens alone. The queen worried his independence would turn to loneliness. She often prayed for him and whispered her hopes to the palace blooms. But on the night of her untimely death, her young prince found himself alone with dreams of dark and pressing clouds. When he awoke, his toes were dark and stiff as if bruised by his dreams. With a hard swallow, he stuffed his feet into thick socks and stepped silently through the day’s doleful duties. On his second night without her, the dark clouds came with growing speed. They rushed like tides of smoke, blotting out blue patches and casting familiar shores in sickly, shifting shadows. In the morning, his body was heavy with change. His blackened toes felt neither silk carpets nor stone floors. His ankles were hard as stones, and purple shadows mottled his legs. With clenched teeth, he ordered tall boots and walked stiffly through another day. For seven nights, his dream clouds churned and piled. For seven mornings, he awoke to heavy bruises that climbed his body and sent out spidery streaks of festering green. He sought to cover them with dark britches, long robes, and flasks of whiskey, but on that seventh day, a beaten prince gulped for air and rang for help. The king responded with his best physicians, but their draughts proved powerless. He requisitioned augurers and holy men with incense and oils, but still the shadows pressed the young prince. He even called the red-faced nurse of the prince’s infancy with her porridge, but the darkness continued to spread. With a worry beyond pride and prayers, the king issued a public decree offering gold, titles, and even the prince’s hand in marriage to any who could cure his son. The noblewomen of the palace city came first with gifts of broth and flowers. Then came the wealthy women of the north with their fine firs and packets of ash tea. Even the golden maidens from the farthest coasts came with briny scrubs and cloudy stews, but no one could save the prince. His nightmares and their piercing winds increased. He was bruised to his neck, feverish, and sucking shallow gulps of air when a freckled maiden knocked at the service door. Her eyes were bright and blue as orchids, and she spoke with such calm assurance that a kitchen maid led her straight to the prince’s side. They found him confined to bed, thin lipped and sinking in his pillow, but the young woman did not quail. She took from her basket a candle, dark as his deepest bruise, and lighted it on the table beside him. She breathed in, slowly lifting her toes and lowering them as she exhaled. “Who is with you in your storm?” she asked. He closed his eyes like a weary cat, and she understood. Drawing from the basket a small pot of dark soil, she pressed into it a tiny, purple seed and sprinkled it with pearly feather down. She placed it near the candle and sang a lilting tune that drew from the prince his first public tear. This she caught on a golden spoon, warmed in the candle flame, and used to water the seed. “Who is with you in your storm?” she asked again, but the prince only blinked. So, she called his father King, his young sister, and a maiden aunt to his side. Each heard her strange tune, offered a single tear, and watched as she warmed it in the candlelight and watered the seed. When the last family tear had been added, she held the little pot to show him a small and waxy stem peeking through the dirt. Without a word, she filled herself with a long, slow breath, lifting her toes and setting them gently down again. Then, she sang her little song until exhaustion overcame his fears, and for the first time in days, he slept without dreaming. When the prince awoke, his cheeks were pink as if kissed by a warm wind, and the heavy shadows had receded below his shoulders. In relief he shed another tear, and this too she warmed on her golden spoon and poured over the little leaf which stretched tall as a lark beside him. “Who is with you in this storm?” she asked. But the prince merely pressed his lips together and looked towards the door. By way of her own answer, she took another measured breath, lifting and lowering her toes and then began to call the palace staff to his side. One by one she brought them; the befuddled valet, the red-faced nurse, the dusty maid, the cook with her tea, and even the kitchen girl who had opened the door to his orchid-eyed savior. They, too, heard the strange tune, added their tears to the spoon, and watched them used to tend the little plant. And when they had gone, she took another measured breath and sang him to sleep. In the morning, she asked again, “Who is with you in your storm?” and he replied with a small nod towards the window. So, she called to his side the Queen’s gardener, the royal grooms, and even the boy who saw to the barn cats. They had tears of their own to share, and these, too, she warmed in the candlelight and added to the pot. There could be no secrets with such a system, but no one could argue her results. Life returned to the prince. He breathed deeply, sat tall against his pillows, and hummed a lilting tune. So, when she asked again, “Who is with you in your storm?” he knew it would always be her. Together they sang the lilting tune, and she watered the waxy stalk and its first of many buds with her own candlelit tear. Susan K. H. Newman is a teacher from Northern Virginia and a Teacher Consultant for the Shenandoah Valley Writing Project. When not at her desk, Susan enjoys laughing with her book club, long walks, and baking cookies with her husband and kids. Cover: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff

