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Do you, like me, love historical novels about witches? Do you also love reading about the everyday things that make a woman’s life work? Do you love the idea that there is magic/power in sewing and herb craft? And do you love the idea of such a woman living in Salem, Mass., in the early nineteenth century? Well, there’s an excellent book out there, just for you! It’s called “Hester: A Novel,” by Laurie Lico Albanese, and you should read it. Go buy it right now. Our heroine, Isobel, begins life in Scotland, but sails to the US with her husband Edward, ending up in Salem. And oh, Salem, you are still a hot mess more than 100 years after the witch trials. Not surprisingly, they still hate and fear anything that could possibly be witchcraft. They also have a lot of ill will, period. But our Isobel is descended from a long line of witches, and, well, she has interesting traits that make her stitching unique and fabulous. Isobel is a fabulously realized character. I don’t want to give too much away, but the best way to sum up the big storyline is that Isobel and her fabulous talents end up being an inspiration for Nathaniel Hawthorne’s “The Scarlet Letter.” Yes, she definitely knows “Nat” Hawthorne in this book. This book covers a lot of territory, including the Underground Railroad, but Albanese keeps every single ball in the air. Her writing style remains lively and highly readable, no matter what the subject in the book. I’m going to start reading her other books as soon as I’m done with this review. “Hester” is absolutely one of the best books of the year. Like I said, buy it! You can find it HERE. Thank you to NetGalley for giving me this book in exchange for an honest review.

Check out Kate's fabulous finds that you can enjoy, too! This week's pick: Ivory Tower Stationery Ivory Tower Stationery is my pick this week—and I’ve never bought anything there. But I’m about to, because their aesthetic is very cool. There’s a wit and sense of fun about many of the cards. The apology cards are absolutely awesome. The vintage image and the simplicity of the messages are absolutely perfect. Take this one: And their holiday cards are amazing. I know it’s awfully close to Halloween for buying cards online, but this mashup of “The Fly” and a sweet Victorian star lady is impeccable. They’ve got birthdays covered as well. My husband’s birthday is in early December, and I am buying thi Finally, although the card selection is small, it’s diverse, and the winter holiday stuff is great. Here’s a delightful example: Fantastic cards are one of the most affordable luxuries out there. And they are highly frameable. The ones at Ivory Tower Stationery are not outrageously priced, and they have a few charming antiques on offer as well. Until next week, stay enchanted!

Editor's Note: Nature, compassion, and survival all intermingle in today's enchanting Throwback Thursday story by author, Samantha Bryant. Enjoy! Why? Ana Bautista looked at the ancient hawthorn, heartbroken. The massive trunk had turned ashy and spongy. Why would anyone hurt this centuries-old tree? Ana knelt, resting her palm against the damage. Eyes closed, she exhaled, calling to the tree’s spirit. Sharp pain shot up her arm, but she maintained contact. Her breath caught, reliving the cutting, the poison shoved into the tender wood, the bitter curse. The tree couldn’t tell who would do such a thing. It could only share the pain. The newspaper called it vandalism, but this was no mindless destruction. Someone wanted this specific tree dead. She couldn’t explain that to the community garden committee, though. They expected more mundane explanations. Was it too late? Warmth ran up her arm. Ana grounded herself, resting her other palm against the earth, drawing energy and funneling it into the tree until, feeling woozy, she leaned her head against the trunk. Brushing the soil from her knees, Ana considered the area. From the window of a brick house across the road, a woman watched her. Ana noted the carefully tended garden in the otherwise neglected yard, identifying medicinal plants. Feverfew. Goldenseal. Saint John’s Wort. To an untrained eye, they seemed like any other spring flowers. With one last caress for the tree, Ana crossed the road. When she raised her hand to knock, the door creaked open. A voice called