Editor's Note: Can a mermaid ever be tamed and live a fully human life? That's the question behind today's classic tale from the book, Legend Land, published in 1922, and retold by Lyonesse below. If you'd like to read more mermaid tales, check out our "Song of the Sea Issue" HERE. A story is told of an inhabitant of Unst, who, in walking on the sandy margin of a voe, saw a number of mermen and mermaids dancing by moonlight, and several seal-skins strewed beside them on the ground. At his approach they immediately fled to secure their garbs, and, taking upon themselves the form of seals, plunged immediately into the sea. But as the Shetlander perceived that one skin lay close to his feet, he snatched it up, bore it swiftly away, and placed it in concealment. On returning to the shore he met the fairest damsel that was ever gazed upon by mortal eyes, lamenting the robbery, by which she had become an exile from her submarine friends, and a tenant of the upper world. Vainly she implored the restitution of her property; the man had drunk deeply of love, and was inexorable; but he offered her protection beneath his roof as his betrothed spouse. The merlady, perceiving that she must become an inhabitant of the earth, found that she could not do better than accept of the offer. This strange attachment subsisted for many years, and the couple had several children. The Shetlander’s love for his merwife was unbounded, but his affection was coldly returned. The lady would often steal alone to the desert strand, and, on a signal being given, a large seal would make his appearance, with whom she would hold, in an unknown tongue, an anxious conference. Years had thus glided away, when it happened that one of the children, in the course of his play, found concealed beneath a stack of corn a seal’s skin; and, delighted with the prize, he ran with it to his mother. Her eyes glistened with rapture—she gazed upon it as her own—as the means by which she could pass through the ocean that led to her native home. She burst forth into an ecstasy of joy, which was only moderated when she beheld her children, whom she was now about to leave; and, after hastily embracing them, she fled with all speed towards the sea-side. The husband immediately returned, learned the discovery that had taken place, ran to overtake his wife, but only arrived in time to see her transformation of shape completed—to see her, in the form of a seal, bound from the ledge of a rock into the sea. The large animal of the same kind with whom she had held a secret converse soon appeared, and evidently congratulated her, in the most tender manner, on her escape. But before she dived to unknown depths, she cast a parting glance at the wretched Shetlander, whose despairing looks excited in her breast a few transient feelings of commiseration. “Farewell!” said she to him, “and may all good attend you. I loved you very well when I resided upon earth, but I always loved my first husband much better.”

If Alice Hoffman isn’t my favorite writer, she’s pretty close. I’ve read all of her novels—many more than once, and today, I have a short story of hers to recommend to her legions of fans. “The Bookstore Sisters” is a standalone short story selling very briskly on Amazon. It tells the tale of Isabel and Sophie, two sisters who were once very close, but are now estranged. Isabel, a painter, has fled the Maine island the sisters grew up on for New York City—where she isn’t exactly thriving. Sophie is still on the island, struggling with the bookstore that has never exactly bloomed. Their story unspools the way you want it to, with the usual delightful touches Hoffman does better than most writers: enduring the pain of loss, excavating difficult but loving family relationships, bringing the reader fully into the story—plus snappy dialogue, romance and maybe just a touch of magic. If you’ve never read anything by Alice Hoffman, this story would be a great place to start. And current fans will enjoy this delicious morsel of a short story. “The Bookstore Sisters” is available through Amazon as a Kindle Unlimited read, a standard Kindle download, or as a delightful audiobook. Highly recommended. You can find it here. Kate Wolford is editor-in-chief of The Fairy Tale Magazine.