The Collected Enchantments, (publication date-February 14th, 2023) by Theodora Goss, is a book filled with magic. Goss has paired previously published stories and poems with never-before-seen works to create a must-read collection of fantasy and fairy tales. Goss begins her collection with an introduction titled “Why I Write Fantasy”, sharing her experience as an immigrant child born behind the Iron Curtain in Budapest, Hungary, a land rich in fairy tales. Goss attributes her love of fantasy literature to her liminal existence between two homes and reveals that she dreamed of becoming a writer, or a sorceress, when she grew up. The introduction perfectly prepares readers for the enchantments they will find in the book’s pages. The Collected Enchantments is rich with fairy tale retellings in prose and verse form. Classic stories include “Conversations with the Sea Witch”, which moves “The Little Mermaid” beyond its happily-ever-after, and “The Rose in Twelve Petals”, a retelling of “Sleeping Beauty” presented through the perspective of twelve different characters. Goss’s poems explore tales like “Cinderella”, “Goldilocks”, and “East of the Sun, West of the Moon”, and engage with legends and myths in works such as “Tam Lin Remembers the Fairy Queen” and “Medusa Gets a Haircut”. Her stories feature mothers who turn into birds and fly away, men who are ravens, a princess who is the daughter of the moon, and oak trees which bend down to take your hands as you travel through the forest. Each image creates a lasting mark in the reader’s mind. Fantasy poignantly collides with reality in stories and poems that confront death like “In the Forest of Forgetting” and “Rose Child”. In other poems, women and poets are transformed into harps, and daughters learn of mothers who dance to bring in the seasons of winter and spring. Goss explores the benefits of a magical education where former fairy tale princesses and witch girls learn “how to turn a poem into a spell”, and one of my favorite poems, “Seven Shoes”, uses the fairy tale task of wearing through seven pairs of shoes as a metaphor for becoming a writer. In her introduction, Goss reveals that it “took a long time...to become a writer. I’m still working on the sorceress part.” Her beautiful collection, part writing and part magic, proves that she has become both. The Collected Enchantments is an essential read for all who love fairy tales, fantasy, witchcraft, and magic. Goss uses stunning images and beautiful words to cast a spell over her readers. The book is sure to become a favorite in every fantasy reader’s collection. You can pre-order the e-book edition here. Thank you to Edelweiss + 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: We want to wish everyone a Happy New Year with this charming Throwback Thursday tale by author, Christine Tapper. Enjoy! The volcano rumbled in the dusk light, steam spouted and hissed from cracks in the earth’s crust. A sage in long silver robes appeared by the royal pond and spoke to Prince Diamrem. “Destruction is imminent. Why haven’t you left? I warned you hours ago.” “It’s my home, I like it here.” The sage’s face creased making him look more wizened. “At midnight when the New Year begins the volcano will send clouds of red dust billowing into the sky. Rivers of molten lava will cascade down the mountain slopes creating barren fields and craters. You must find a princess, start a new life." “A princess? Where?” Since the recent death of his parents, Diamrem had lived alone on the island. “One awaits you. You must walk the land now. Find your way to the whispering ocean.” "In the darkness...all by myself?" gulped the prince as a mantle of grey cloud concealed the moon. “Go if you want to meet her and see the New Year. Your choice.” The sage vanished. Back pack in place, the prince crossed the drawbridge and trudged away from the castle, chill wind at his back. Time and again, he stumbled and fell; picked himself up, pushed on. Before long, his leather boots crunched on a gravel surface and something nudged his elbow. Heart pounding, he turned expecting a beast to confront him. But he realized he had connected with a signpost. He wiped sweat from his palms and headed toward the scent of coastal pines. After a hundred easier steps, he encountered a barrier of thorns and shouted in despair at the dark sky. He groped