out, “You might as well come in.” In no hurry to make her intrusion complete, Ana paused inside the threshold, letting her eyes adjust to the dim. Surrounding a silver mirror spread a series of framed portraits of the same girl at different ages, the last one a memorial, death date last summer. “You want to talk about the tree.” Ana kept her surprise from flashing across her face. The woman clung to the shadows, an ill-defined collection of draping cloth. She might have been mistaken for a ghost. When she offered a mug, Ana accepted. “I do.” “Then, talk,” the woman said, inhaling the steam from her own mug. Ana got to the point. “Why curse the hawthorn?” The woman swirled her fingers at the air in front of her. “Why not? The tree was like the town--watching and doing nothing about the tragedy at its roots.” Ana blinked. Did she need to remind the woman that trees lacked the power to do otherwise? Instead, she raised her cup, automatically identifying the lavender, chamomile, and valerian root in the blend. The woman smacked her lips disapprovingly, then met Ana’s gaze, her expression penetrating and direct. “Can you save the tree?” “Maybe. I can counter the poison, but the curse…” The woman peered into Ana’s face. A whiff of honey and dark fruit wafted from the tall mug in her hands. It held more than tea. Bourbon maybe. Ana centered herself for defense, but tolerated the examination, assessing the other woman. Tall, and younger than Ana’s sixty years, with unkempt hair and clothes, bags under her eyes, and a yellow tint to her dusky skin. Despite her frumpy appearance, power emanated from her--vibrating between them, making itself known. Ana sensed no animosity, only deep sorrow and bitterness that had poisoned the woman as surely as she had poisoned the tree. A sympathetic ache blossomed in her breast. At last the woman’s mouth twisted into a half smile. “You aren’t what I expected. I’m Evanora.” “Ana.” The woman’s sweater slid off one shoulder and Ana wondered if she had been a larger woman before grief began to eat her from within. She imagined Evanora with a fuller face and more formidable figure and decided she had lost considerable weight in her mourning. Ana asked, “Can I get some of what you’re drinking?” Evanora smiled, dry lips stretching thin and pale across her teeth. “Do you want the tea, too?” “Not really.” That got a laugh, a husky almost-cough, rusty as an unoiled door hinge. Evanora took the untouched mug of tea and returned with a short, curved glass of beveled crystal, two fingers full of a warm, honey-brown liquid poured over tinkling ice cubes. Their fingers brushed in the passing of the drink and a vision shone in Ana’s mind: an empty bottle of pills, a girl sleeping beneath the hawthorn tree, never to wake. Directionless anger flailing uselessly. Ana shifted her gaze to Evanora’s, but the woman seemed unaware of what she had accidentally shared. Ana twisted the glass in her hand, and watched the bourbon slide slosh around the ice before raising the glass in a salute, and taking a long swallow. “Ready?” she asked. Evanora nodded and Ana popped a bourbon flavored ice cube into her mouth and deposited the glass on the porch wall. Lifting her gaze, she took in the waxing crescent moon, an auspicious sign for healing. When Evanora joined her, she slipped her elbow through the other woman’s. It was like holding the hollow bones of a bird, fragile and brittle. Taking a deep breath, she tugged Evanora toward the suffering hawthorn. “Let’s make this right.” Street lights illuminated the tree, but the long branches sheltered the women from view when they knelt. Ana placed both hands against the damaged trunk and felt an answering thrum of life from the wood. It wasn’t too late. Beside her, Evanora rested her back against the truck, tufts of her fluffy hair catching on the bark. She hummed a song Ana had never heard and yet recognized. A sad song. Branches sagged and a few leaves fell into Evanora’s lap. “I’m sorry,” she said, fingering the leaves on her skirt. “I take it back.” The earth shifted among the tree roots and rumbled gently as distant thunder. Still connected to the tree, Ana felt the sigh of relief as the curse slid free and swirled into nothingness. The tree again had the will to fight. It had survived much. With a little kindness, it would survive this, too. As would they all. Samantha Bryant believes in unexplainable connections and second chances. She loves lonely beaches and sunlight through the leaves of trees. She lives in North Carolina, but left her heart in Alaska. She’s tougher than she looks. She is best known for her Menopausal Superhero series of novels. Story Graphic: Amanda Bergloff @AMANDABERGLOFF