Editor’s note: The structure of this story is pretty traditional, but with some surprising little details. A very satisfying read, so enjoy today's Throwback Thursday tale! Long ago there lived an old king who when young had married a woman he deeply loved. She bore him one daughter and then she died. All the king’s advisers told him to take another wife, one who might bear him a son. All told him this but one tall and gaunt adviser, known as a skilled magician, who said that it was an ill-omen to marry with a heart sore sick with grief. And so the king refused every lady of the realm. Now in time the princess grew, and all the gentlemen of the kingdom wanted her. Not only was she as beautiful and witty as her mother, not only did she have the strength and tenderheartedness of her father, but any man who wed the princess would inherit the throne upon her father’s death. And yet still many advisers cautioned him to take a new wife. And yet still the magician said that it was an ill omen to marry with a heart sore sick with grief. The king still missed his wife dearly, and so he did not marry. Now this magician had a son not much older than the king’s daughter, and he so contrived it that his son married the king’s daughter. The match had not been to the princess’s liking, but the magician had the power of persuasion, and the king did as he suggested. Now it came to pass that the magician grew old and sickly. Fearing his death, fearing that the king might yet take a new wife, and knowing that his son had none of his powers, the magician decided to poison the king. Every evening when entertainment and supper were had in the great hall, the magician would bring the king his wine but sprinkle some powder with noxious effect into it. Soon the king grew sicker than the magician. The king’s council quickly called for all the herbalists and hedge-witches in the land to come forward and help cure their king, promising a rich reward. The magician knew not how he could argue against the plan, so he argued in favor of it. In favor of it but with a twist. The magician suggested that he, who had some knowledge of the healing arts, should guard against those who wanted to fraud their way into a kingly reward. And so the king’s poisoner became captain of those who would find the king’s cure. Week after week herbalists and hedge-witches, midwives and all sorts of cunning folk came to see if they could cure the king. The magician met with them all and questioned them about their knowledge of the healing arts. Whenever any herbalist or hedge-witch, midwife or cunning folk showed any sign of true knowledge, the magician cast them out as simple fools. Whenever they showed no true knowledge, he welcomed them in. And so the king worsened. One day when the king was especially sick, a woman came to the portcullis wishing to play her lute for the king. The magician still met and questioned her. And he noticed odd equipment in her lute-case. “What is that powder?” he asked. “It’s meal from my country, far in the East,” said she. “And what’re those straw-like objects?” said he. “Those’re capos from my country, far in the East,” said she. “And what’re those pebbles there?” said he. “They’re picks from my country, far in the East,” said she. He then asked about the healing arts and she pretended ignorance, for it is no evil to deceive a deceiver. Satisfied with the lutist, the magician allowed her to play for the ailing king. Her tone sang sweeter than honey, her melody made the sternest knights cry, and her rhythm carried all before it. To reward her, the king invited her to his table for the meal. “You played with wondrous skill,” said the king. “do you have other skills, madam player?” “Many, your majesty,” said the woman, “But you might enjoy these three.” She showed the king the powder, which she could sprinkle into wine to lessen its effects, and so allow one to drink longer into the night and with greater pleasure in the morning. This trick tickled the king mightily and he poured a heavy heaping into his own drink, and the magician frowned. She showed the king the straw-like objects, which she said would turn even the sourest wine into ambrosia. The king called to the kitchens, and the cook brought vinegar out. But after three twirls of the straws, the king could gulp the wine and declare it the best he had ever tasted. And the magician grew alarmed. She then showed the king the pebbles. “These, sire,” said she, “Will smoke in any poison-touched wine.” Then the magician stood and tried to end the night. “Your majesty,” said he, “That’s enough of petty parlor tricks.” But the king took three pebbles from the woman, and he tossed one into her drink, one into the magician’s drink, and one into his drink. His drink sputtered and smoked. The consternation and anger of the hall is better imagined than described. They captured the magician and promptly hanged him from the ramparts. And the king announced that he would immediately take the lady magician to wife. “But dear father,” said the king’s son-in-law, “isn’t it an ill-omen to marry with a heart full of grief?” And the king said, “I must do what I think best for the kingdom, pray, and bear the consequences if I am wrong. Only a fool trusts a proven liar.” And so the king and the lady magician married, and though the king never forgot his true love, he had some happiness. The lady magician bore him a son. The son grew strong and just, and as king he relied upon the advice of his brother-in-law who had learnt from his father’s disgrace, his father-in-law’s mercy, and his wife’s tenderheartedness and was always truthful and honest. Judd Baroff is a subcreator living the the Great Plains with his wife and young daughter. You may find him at www.juddbaroff.com or @juddbaroff. Image: Wilhelm, from 1890, for a pantomime costume.