through prickles and vines and emerged scratched and bleeding not far from a hollow tree where he sat taking refuge. Night creatures skittered through the undergrowth. Diamrem trembled and breathed deeply trying to settle his nerves. He soon sensed a shift in the cloud coverings. Taking advantage of the moonlight he set off through the trees and when he reached a clearing, he stopped and listened to the crash of waves upon rocks. Salt-laced air filled his nostrils He looked around and frowned. The only access point was by way of a steep path. Carefully he made his made his way but just as one foot reached the sand the other slid on a moss-covered rock and wedged in a crevice. He tried to free himself. The other leg buckled. Pain speared through him. Diamrem fainted on the rock. # He awakened to a hazy image of strawberry blond tresses cascading over a lady’s torso. Her blinked and saw she was combing her hair with a piece of coral. Her body, below the waist was buried in seaweed ribbons and sand. "Your legs are damaged. Fear not, I will help,” she whispered through crimson lips. Her slender, cool fingers caressed his forehead. He realized she had released his feet and removed his boots. As he reached out to touch her shimmering hair, she unfurled her long, elaborate tail. Diamrem spluttered. "Where are your legs?" "Don’t need any; my flipper propels me through the water." The prince asked her name. "I have no special name until my husband gives me his letters. Write your name in the sand." He picked up a white shell and wrote in large capital letters. DIAMREM. She flipped into the breakers. “Believe in yourself Diamrem." Her sweet voice echoed. "Swim to me." “I cannot swim." The volcano reverberated. “Hurry Diamrem. You walked in the dark of night. You can do anything. Come to me." Her melodic voice mesmerised him. He dragged himself to the seashore where waves lapped around him. She pointed to a passing starfish. “Let the water carry you. Like that.” He floated and grinned in surprise. The princess removed his shirt and ran her fingers down his spine. His whole body felt suddenly lighter. When he saw his legs had been replaced by a magnificent tail, he emitted a throaty sound. His first attempt at using the new tail made her laugh and she buried her face in a sea of bubbles. He managed to wriggle, at first like a tadpole, then found he could weave through the water more easily. “Now try this.” The princess soared like a porpoise in and out of the curling waves. Sunlight danced on her silver scales. They dived and swam together until loud rumblings and a red explosion erupted from the centre of the volcano. “The New Year has begun.” Diamrem pointed to the palace silhouetted against the crimson sky. Later, when the rumblings ceased and fringes of lava cooled all around the island, they lay on the beach and he stroked her hair. “Will you be my bride? Will you take my letters?’ “Yes DIAMREM. And you should know this. It is my privilege to reverse your letters if I want to. So I shall call myself MERMAID." “Mermaid? I like it. It suits you.” She smiled. “I like it too.” Christine Tapper lives in Australia and writes fairy tales, fact, and fiction. ABC radio broadcasted some of her stories; she’s been published by Oxford University Press, online and in anthologies.

Weyward by Emilia Hart is a breathtakingly beautiful novel that explores the dangers of patriarchal control and celebrates the enduring power of the feminine. The narrative expertly intertwines the lives of three women separated by five centuries: Altha, a girl accused of witchcraft in the 17th century, Violet, a victim of sexual assault living in the 20th century, and Kate, a woman fleeing her abusive boyfriend in 2019. The novel takes its title from Shakespeare’s description of the witches in Macbeth as “Weyward Sisters”. Altha, Violet, and Kate, all females from the Weyward line, have a deep connection to the natural world. Altha is a healer, gardener, and animal lover, but she does not use the term “witch” which is a word “invented by men, a word that brings power to those who speak it, not to those it describes.” When Violet inherits Altha’s cottage, she discovers her ancestor’s narrative before passing the cottage on to Kate, who in turn discovers Violet’s letters, piecing together the powerful family destiny. I loved every word of this perfectly paced book which drips with the pain and joy of life. Altha, Violet, and Kate suffer tremendous hardships, but beneath their struggles is a wild strength and love of fairy tales that helps them vocalize the untold stories of all women. Fans of Alice Hoffman will love the writing style and uplifting message of this book which connects women across generations and lets them know they are not alone. Weyward will draw you in and take hold of your imagination long after the final page has been turned. You can purchase it HERE Thank you to NetGalley for providing 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.