Nicholas Jubber’s The Fairy Tellers: A Journey into the Secret History of Fairy Tales is a fascinating text that provides readers with historical knowledge that will transform their understanding of the fairy tale genre. Rather than focus on the details of a tale type, Jubber chooses to present research on the tellers of the stories, and this creates a context for understanding the social constructs which inform both well-known and obscure fairy tales. Although Jubber devotes his culminating section to the famous Hans Christian Anderson, much of his book uncovers information on tellers that are less recognized by casual fairy tale fans. He begins with the life and work of Giambattista Basile whose 17th century Italian collection titled Tales of Tales contains early variants of many well-known fairy tales such as Sleeping Beauty (Sun, Moon, and Talia) and Rapunzel (Petrosinella). From here, Jubber moves on to explore the life of Hanna Dyah, a traveler from Syria who narrated many of the tales that come from 1001 Nights to Antoine Galland, and then he writes about the French fairy tale salons that propelled Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve to write Beauty and the Beast. Jubber examines the influence of Dortchen Wild upon the Brothers Grimm, reports on the life of Ivan Khudiakov who published Great Russian Fairy Tales, and investigates the Kashmir Valley poet Somodeva Bhatta who is credited with bringing “the ocean of the streams of story” from 11th century Sanskrit into 19th century western consciousness. Each section presents a balance of historical fact and social commentary with summaries of famous tales, and this consistent technique allows readers to continually contemplate the effect of the teller on the tale. According to Jubber, “the strongest stories…the most virulent stories…feed off the nutrients of their new host landscape.” Jubber advises against reading fairy tales for a universal message. Instead, he urges his readers to consider the way the tales absorb the details of the tellers’ lives and social experiences. Jubber’s text is full of academic research designed to challenge his readers, but his personal love of fairy tales shines through. He lovingly recounts his own interaction with fairy tales and encourages his readers to do the same. This is an excellent book for those who want to know more about fairy tale traditions around the world. The book teaches readers to think about tellers who have preserved fairy tales for the future. You can find a copy of the book HERE. 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 Enchanted Conversation’s special project’s writer.

Editor’s note: There is real magic, and cunning, in this poem. The magic and cunning of the fairy godmother—who is absent but hovering—but also the magic of the narrator’s thoughts. This poem reads like a spell or incantation. Enjoy! Two little see-through heels tap a nervous ditty on my echoing innards—torn from my vine-friends and homely earth, scraped clean of gold filigree strings and seeds, my peachy flesh slickly cool and hollowed-out. I just want to know where are my seeds? I’ve weathered frost and hard-bitten midnight under just such a moon. It reflects my plump orange glory, old friends since I first cracked the seedcase and burial chamber— quite the transformation. And now, this! Gaudy glitter and in motion. Sure, this is great but a dry and flighty business: waiting by a wide staircase of stone for a slight girl in fairy splendor the secret in the clock the mad dash, the magic hour a thrown shoe the drama, the tears (heavens, even a horse can throw a shoe). I just want to know where are my seeds? I’ll show them some real magic. Sharmon Gazaway writes from the deep south. Her poetry is featured in Rhonda Parrish's anthology, "Dark Waters," Sept. 14, 2021. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Forge, Daily Science Fiction, New Myths, Love Letters to Poe, microverses.net: Octavos, The Society of Classical Poets Journal IX, Backchannels, and elsewhere.