WELCOME SUMMER! Summer is here, and to inspire you, we've collected some of our favorite things about this magical season...so please enjoy the quotes, art, tales, music, and folklore below that highlight this most enchanting time of year! Image: "Three reading women in a summer landscape" by Johan Krouthén, 1908 Suppose for a moment you live in a land, Amazed at what happens during summer solstice. Very strange things begin to occur, Instantly, there is little darkness, Night that we are so used to Gone; what is left is the brilliant colors. Daylight from dusk to dawn to dusk again, Alight in all its energy and brightness. Yes, we are north of the sixtieth parallel; Land of the midnight sun. I have been here before and seen things, Gazed upon the horizon, waiting for darkness to reappear, Holding on to summer in all its life, love and beauty; To see it ebb once more as daylight fades to night. ~"Saving Daylight" by Davidson Pickett Summer Folklore Be sure to look at your noontime shadow around the time of the solstice. It will be your shortest noontime shadow of the year! A swarm of bees in May is worth a load of hay.A swarm of bees in June is worth a silver spoon.A swarm of bees in July is not worth a fly. Mist in May and heat in June will bring all things into tune. A dry May and a leaking June, make the farmer whistle a merry tune. June damp and warm does the farmer no harm. A cold and wet June spoils the rest of the year. A dripping June keeps all things in tune. July is the seventh month of the year according to the Gregorian calendar. It was the fifth month in the early calendar of the ancient Romans. The Romans called the month Quintilius, which means fifth. A Roman Senate renamed the month to Julius (July) in honour of Julius Caesar, who was born on 12 July. The Anglo-Saxon names for the month included Heymonath or Maed monath, referring respectively to haymaking and the flowering of meadows. In centuries past, the Irish would cut hazel branches on solstice eve to be used in searching for gold, water, and precious jewels. The glowing Ruby should adornThose who in warm July are born,Then will they be exempt and freeFrom love's doubt and anxiety. If the first of July be rainy weather,It will rain, more of less, for four weeks together. If ant hills are high in July,Winter will be snowy. In July, shear your rye. If the 24th of August be fair and clear, then hope for a prosperous Autumn that year. St. Swithin's Day, if it do rain, for forty days it will remain. St. Swithin's Day an' it be fair, for forty days 'twill rain nae mair. A Summer fog for fair, a Winter fog for rain. A wood near Athens. A Fairy speaks: Over hill, over dale, Thorough bush, thorough brier, Over park, over pale, Thorough flood, thorough fire I do wander every where, Swifter than the moon’s sphere; And I serve the fairy queen, To dew her orbs upon the green: The cowslips tall her pensioners be; In their gold coats spots you see; Those be rubies, fairy favours, In those freckles live their savours: I must go seek some dew-drops here And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear. Farewell, thou lob of spirits: I’ll be gone; Our queen and all her elves come here anon. ~ William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream Looking for some summer wreath ideas? Then click on the video below: “We might think we are nurturing our garden, but of course it's our garden that is really nurturing us." ~ Jenny Uglow Sunflower Fun Facts The botanical name for sunflower is helianthus annuus. Sunflowers are symbols of faith, loyalty and adoration. Sunflower faces track the sun. There is a sunflower that is totally fluffy – it’s called the Teddy Bear Sunflower. Sunflower seeds are nutritious and make a great snack. The world’s tallest sunflower is featured in the Guinness Book of World Records. It is 30 feet, one inch! Parts of the sunflower have long been used for their healing properties. They are one of the fastest growing plants. A single sunflower can have up to 2000 seeds. Tis moonlight, summer moonlight, All soft and still and fair; The solemn hour of midnight Breathes sweet thoughts everywhere, But most where trees are sending Their breezy boughs on high, ~Or stooping low are lending A shelter from the sky. And there in those wild bowers A lovely form is laid; Green grass and dew-steeped flowers Wave gently round her head. ~ Emily Bronte Easy Summer Desserts Check out some easy summer desserts perfect for any potluck gathering with family and friends! "When the sun is shining I can do anything; no mountain is too high, no trouble too difficult to