I loved Close Your Eyes: A Fairy Tale, a beautiful novel set in early 1400’s Northern Europe. The story is told by Samuel, the Kingdom of Gora’s court jester, who is struggling to share the reasons his friends, Tycho the storyteller and Agnieszka the cook, have illegally fled from service. Tycho has left Samuel a scroll as a parting gift, and after spending four years learning to read and write, Samuel, a dwarf who lived a life as a traveling entertainer before coming to the court to amuse the King’s daughter, uses his storytelling techniques and skills to unfold Tycho’s tale, “hoarding secrets, {and} revealing them only as necessary”. The novel provides background on Samuel’s early life as well as the life and tragic love story of the King and his two children. Another important character is Ahab, the court astronomer, who becomes obsessed with learning Tycho’s destiny. The servants of the Kingdom are not free to leave the castle, and Tycho’s storytelling ability is a balm to a court living with an overwhelming cloud of grief. Ahab wonders where Tycho’s stories come from, and this initiates a contemplation of storytelling as an art form. As Tycho falls in love with Agnieszka, he will face difficult decisions that bring him and the reader to a deep understanding of the power of true love. This was a beautiful, sweeping tale that presents much food for thought regarding true love and storytelling (my favorite topics). I felt as though I was at the mercy of a skilled storyteller as Samuel wove together several narratives that ended with a beautiful and uplifting message. The book took me to another time and place and made me wonder about the human desire for meaningful connections and purposeful work. Close Your Eyes: A Fairy Tale is the perfect read for anyone who is interested in love and storytelling. You can purchase it here. Thank you to NetGalley for providing 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: We're celebrating glorious Snow Queens this December, so please enjoy today's Throwback Thursday poem, full of wonderful winter imagery and fairy tale magic! I You do not have a Godmother To plait your hair with hues of dappled sunshine, Or sew a dress of scented roses That sings of summer each time you spin At the Prince’s Solstice Ball. II No kindly crone will comfort you In the creases of the forest While you wait for walnuts to fall like tears upon your mother’s grave. Their wrinkled shells won’t spill forth gowns threaded thick with autumn’s dying light. No wish will soothe your weathered wounds of grief. III An orphan of the Northern Realm, You must hitch your sled to ravens’ wings, And pay with heated copper pennies for your passage through the sky. You must journey, barefoot, through storms of ice, Clad in the skin of a beast you have slain, Its bloodied fur forcing you forward, Its death a sacrifice. You may encounter winter witches, You may cling to the backs of bears, You may let reindeer lick your salty tears and kiss you with their soft, pink tongues, But, in that barren landscape you will find yourself, alone, With nothing but the Northern Lights to guide your wandering way. IV Let your breath become a crystal prayer That echoes through the night Drawing down the silver light of December’s waning moon. Follow swarms of milk white bees. Find the Queen in frosted blooms, Beautiful, terrible, exquisite, cold. A glimmer of hope in winter’s white gloom. V If you solve her puzzles, she will gift you a glorious gown Stitched from ten-pointed stars and the black velvet of night. Shards of frost, clear as glass, become a crown for your hair, And snowflakes become slippers that slide over ice. Her sleigh, pulled by white chickens, will whisk you away Through dark billowing clouds that breathe windstorms of fright, Until you arrive where you started, in the Realm of the North, At the Ball that rejoices in the return of the light. VI Your beauty will shatter into thousands of pieces As you glide past gilded mirrors lining the walls. Shards, hard as diamonds, will lodge in the eyes Of the Prince, seeking his soulmate at the Solstice Ball. In you he will see the spheres of the heavens, Hear the songs of creation, Feel the romance of death. He will wish to possess your enchanted beauty far more Than you wish for a Prince or a safe place to rest. VII Strong from your trials, you will leave long before midnight, Your slippers of snowflakes still firm on your feet. You will laugh as the wind whisks the stars from your dress, And your slippers of snowflakes melt back into sleet. An orphan of the Northern Realm, You will hitch your rags to eastern skies, Let the dappled sunrise warm the seeds That barely breathe beneath the blackened soil, Knowing that soon, Snow-quenched roses will bloom, Each petal A gift from The Snow Queen. 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. Image: The Snow Queen, Amanda Bergloff @AmandaBergloff