“Hex Appeal,” by Kate Johnson is a lively, sometimes funny, always witchy ride. Pay attention witch fans reading this: “Hex Appeal” will likely appeal to you. The story has two main characters, Essie, whose been around way longer than she looks, and Josh, an American lawyer who’s just inherited some tumbledown property in Essex County, England, from his super-rich estranged father. Both characters are well realized and readers will root for them as a couple. (Note: things getting pretty steamy between Essie and Josh.) There’s more than one house in this story, and a heck of a lot of witches with gnarly powers like the ability to summon winter, knit the future and make magical food and potions. Then there’s Beldame House, a place that flickers in and out of visibility and is a constantly changing, living thing. Oh, and there’s time travel, and a fascinating connection to and battles with Matthew Hopkins, the real-life witch finder general in 17th century Essex County and its environs. Hopkins is a contemptible figure who has messed with the wrong witches in this story. There’s an intriguing cast of characters in this tale, especially Avery, a witch who explores the concept of being non-binary in a way I’ve never seen before—thought provoking. Siena, Josh’s sister who is about to become a mother, does so on one crazy night, and I’d like to know her better. Perhaps a sequel? One part chick lit (which I love), one part witch tale, and always fun, this story held my interest and entertained me. It’s a great pick for those of us who love “Practical Magic.” Thanks to NetGalley for providing a copy of this book for review.

The Anchored World: Flash Fairy Tales and Folklore by Jasmine Sawers The Anchored World, by Jasmine Sawers, is a slim volume of flash fiction and folklore that packs a powerful punch. Combining foundational knowledge of Western fairy tales with an exploration of Thai fairy tales and folklore, Sawers crafts a stunning tableau of stories that shocks and delights. Although Sawers works with recognizable tales like “Cinderella”, “Rapunzel”, and “Hansel and Gretel”, they twist them in remarkable ways. Their “Thumbelina” story explores the fine line between love and devouring, while their “Rumpelstiltskin” tale meditates on the title character after he has been stitched back together. “Once Upon a Time in an Orchard” features poisoned apples described with such luscious simplicity that readers will finally understand why Snow White takes a bite, and “A Girl / A Witch / A Crone” plays with fairy tale formulas to contemplate the terms and circumstances that define women. Sawers’ stories drip with shocking sizes and colors; mothers give birth to golden conch shells, a husband is found inside a can of Spam, polar bears nest inside freezers, a goat takes up residence in the left ventricle of the heart, and grief and joy are written upon the body like strokes of watercolor. Sawer blurs the line between animal and human in stories like “My Mother the Horse” and confronts the painful ideas of culture clash, infertility, suicide, and broken family relationships. Several stories tease out the difficulties of motherhood and one is even dedicated to the “murdered Asian American women who didn’t make the headlines”. In addition to moments that make the reader gasp, the collection is full of beauty. My favorite tale, “Where the Moon Meets the Sea” touchingly relays the love story between the moon and the ocean. The Anchored World steers readers through the light and dark aspects of culture, folklore, fairy tale, and life, and the collection will leave a permanent mark upon readers’ memories. You can find a copy of the book HERE. 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 Enchanted Conversation’s special project’s writer.

Editor's Note: Today's Throwback Thursday is a classic tale as seen from a different perspective that you may not expect. Enjoy! If you ask me, they get more credit than they deserve swooping down at the last minute with a wand and a fancy dress like that’s going to solve all the world’s problems. Where have they been while the rest of us are struggling to get the day’s work done? Sure, they came to the naming party, brought a gift, something useful like “the voice of a lark” or “tresses as gold as wheat,” flutter of wings, wave of magic wand, bye-bye, see you in 20 years or so once you’ve grown up and gotten interesting. By which they mean ripe for romance with a side order of toppling the status quo just to set it right up again claiming to be better at it than the previous lot. Different, maybe. Less experienced, sure. And okay, let’s say our fairy godmother pops in, rights a wrong, restores the lost heiress to her family and high position, throwing in a makeover while she’s at it: where was everybody else all those years watching as the wicked stepmother abuses her, the oblivious dad neglects her, the family she doesn’t fit into bullies her? Assuming a small flock of bluebirds and a couple of mice were going to step up? Thinking that was going to be sufficient? Why was nobody noticing, or if noticing, why was nobody trying to help? How is that godchild going to turn out by the time the fairy g shows up—good, sweet, patient? What view of the world would you have, left to fend for yourself? Janet Bowdan's poems have been published in APR, Denver Quarterly, Clade Song, Verse, Gargoyle, Free State Review, Wordpeace, and other journals, most recently Meat for Tea and Amethyst Arsenic. She teaches at Western New England University and edits the poetry magazine Common Ground Review. She lives in Northampton, Massachusetts, with her husband, son, and sometimes a stepdaughter or two. Image by Emma Florence Harrison.