overcome." ~ Wilma Rudolp "Across the open common land shines glowing purple floral blooms The bumble bee can hardly stand, as flowers' scent is rising fumes And lies there in the summer shade a resting deer quite joyfuly for in this beauteous sunlit glade all's observed by sent'nel tree This tall oak stands by sparkling stream, whose water splashes grass and rock, reflecting in its azure gleam, the woodland plant and dandy clock While goes beneath the cloudless sky, amidst a warm and dreamy breeze, a squirrel idling, passing by, past numerous, careless, floating seeds." ~ Stephen Patrick, Sleepy July in Skipwith Common The Full Moons of SUMMER The Strawberry Moon June 26, 2023 This first full moon of summer is named the Strawberry Moon because the relatively short season for harvesting strawberries comes each year in the month of June. ------ The Buck Moon July 3, 2023 July is the month when the new antlers of buck deer push out of their foreheads in coatings of velvety fur, thus the moon is named after them. ------ The Sturgeon Moon August 1, 2023 The fishing tribes are given credit for the naming of August's full moon, since sturgeon, a large fish of the Great Lakes were most readily caught during this month. I saw dawn creep across the sky, And all the gulls go flying by. I saw the sea put on its dress Of blue midsummer loveliness, And heard the trees begin to stir Green arms of pine and juniper. I heard the wind call out and say: 'Get up, my dear, it is today!' ~ Rachel Field, Summer Morning SUMMER ART GALLERY Summer Eve, Edward Robert Hughes,1908 Woman with a Parasol, Claude Monet, 1875 Spirit of the Night,John Atkinson Grimshaw, 1879 Lady in Summer Moonlight, Hilda Cowham Hermia & Lysander, John Simmons, 1870 Girl with Cats in a Summer Landscape, Elin Danielson-Gambogi, 1892 Woman in a Garden, Claude Monet, 1867 The Bower Meadow, Dante Gabriel Rosetti, 1872 Warm summer sun, Shine kindly here, Warm southern wind, Blow softly here. Green sod above, Lie light, lie light. Good night, dear heart, Good night, good night.. ~Mark Twain Wishing everyone an enchanting summer! Share what you love about this season in the comments section below The Fairy Tale Magazine's contributing editor, Amanda Bergloff, writes modern fairy tales, folktales, and speculative fiction. Her work has appeared in various anthologies, including Frozen Fairy Tales, After the Happily Ever After, and Uncommon Pet Tales. Follow her on Twitter @AMANDABERGLOFF

Editor's Note: To celebrate FTM's Song of the Sea June Issue (available HERE), we've got a classic sea-themed tale from Japan of a kind hearted boy, an undersea palace, and a broken promise... Art: "Uraschimataro and the Turtle" by Utagawa Kuniyoshi, 1852 There was once a worthy old couple who lived on the coast, and supported themselves by fishing. They had only one child, a son, who was their pride and joy, and for his sake they were ready to work hard all day long, and never felt tired or discontented with their lot. This son’s name was Uraschimataro, which means, ‘Son of the island,’ and he was a fine well-grown youth and a good fisherman, minding neither wind nor weather. Not the bravest sailor in the whole village dared venture so far out to sea as Uraschimataro, and many a time the neighbours used to shake their heads and say to his parents, ‘If your son goes on being so rash, one day he will try his luck once too often, and the waves will end by swallowing him up.’ But Uraschimataro paid no heed to these remarks, and as he was really very clever in managing a boat, the old people were very seldom anxious about him. One beautiful bright morning, as he was hauling his well-filled nets into the boat, he saw lying among the fishes a tiny little turtle. He was delighted with his prize, and threw it into a wooden vessel to keep till he got home, when suddenly the turtle found its voice, and tremblingly begged for its life. ‘After all,’ it said, ‘what good can I do you? I am so young and small, and I would so gladly live a little longer. Be merciful and set me free, and I shall know how to prove my gratitude.’ Now Uraschimataro was very good-natured, and besides, he could never bear to say no, so he picked up the turtle, and put it back into the sea. Years flew by, and every morning Uraschimataro sailed his boat into the deep sea. But one day as he was making for a little bay between some rocks, there arose a fierce whirlwind, which shattered his boat to pieces, and she was sucked under by the waves. Uraschimataro himself very nearly shared the same fate. But he was a powerful swimmer, and struggled hard to reach the shore. Then he saw a large turtle coming towards him, and above the howling of the storm he heard what it said: ‘I am the turtle whose life you once saved. I will now pay my debt and show my gratitude. The land is still far distant, and without my help you would never get there. Climb on my back, and I will take you where you will.’ Uraschimataro did not wait to be asked twice, and thankfully accepted his friend’s help. But scarcely was he seated firmly on the shell, when the turtle proposed that they should not return to the shore at once, but go under the sea, and look at some of the wonders that lay hidden there. Uraschimataro agreed willingly, and in another moment they were deep, deep down, with fathoms of blue water above their heads. Oh, how quickly they darted through the still, warm sea! The young man held tight, and marvelled where they were going and how long they were to travel, but for three days they rushed on, till at last the turtle stopped before a splendid palace, shining with gold and silver, crystal and precious stones, and decked here and there with branches of pale pink coral and glittering pearls. But if Uraschimataro was astonished at the beauty of the outside, he was struck dumb at the sight of the hall within, which was lighted by the blaze of fish scales. ‘Where have you brought me?’ he asked his guide in a low voice. ‘To the palace of Ringu, the house of the sea god, whose subjects we all are,’ answered the turtle. ‘I am the first waiting maid of his daughter, the lovely princess Otohime, whom you will shortly see.’ Uraschimataro was still so puzzled with the adventures that had befallen him, that he waited in a dazed condition for what would happen next. But the turtle, who had talked so much of him to the princess that she had expressed a wish to see him, went at once to make known his arrival. And directly the princess beheld him her heart was set on him, and she begged him to stay with her, and in return promised that he should never grow old, neither should his beauty fade. ‘Is not that reward enough?’ she asked, smiling, looking all the while as fair as the sun itself. And Uraschimataro said ‘Yes,’ and so he stayed there. For how long? That he only knew later. His life passed by, and each hour seemed happier than the last, when one day there rushed over him a terrible longing to see his parents. He fought against it hard, knowing how it would grieve the princess, but it grew on him stronger and stronger, till at length he became so sad that the princess inquired what was wrong. Then he told her of the longing he had to visit his old home, and that he must see his parents once more. The princess was almost frozen with horror, and implored him to stay with her, or something dreadful would be sure to happen. ‘You will never come back, and we shall meet again no more,’ she moaned bitterly. But Uraschimataro stood firm and repeated, ‘Only this once will I leave you, and then will I return to your side for ever.’ Sadly the princess shook her head, but she answered slowly, ‘One way there is to bring you safely back, but I fear you will never agree to the conditions of the bargain.’ ‘I will do anything that will bring me back to you,’ exclaimed Uraschimataro, looking at her tenderly, but the princess was silent: she knew too well that when he left her she would see his face no more. Then she took from a shelf a tiny golden box, and gave it to Uraschimataro, praying him to keep it carefully, and above all things never to open it. ‘If you can do this,’ she said as she bade him farewell, ‘your friend the turtle will meet you at the shore, and will carry you back to me.’ Uraschimataro thanked her from his heart, and swore solemnly to do her bidding. He hid the box safely in his garments, seated himself on the back of the turtle, and vanished in the ocean path, waving his hand to the princess. Three days and three nights they swam through the sea, and at length Uraschimataro arrived at the beach which lay before his old home. The turtle bade him farewell, and was gone in a moment. Uraschimataro drew near to the village with quick and joyful steps. He saw the smoke curling through the roof, and the thatch where green plants had thickly sprouted. He heard the children shouting and calling, and from a window that he passed came the twang of the koto, and everything seemed to cry a welcome for his return. Yet suddenly he felt a pang at his heart as he wandered down the street. After all, everything was changed. Neither men nor houses were those he once knew. Quickly he saw his old home; yes, it was still there, but it had a strange