If you enjoy fast-paced fantasy novels featuring new adult characters trying to find their way in the world, then Realm of Lore and Lies by Claire Wright may be the book you have been waiting for. Alternating between the limited omniscient perspectives of Aisling (Ash), Tiernan, Setana, and Maebh, the novel tells the story of the Fianna, a group of traveling clans living in 21st century Ireland who have inherited Faerie Sight which allows them to see through the glamour of the Fair Ones. The novel opens with Ash, a young woman who was destined to be the matriarch of her clan before leaving her people to pursue a degree in archaeology. When Ash finds the dead body of her mother in an ancient tomb, she is forced back to the world of the Fianna to complete her mother’s quest and solve her murder. The tone and style of the novel is designed to appeal to new adults, and it does fulfill this objective. The focus rotates quickly between the misfit characters, the language is casual, and plot is emphasized over characterization. The novel is the first in a series, so the conclusion prepares readers for more rather than bringing full closure to the narrative. My favorite part about the book is the use of Irish history, spirituality, and lore. Readers will learn about Puca, Changelings, Will O’ The Wisps, Banshees, the Tuatha De Danann, and Tir na nOg. The lore was more interesting to me than the plot, but overall, the book is a fun read that will leave you contemplating the way you define your family, your clan, and your home. You can purchase the book HERE. Thank you to NetGalley for providing a 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.

She found the cold invigorating; the howling wind and driving snow a tonic to her frigid soul... Editor's Note: Today's Throwback Thursday story combines traditional fairy tale and folktale motifs to create an original wintry tale that feels both old and new. Enjoy! Long, long ago, when the green world we know yet slumbered beneath thick glacial sheets and a comforter of snow, the ice child was born. Her mother, belly hot and heaving, had ventured alone deep into the forest, where, under spires of pine and a chipped glass sky, she lost her way. While crossing a frozen stream, she fell to her hands and knees, pushing and groaning, the snowy owls echoing her grunts and cries till the child emerged at last, transparent and perfect, connected to her mother by a silvery rope of ice. With her sharp-edged fishing knife the mother severed the ice cord. She opened the front of her coat, fashioned from the skin of a winter wolf, and cradled the ice child upon her breast. The infant’s blue lips suckled eagerly, her tiny ice hands cold and grasping, and the mother’s love flowed like warm honey from her heart, crystallizing where it touched the child, whom the mother named Gaska-geardi in the ancient language of her people, ancestors of the tribes of the far, far North. Winter was the ice child’s father. Weeks before the birth, the mother had fled his frigid embrace, fearing she too soon would find herself among the frozen maidens piled in stacks outside his palace walls. His attractions to mortal women were intense as they were brief. Yet the mother loved her ice child, as all mortal mothers love the beings their bodies bring forth, though the child, she could already see, more resembled her father, his elemental nature, his austere beauty, his icicle touch. And for a time, all was well with the mother and the ice child. They hid in a cave in the womb of a mountain, where the mother kept a small fire to warm herself while the ice child slept in a snowdrift nearby. But one day a man came upon them, a herder of reindeer of the mother’s tribe, and the mother and the ice child returned with him to the village. The mother was welcomed back with joy, for until that moment the villagers had believed she had perished in a winter storm. The people of the village were wary when they saw the ice child, whose strange appearance, they feared, marked her for calamity and some dire fate. The herder and the mother married. They went to live in a wooden hut with a roof of tin, a hearth and windows. The mother, happy there and