The constructs of poetic inspiration and romantic love have been mingled for centuries, and Kim Malinowski’s works, Phantom Reflection and We Could be Lovers, breathe new life into this ancient pairing. Both are sweeping stories rendered in beautiful verse that will leave readers contemplating the boundaries that define the borders of the self. From the beginning, Phantom Reflection, a retelling of the book and musical versions of The Phantom of the Opera, captures the intensity of love and desire that pulses beneath the original plot. Malinowski’s version pits The Artist against The Man of Words as they compete to possess the soul of Christine. The poem unfolds as characters gaze into mirrors implying that the story about the three protagonists is refracted and reflected in the larger study of what human love offers to and requires of those who surrender to it. The poetry in this verse novel is beautifully rendered. Colorful brushstrokes and pools of ink become manifestations of the men’s desires and prompt the question “Does one sacrifice their art / for a kiss?”. Malinowski delves into the desires of Christine as she struggles to choose between two men who crave to own her. While she asks poignant questions such as “Oh, what is love but painting / a lifetime together?”, she also recognizes that she wants to “outrun / love’s terror” and wonders “Do feet that waltz alone do any less?”. The novel shines a blinding light on the obsessive qualities of erotic love while also striving to define the individual self through art, agency, and choice. Like the original story, Phantom Reflection explores the roles of the muse and the artist and alludes to the idea that all people wear metaphorical masks. Fans of The Phantom of the Opera will find much to love in the words and ideas of Malinowski’s novel and will rejoice as the female artist is empowered by the conclusion of the poem. Malinowski provides readers with another intense exploration of poetic inspiration and romantic love in her upcoming work We Could Be Lovers. This poem opens with a poet who is observing the statues and strollers in a contemporary park when a good-looking stranger passes her a closed umbrella, winks, smirks, and opens his own leather journal to begin writing as music pours from his headphones. The moment’s odd intimacy prompts the poet to think “we could be lovers”. What follows is a sweeping story that oscillates between their silent companionship in the park and recollected imaginings of their past lives together. She has been a healer and he has been a warrior. Past love, past loss, and past repetitions of survival echo through the poem as the poet explains “He holds me as if we have known each other for millennia. / He holds me like we have met only moments ago”. In the hour and a half that the strangers commune together on the bench, they participate in intimate moments through the shared act of writing. He glances over at her papers, and she wonders if her words might woo him. She imagines “our words dancing / syllables merging” and notes that “Words flow and halt mysteriously” as “The stranger and I scratch out / memories and love, / lie to ourselves, tell stories, / scream”. In each generation of their love, they are beset by demons, creating a tapestry that captures the turbulence and depth of passion. The narrative offers a stunning look at love and the way it is both defined by and transcends time. It also captures the beauty of inspiration, imagination, and creation with its metacognitive contemplation of the poet’s work. We Could be Lovers left me thinking about the intimacy that passes between strangers and how strange intimacy itself can be. The poem, which takes place over the course of one afternoon, is both small in scope and vast in its reach as it connects us to the ideas of our ancestors and the way that the enormity of love helps us to define the self. In one of my favorite passages, the poet says “I am beautiful, even in this thin place. / Not because he says I am beautiful, / but because I blaze”. Phantom Reflection and We Could be Lovers by Kim Malinowski will leave readers spellbound as they journey deep into the imagination and back again. The words and ideas in both poems offer readers new and creative ways of contemplating love, poetry, and the spaces we use to define ourselves as individuals and as connected pieces in the vast galaxy of human life. You can find a copy of Phantom Reflection HERE And learn more about We Could Be Lovers HERE 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.