look. Anxiously he knocked at the door, and asked the woman who opened it after his parents. But she did not know their names, and could give him no news of them. Still more disturbed, he rushed to the burying ground, the only place that could tell him what he wished to know. Here at any rate he would find out what it all meant. And he was right. In a moment he stood before the grave of his parents, and the date written on the stone was almost exactly the date when they had lost their son, and he had forsaken them for the Daughter of the Sea. And so he found that since he had deft his home, three hundred years had passed by. Shuddering with horror at his discovery he turned back into the village street, hoping to meet some one who could tell him of the days of old. But when the man spoke, he knew he was not dreaming, though he felt as if he had lost his senses. In despair he bethought him of the box which was the gift of the princess. Perhaps after all this dreadful thing was not true. He might be the victim of some enchanter’s spell, and in his hand lay the counter-charm. Almost unconsciously he opened it, and a purple vapour came pouring out. He held the empty box in his hand, and as he looked he saw that the fresh hand of youth had grown suddenly shrivelled, like the hand of an old, old man. He ran to the brook, which flowed in a clear stream down from the mountain. and saw himself reflected as in a mirror. It was the face of a mummy which looked back at him. Wounded to death, he crept back through the village, and no man knew the old, old man to be the strong handsome youth who had run down the street an hour before. So he toiled wearily back, till he reached the shore, and here he sat sadly on a rock, and called loudly on the turtle. But she never came back any more, but instead, death came soon, and set him free. But before that happened, the people who saw him sitting lonely on the shore had heard his story, and when their children were restless they used to tell them of the good son who from love to his parents had given up for their sakes the splendor and wonders of the palace in the sea, and the most beautiful woman in the world besides.

It’s no wonder there is no Disney version of “All Kinds of Fur”; it’s one of the Grimms’ grimmer tales. While All Kinds of Fur (Allerleirauh, in German) has much in common with Cinderella (meeting a prince at a series of balls, magical gowns, recognition by an item), the beginning is far creepier than the neglect the girl in the glass slippers experiences. Instead of a wicked stepmother, Allerleirauh has a father who wants to marry her and make her his queen. In a desperate bid to keep the king’s unnatural desires at bay, the princess requires a number of impossible wedding gifts (three celestial gowns and a cloak pieced together from a thousand bits of fur). When he provides the garments, she must flee, using the fur cloak as a grisly disguise. “All Kinds of Fur” is a tale that begs for a feminist, trauma-informed interpretation, and Margaret Yocom delivers just that in her stunning erasure poetry retelling, KIN S FUR. Before creating these poems, Yocom made her own English translation of the German “Allerleirauh” to work from, uncovering some important but often-missed details along the way. This new translation makes up the grayed-out backdrop, and each bolded poem lifts phrases, words, and even lone letters from the Grimms’ tale. Yocom’s self-described aim in using erasure poetry was to create a dialogue between the third person narrative by the Brothers Grimm and All Kinds of Fur herself. The result is astonishing, breathing life into All KINdS of FUR and giving her a voice of her own. Yocom’s erasure poetry adds a unique element of participation, creating a puzzle for the reader to solve as they move between the two narrators. The audience reads not between the lines, but within them, unearthing the heroine’s experience and discovering her journey for themselves. Simultaneously playful and deadly serious, KIN S FUR is a moving exploration of trauma, identity, agency, and healing. For additional photos of and information about KIN S FUR, visit: http://margaretyocom.com/ To purchase: https://www.deerbrookeditions.com/kin-s-fur/ (it is also for sale at Amazon) Citation for the text photo: Yocom, M. (2018). All kinds of fur: Allerleirauh, Cinderella: Erasure Poems & New Translation of a tale from the brothers grimm. Deerbrook Editions. Lissa Sloan is the author of Glass and Feathers, a novel that tells the story of Cinderella after the “happily ever after.” The Enchanted Press will publish it next February.