warm, bore another child, a mortal boy. And the herder grew angry as the mother continued to suckle her ice child alongside his pink-faced son. “Thief!” he thundered, accusing the ice child of stealing his son’s rightful milk. Enraged, the herder struck Gaska-geardi away from her mother’s breast with a heavy blow that left a crack in the perfect transparency of the ice child’s chest. Then he opened the hut’s front door and tossed the ice child out into the frozen night, telling her never to return, or he would lift his iron axe and shatter her in pieces and toss her shards into the hearth’s hot flames. For a time, the mother continued to feed Gaska-geardi in secret. “When you are hungry,” the mother told the ice child, “write a message on the window and I will come.” And so each night the ice child waited, watching from where she stood in the darkness outside the hut’s window as the herder dandled the fat baby boy on his knee and the little family laughed their laughter of belonging and tenderness while the crack in the ice child’s chest would ache. When the father and baby boy fell asleep, the ice child would write a message to her mother on the window in frost, and the mother would steal out and nurse Gaska-geardi until the ice child grew drowsy in her mother’s arms, though each morning she would awaken to find herself alone in the snow’s cold embrace. Then one night the mother did not come. Gaska-geardi wrote her messages again and again until the window was layered deep in frost, and she could no longer see inside. And after many days and nights, when her mother still did not appear, the ice child set off all on her own, for, she told herself, Winter could be no more cold or cruel than these supposedly warm-blooded mortals who had left her there to die. The ice child discovered she needed little to sustain herself. Away from her mother, her hunger dwindled. The cold she found invigorating; the howling wind and driving snow a tonic to her frigid soul. She grew to young womanhood, sleek and slender, a figure of glass-like grace, and the crystalline crack diminished as she grew till it was no more than a forgotten childhood scar. One day her father found her by cold magic. She was swimming with the narwhals, white unicorns of the northern seas. “My child,” Winter sighed, and wrapped her in his iceberg arms, and Gaska-geardi wept, surprised by the sudden hot mortal tears that welled and melted furrows in her perfect cheeks, which her father’s silvery fingers instantly smoothed and healed. He took the ice child back to his palace and taught her the language of wintertide, a hundred words for snow alone: the soft snow one’s feet sink into while walking; the hard icy crust that melts under a day-sun’s warmth and refreezes in the night; the soft, sticky snow that falls thickly in great flakes; the snow that blows up from the Earth in fine gusts; the old snow; the fresh snow; the empty space between snow and ground. He revealed to her the secrets of the blues of ancient ice and sky. Enchanted, she traced them through the palace’s sculpted corridors, its silvery ballrooms and banquet halls set with lavish tables, sconces alight in cold blue flames. The changing light of day and night, refracted through the frozen architecture, wrought endless variations of image and reflection, every surface a gallery of shifting display, and she was certain, in all her travels, she had never seen anything more lovely. There was only one place in her father’s palace where the ice-child-turned-woman was forbidden to go: the wing that held Winter’s impregnable prison, where three inmates had been sentenced to languish for eternity. A shape-shifting warden guarded this prison day and night. When Gaska-geardi first saw him, he wore the form of an enormous winter wolf, asleep at the foot of a wall of blue ice which bore no door, no lock nor key. As the ice woman bent to stroke the wolf’s white-silver fur, she recalled her mother, whom she hadn’t thought of in quite some time, and what was left of the old crack in her chest creaked and ached. Startled from his slumber, the wolf nipped her wrist. Her ice hand broke off and lay between them on the white marble floor. “You’re a brittle one,” the wolf said, his round golden eyes gazing into hers until she grew drowsy. Then, with a great effort of will, Gaska-geardi looked away, picked up her severed hand and took it to her father. “Disobedient child,” her father chided, “I should leave you to suffer the consequences of your actions,” even as he healed her, “but I am too fond.” The