Check out Kate's fabulous finds that you can enjoy, too! This week's pick: The Old Farmer's Almanac Enchanted Friends living in the Eastern half of the US, in case you don’t know it yet, we are likely in for a humdinger of a winter. That’s why I’m recommending you visit The Old Farmer’s Almanac today and find out the forecast for your region. Yes, even though it’s two days before Autumn, the greatest season of the year, it’s worth looking up the winter predictions if you live anywhere from the Lower Lakes Region like me, straight down into northern Texas! Here’s a link to a map that gives an overview. If you want to get a more local forecast from the Almanac, use this tip: Google “winter forecast 2022-2023 Old Farmer’s Almanac (with the name of your state).” If you don’t, you might end up with last year’s forecast. When you get to the right page, enter your zip code and you should get a pretty good forecast—but, again, make sure it’s for this year. I use the Almanac because it is right 80 percent of the time in weather forecasting. (Canadian friends, they do a forecast for you as well.) Based on what I’ve seen so far, “bone chilling” is what Indiana is going to see. Yikes! Of course, better forecasts will emerge as we get closer to actual winter, but it’s worth looking into now to plan. Since this is a place for folklore as well as fairy tales, here’s a link to folklore on how to spot a hard winter coming. I’ve read elsewhere that heavy rose hips on your rose bushes means a hard winter and mine are covered in plentiful, huge hips! (I could not find the artist for the Jack Frost image, but it’s perfect for this post, so I used it.) Have an enchanted week!

Editor's note: This gorgeous coming-of-age exploration of a young girl's discovery of the fae and herself made this an easy April 2014 winner, way back when we had contests! The fae live in my garden. The ones my mother says don’t exist. At first I think I am dreaming, but I see them so often, I am soon certain it is not my imagination. They are as tangible as I. They are beautiful with iridescent wings and high-pitched voices but rather shy. If I stay silent for a long while, they creep out of their hiding places. How I love lying there half hidden in the bushes, grass tickling my skin, watching them as they play games of "flying tag" and "touch the butterfly." All too soon though, a dog barks or someone calls my name, frightening them and they scatter in all directions. I move my heavy earthbound arms and legs, wishing with all my heart that I possessed their light and graceful limbs. I have seen them alight on a flower and rest, cross-legged on a petal, barely moving it. The wind itself moves those soft petals more than they. After my discovery, I spend as much time as possible watching them, whenever I might affect an escape from my parents or my tutor. The summer days fly by and autumn is well underway before I begin to understand some small part of their speech. I recognize their names first, such musical sounds! I cannot replicate them with my clumsy tongue but I can taste them on my lips and hear them chiming in my mind. Oh, and the colors! There are not enough words to describe all the colors they are made of! Purples and pinks, blues and greens, all hues, sparkle from their skin, from their wings, from their hair. They wear no clothing; these are not domesticated fairies. They are the fey, the sidhe—the mischievous and sometimes cruel creatures from legend. They ignore my presence for the most part but I always feel an underlying threat even while they play. I read everything I find about them. Many of the books have such ridiculous information that I toss them away unfinished. But there are a few tomes which keep me spellbound. I begin a journal of my observations, comparing my fairies to the sidhe in those dusty old books, learning more about them. Each of them is a distinct individual, with likes and dislikes that are simple to discern. One of my favorites has dusky green skin and a faint pink tinge to her hair. She sits motionless on a leaf or petal and watches the others. She rarely flies in those rough and tumble games, but the others defer to her in subtle ways. I am certain she is the leader, perhaps even their queen. As she sits so quietly on her leafy throne, I watch her, learning more about her than any of the others who are unable to sit still for more than a moment. I believe she is watching me too while she grants me this opportunity to study her. But for what purpose, I am uncertain. So I watch them through all the seasons, my large mortal body shivering in the snow and sweating in the heat. I pay