Editor's Note: Rarely understood are those that follow their own path. Perspective is everything in a tale, and Kiyomi Appleton Gaines' story offers a different view on a classic... I never meant to be a witch. You should know that from the start. You don't notice at first, and by the time you realize what you are, it's too late. I never wanted to be a mother. I always assumed it would happen one way or another. When you're young, you never imagine your life will look very different from others. Yet I was different even then. Odd. We married so young in those days, and I didn't want to marry just any man. Silly as they were, once girls were Mistress Baker or Goodwife Smith, they were no longer children. Girls my age started becoming mothers before we even knew what it was to be women. I didn't want that. I didn't want any of those things. My father, resentful of my lingering, said I must earn my keep, so I tended the midwife and learned from her how to ease pains and treat minor ailments. I never kept a garden well. Strange, since that is what I am now best known for. But I know a little of plants and children, birthing and dying. And living. I was old for a bride when I married my tinker. He came through with tales of distant places, and I dared to ask why I couldn't have that life too? Eventually, we settled in a place, a village not so different from this one. He offered services making repairs and traveled out every few months to bring goods from elsewhere. I had my garden and my knowledge of herbs, and so we made our way. The women there did not trust me, though, I with no small ones clutching at skirt and breast. They still came to me for those other things, to soothe a headache or a sour stomach, to heal a wound. But they did not trust me, and I knew what might come, and then knew that it would. I urged my husband to leave, but he didn't believe the threat in those evil looks. I left before their fears became dangerous. I met my tinker again later. Our little home was burned, and he was chased out after me. He returned to tinkering. I went to another place. The people came, though how they knew I could help, I don't know. I charged them nothing, hoping for goodwill, hoping to be left alone. You will understand my dismay when one evening I found a man digging in my garden, stealing ramps. I grabbed a rake and brandished it, demanded his account. He startled and had the grace to look ashamed. "Please, mistress," he said, "it's my wife. There's a little one coming. She says she must have ramps, or she'll die." "And you can find them nowhere else but my garden?" I asked. He looked down at his little pile of plants, "None like these, mistress." I lowered the rake. I would have to spend the next day repairing my garden, but I did not want to take to the road again. "Take them and begone then, if she'll die," I snapped at him. "And don't let me find you stealing from me again." He scrambled to his feet, mumbling apologies and gratitude, and left. He returned a few days later bearing a hen and begged more of my vegetables. I kept the woman in ramps for months. You think you know what comes next, but you're wrong. They brought the child to me whenever it became ill, and I did what I could. It was a sickly baby. I wanted nothing to do with it. If it did not thrive, who would they blame? But they begged me to help, so what could I do? When she was a little older, she took a fever. I put her in a cot by the fire and tended her. For days I sat by that little cot. Her parents visited often at first, then less so. The fever passed, but she was still weak when her parents told me they had "happy news" once more. She was not their first nor only child. That isn't to say they didn't care for her. They just stopped coming. I called her my little Rampion, for the ramps that had brought us together. I taught her everything I could, and she grew up. I did not keep her prisoner. I wanted to protect her. I didn't want her to be stuck in the life I had fled, nor did I want her to pursue my path, which had produced its own dangers. I wanted something better for her. When I learned a young nobleman would be passing through the town, I took her there and put her in his way, again and again, for the duration of his stay. That was my mistake. When he left, she said he would never have gone without her, that he loved her, that I had trapped her. It was some few months later, when her condition was just showing, that she ran away. I searched for her. I went to the town. I begged at the castle for any hint of her. I went to the tinkers. I would not stray far or for long from my home in case she came back, but I asked them to look for her. They found her, with her child. When she came back to me, she was frail and sick, and never recovered. I laid her in the garden, and let the ramps go to flower over her. And I have raised her daughter, whom I have called like her mother, my Rapunzel. I own my mistakes, Sister, I will not see them repeated. She must be safe, warm, educated. I know well what you do to ones like me, who are odd, we witches. Yet here is my confession. Do with me as you will, only take her as a novice. Kiyomi Appleton Gaines loves folklore and fairy tales for what they teach us about what it means to be human. Her writing can be found at WORKOFHEARTKAG.WORDPRESS.COM. She lives in New Orleans with her husband, a one-eyed cat, and a snake. Cover Design: Amanda Bergloff @AMANDABERGLOFF

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

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

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

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

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