ice hand, reattached, shimmered seamlessly at the end of her arm as before. “Father,” the ice woman said. “What do you keep imprisoned in that far wing of the palace? Your power is great. Your might rules the land. What remains for you to fear?” Winter regarded her gravely. “Are you happy here, my child?” “As happy as an ice being may ever hope to be,” she replied. “Father, you have been most kind.” “Then you must promise never to return to the palace prison wing.” And the ice woman promised, a promise she would not keep. Some days when she visited, the warden was a wolf, other days an Arctic fox or a snowshoe hare. Some days he was a polar bear, or a silvery lynx with silent flat paws, or a velvet-soft harp seal with great, dark eyes. Some days he was a man in a white fur coat, and on these days she loved him least, yet she was enthralled by his endless variety, and he by her transparent adoration. And thus they went on meeting at the juncture of enchantment and prohibition, until the day Gaska-geardi asked the warden to reveal to her what it was he guarded, what lay on the other side of the blue ice prison wall. The warden refused. “You will not survive it. And if I should lose you now, I would surely die of a great loneliness of spirit.” “As would I, should you leave me,” the ice woman assured him. “But I must know what my father fears.” The next time she saw the warden, he had taken the form of a large snow goose with sleek white feathers and black-tipped wings. He bent his pink legs and the ice woman climbed upon his back. “You may look down,” the snow goose said, “but I cannot land.” And in a rush of wind and feathers, her slender ice arms wrapped tightly around the goose’s long white neck, Gaska-geardi was quickly aloft, the snow goose soaring toward the top of the blue ice wall. And as they crossed over the wall and the snow goose circled in flight, “I understand now,” the ice woman whispered. For below them stretched Summer, pulsing lush and hot. The ice woman’s eyes were dazzled by bright fluttering butterflies. Her ears rang with songs of birds of every hue. Her nostrils filled with a thick perfume of blooming flowers and ripening fruit. Summer’s long-enclosed heat, magnified, reached up and enveloped them, and the ice woman felt the surface of her frozen skin grow moist and slick and slippery until, with a small cry, she lost her grip upon the snow goose and plummeted downward through the fecund, heated air. The snow goose watched in horror as his lover fell and was caught by the branches of a lilac tree, where she hung, helpless and stunned. A creature of winter, the snow goose could not land. Instead, he retraced his path, returned to the winter side of the blue ice wall, and alighting, assumed the shape of a man. He retrieved an axe and wielded it desperately, chopping a narrow passage through the doorless ice wall. He squeezed through the opening, disentangled Gaska-geardi from the lilac tree where she hung. He carried her fast-melting form in his arms, back into the palace, then sealed the breach in the prison wall with snow. But it was too late. Summer had escaped, scorching its exit through Winter’s palace. It could no longer be contained. The two remaining prisoners, Spring and Fall, assaulted the breach in the blue ice wall, broke through and freed themselves before Winter could intervene. Furious, Winter banished Gaska-geardi and her lover. He seized the warden’s skins and feathers and burned them so the warden could shapeshift no more. Trapped in the body of a mortal man, the warden grew old. Gaska-geardi, much reduced in size from Summer’s melting, wept yet again her mortal tears as her lover froze in her fatal embrace, and there was no one now to heal the cracks and furrows that marred the perfect surface of her face. Winter, much diminished in power, forfeited his dominion over the land. Summer gained ascendancy, allied itself with Spring and Fall. Winter kept only his most far-flung territories, and some say a time is coming when he will lose them all. The ice child found her way back to her mother’s hut in the far north village, but years had flown and her mother had long since passed away. Yet, on the coldest nights, they say, the ice child searches for her mother still, writes on warm windows her ancient runes in frost as she waits outside, bereft, having lost all she loved, her heart an aching crack. And if you should see her message on your window, do not go outside. She seeks what she will never find, and all that is mortal will die in her embrace Tara Williams lives in Arizona, where the average winter temperature is in the 60s. Her fiction has previously appeared in Entropy's Black Cackle, Apparition, The Weird Reader Vol. III, and other publications. Cover: Amanda Bergloff @AMANDABERGLOFF

