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

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

Clytemnestra, by Costanza Casati, is a book that aims to overturn your thoughts about Greek heroes by presenting the story of a woman who has historically been relegated to the shadows of the tales. Written in the tradition of Madeline Miller’s Circe, this debut novel focuses on Clytemnestra, daughter, sister, wife, mother, warrior and queen. The story begins when Clytemnestra, daughter of Leda and sister to Helen, the most beautiful woman in the world, is a princess living in Sparta, a place where women are trained in the martial arts so that they will only submit to the most vicious of men. Although Helen is the beauty, it is Clytemnestra who possesses intelligence, fierceness, and a desire to protect her family at all costs. By the end of the novel, Clytemnestra will have watched her brothers go off to adventure with the Argonauts and witnessed the fall of Troy as the Greeks reclaim her sister Helen from Paris, but the book is about the life of an incredible woman who endures a difficult marriage, suffers immeasurable loss, and exacts revenge upon those who have wronged her. Clytemnestra features characters and stories from Greek mythology and will delight those who enjoy The Iliad and The Odyssey because it gives readers a chance to revisit these stories through a feminine perspective. There is a family tree located in the front of the book for readers less familiar with the traditional tales. I loved that characters like Leda, Helen, Penelope, Iphigenia, and Clytemnestra all become more than they are in the hands of traditional tale tellers. The book provides a harsh and beautiful look at the lives of women who suffer through great pain to find fleeting moments of love and happiness. The writing is full of images that stay with you from the Spartan gorge when criminal bodies rot to the bathhouse where Agamemnon meets his fate, but the story truly sings when exploring the complex relationships between the women. Clytemnestra has been vilified in many stories, and forgotten in many others, but this novel celebrates her triumphs and explores her losses, and in doing so, elevates the lives and experiences of all the women whose stories have never been told. I truly enjoyed this book! You can order it here. Thank you to NetGalley for a free copy of the book in exchange for a fair review. Kelly Jarvis is the Special Projects Writer and Contributing Editor for The Fairy Tale Magazine. Her work has appeared in Eternal Haunted Summer, Blue Heron Review, Forget-Me-Not Press, Mermaids Monthly, The Chamber Magazine, and Mothers of Enchantment: New Tales of Fairy Godmothers. She teaches at Central Connecticut State University.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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