little attention to the passage of time but I grow from a pudgy child to a gangly-limbed young lady whilst I watch. I fill my first journal with my observations and begin a new one. I dream of them every night. Nothing else seems important. Until the day my blood blooms. Mother comes to me that terrible winter day, my journals in her hand. In her usual no-nonsense voice, she reminds me I am grown now—it is time for me to put away childish things. Then she tosses my journals into the fireplace where a freshly laid fire devours my beloved books. My heart turns to stone, tears streak down my cheeks. I run away from the sight of my dreams turning to ash. Despite the cramps troubling my stomach, I wrap myself up in my warmest clothes and find a quiet spot in the garden to vent my tears. The moon is full this midwinter night and I creep across a lawn lit up as if the sun still shone. I crouch quietly in my habitual spot and hot tears spill down my icy cheeks. A sparkle of color heralds their arrival. But this day, this day is different. Instead of flying to her usual throne-like leaf, the queen flits to a bare branch beside my face. I have never seen her so closely before. She looks directly at me. Her tilted eyes are a feral orange and they search my face, finally resting on my own prosaically brown eyes. I feel naked, my dreams exposed. She speaks to me, but so quickly I don’t understand all her words. She repeats them in her high-pitched voice. And this time, I understand. I glance behind me once, looking at the brightly lit house where I glimpse my mother bustling about her daily tasks, then I turn back to face the tiny creature who waits for me. I reach out my hand in answer and her tiny hand touches my fingertip in a butterfly kiss. Light explodes around me, flickering in the snowflakes that fall. The air around me comes alive with her subjects, touching me, pulling off my winter cloak, my skirts and petticoats. I gladly shed the bulky garments, hating the way they bind me to the earth. My exposed skin tingles in the frigid air. The naked branches of the bush loom larger around me. Lightly falling snowflakes grow huge in my vision. The chill in the winter garden disappears, warmth spreads through me. It is a wonderful sensation. I slip free of the final layer of cloth, shrugging my shoulders against the tingling I sense. My shoulders feel different, strange, and I twist around to look behind me. I laugh at what I see. I flutter my newly sprouted wings and gladly join my brothers and sisters in a game of "catch a snowflake" under the winter moon as our queen watches over us with a sly smile. Carolyn Charron has been watching the fae for years and is still waiting to join them. Her works have been published in Mused, Fabula Argentina, and other publications. Image: Pixabay

Neil Cochrane’s novel The Story of the Hundred Promises (publication date: October 4, 2022) uses the fairy tale “Beauty and the Beast” to launch a sweeping fantasy quest that confronts generational trauma. When Darragh Thorn uses a magic rose to transform and align his body with his masculine gender identity, his father, who refuses to recognize him as anything other than a girl named Beauty, banishes him. After ten years of adventure on the high seas, Darragh returns home to find his father gravely ill and sets out to search for an enchanted cure. Darragh’s story is punctuated with inclusive fairy tales that work to establish a world of queer optimism where love transcends heteronormative patterns. In the beautiful fairy tale that lends the book its title, a farmer, herder, and blacksmith wish for a child to love and are instructed to offer one hundred promises of acceptance for their future child to secure their heart’s desire. The novel centers queer relationships while tenderly advocating for the self-definition and acceptance that beats beneath the plot of traditional fairy tales. While not a strict retelling, the book uses key symbols, characters, and themes from “Beauty and the Beast” including roses, thorns, statues, books, ineffective fathers, ships, sorcery, and the construct of choice. It is an inspiring read for fantasy lovers eager to envision a more beautiful and inclusive world. Thank you to NetGalley for a free copy of this book in exchange for a fair review. Kelly Jarvis teaches classes in literature, writing, and fairy tale at Central Connecticut State University, The University of Connecticut, and Tunxis Community College. She lives, happily ever after, with her husband and three sons in a house filled with fairy tale books. She is also Enchanted Conversation’s special project’s writer.