“An Evergreen Christmas” is a delightful mix of old stories and poems, mostly from the Victorian era. It celebrates Christmas in an old-timey way, but those of us who enjoy Victorian vibes, no matter how goody-two-shoes they are, will get a special kick out of it. You’ll find O. Henry in this book, and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and Dickens, of course. But there’s also Christina Rossetti and L.M. Montgomery, plus many more. This is a fast and pleasing read, and children will enjoy it as well. There are many old-fashioned customs and ideas here that could spark conversions with little ones. And speaking of “old-fashioned,” the attitudes of the 19th and early 20th centuries have not been cleaned up, so bear in mind that you will encounter ideas that many of us nowadays don’t subscribe to. You’ll meet good kids and a lot of poor families in this treasury, which is no bad thing. It behooves us to recall the poor in a season of over-the-top spending and the Victorians had no problem piling the moral lessons on. I don’t mind that a bit. You can find a copy of the book HERE. Thank you to NetGalley for providing a free copy of this book to review. Review by Kate Wolford. editor-in-chief of The Fairy Tale Magazine.

The poems in Christi Steyn’s collection What the Moon Gave Her revolve around the theme of self-discovery through the natural world. Divided into six chapters (“birth by the ocean”, “you plucked too many petals”, “how to grow wings”, “dancing dolphins”, “full moon/bloom”, and “two trees intertwined”), the book explores metaphorical birth, awakening, and connection. The poems are often personal with Steyn advocating “if you cannot write poetry / write about yourself my dear / there in the lines / a poem will appear.” This excerpt is similar in style and tone to many of the poems in the book which directly address the reader and use simple rhyme. Several poems suggest the reader connect with nature to “become a waterfall” or “let [your] wings grow”. Some poems meditate on the pains of romantic break up, isolation, and loneliness, while others unfold as lists such as “how to be invincible” or “how to become love”. An interesting series of poems sets out to explain colors to someone who can’t see, and a standout in the collection, “hands and names”, uses the moving image of the hands of the poet’s grandmother to explore love and loss. The poems are scattered with simple pen and ink drawings that match the mood of the collection. Although I didn’t find any memorable stanzas and was sometimes underwhelmed by the simple use of rhyme scheme, there are many pieces which may resonate with female readers who have experienced friendship, doubt, love, loss, and spiritual awakening. Like the moon in the title, the collection offers readers the potential for beautiful transformation. You can purchase the book here. Thanks to NetGalley for providing a copy of this book in exchange for an honest 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: Food and spells. Food as spells. Completely irresistible and so we didn’t resist it! Brittany and Sara are scholar poets who are also terrific teachers of folklore and writing, so enjoy this magical Throwback Thursday poem! There are spells of cast iron we know with lines that echo, soft and low, in our minds, in our hearts, that help us not to fall apart. The simplest one is easy to make, soothing to mix, cleansing to bake, a bit of milk, vanilla flower, cinnamon for spice and power. The brightest pumpkin from your path, a few quick tears and buried wrath, a circle of protective salt, the knowledge that it's not your fault. We sugar the spell a bit too sweet, get distracted, drag our feet, But it comes together, nonetheless, this easeful comfort we possess. And when the world is just too much, we let our lips this hearth spell touch - and in that act of letting go, our next right steps begin to glow. Dr. Sara Cleto and Dr. Brittany Warman are award-winning folklorists, teachers, and writers. Together, they founded The Carterhaugh School of Folklore and the Fantastic, teaching creative souls how to re-enchant their lives through folklore and fairy tales. Their fiction and poetry can be found in Enchanted Living, Uncanny Magazine, Apex Magazine, Liminality, and others. Image by Ilze Lucero, from Unsplash.