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Hiking through a forest preserve, I tried to find myself hiding in dappled shadows. Hazy clouds veiled the sun, unleashed icy drizzle. A blue jay squawked, berating me for trespassing in his territory. The mist thickened. Raindrops beat a staccato patter. My teeth started to chatter, but I was too stubborn to turn back. Down the hill I trod, carefully stepping around a mound of Artomyces pyxidatus clinging to a downed log. I stroked the lacy fungi, so tasty when sautéed, but the coral crown was too perfect to pluck. An old pine tree bent and swayed, whispering, this way. Pinus strobus pointed at a creek. Her branches clacked, a swift jab in my back. The needles tickled, but I dared not laugh. All forest adventurers should respect nature, especially trees, so regal. I crept closer. Wet moss smelled like mysteries. Water gurgled over rocks, saying, come and play. I shed my boots, socks and inhibitions. Algae made the creek bed slick. Bracing cold swirled around my toes. Foam formed a face. The Nereid demanded that I dance. Dumbstruck, I swayed. Dance, she commanded. Geese flying overhead cocked their heads and honked while I pranced. I spun in a circle and fell on my ass. The Nereid vanished, but I heard her laughing with me. Alicia Hilton believes in angels and demons, magic, and monsters. Her work has appeared in Daily Science Fiction, Enchanted Conversation, Modern Haiku, Neon, Unnerving, Vastarien, Year’s Best Hardcore Horror Volumes 4, 5 & 6, and elsewhere. Her website is https://www.aliciahilton.com. Follow her on Twitter @aliciahilton01. Cover: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

There’s a scorpion in your mind, and vast fires in your eye. The sun went down ten thousand years ago, its light fell into a swallowing dark. Listen to the bell ringing over a mass grave, hear your heart stop in an ocean of silence. Hear an absolute absence, there where a frigid blue sinks into the forest. Hear the bell stop, watch the fox and the lamb fall into black shadows. Was it in this misty world where you first touched the face of grief? Do you remember those closed eyes, and that first wave of cold rain? One vision bled into the next— the first dream wove with a dark thread a death mask for the final dream . . . it was there that you were born into blind hungers and stark prayers, and it was there where you set out to find a hidden path up the mountain to the Queen of Birds in her ancient temple, where beauty’s word, one perfect word, lights the dusky chambers. Alexander Etheridge has been developing his poems and translations since 1998. His poems have been featured in Wilderness House Literary Review, Ink Sac, Cerasus Journal, The Cafe Review, The Madrigal, Abridged Magazine, Susurrus Magazine, The Journal, and many others. He was the winner of the Struck Match Poetry Prize in 1999. Cover: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff

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. His novel, Foxborn, was published in April 2017 and the sequel, Dragonborn, in June 2018. His third novel, “Dejanna of the Double Star’ was published in the fall of 2019 as was his anthology, “Feral, It Takes a Forest”. He has four short story collections, “Running Into Trouble,” “Through A Wine Glass Darkly,” “Strong Spirits,” and the newest story collection, “Hello Darkness,” was released on February 14, 2022. All eight books are available from Amazon. Cover: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

The month of April passed without any showers elf tears do not suffice so May flowers struggle where shall bees and faeries flit and pirouette now Plastic iron radio waves proud symbols of mankind’s progress modern wards to keep the fae at bay letting us safely watch TikTok somewhere a puckish garden grows a refuge from technology and its child metamodern angst far from this dull castle and cage Please accept this offering my soul yearns for rain’s kind caress TS S. Fulk lives with his family in Örebro, Sweden as an English teacher and textbook author. TS S. Fulk also plays bass trombone, the mountain dulcimer and the Swedish dulcimer (hummel). His poetry has been (or will be) published by BeZine, The Button Eye Review, Perennial Press, and more. Cover: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

Sunny days are my favorite You’re always full of energy on sunny days. We fly together, up into the light; I can never keep up You fly higher, faster than me So fast I think I’ll lose you among the clouds Worry you might forget I’m following. But the worry is a piffling thing Outmatched by the joy. I love sunny days. Cloudy days are harder Especially when it’s cold and the nights are long Longer still, like shadows cast by the moon Gloom and doom whisper together through the deep, powdery snow. We don’t fly together on cloudy days. Sometimes you don’t fly at all. When I come to check on you, you’re in your nest. No flying, no singing on cloudy days. I bring you worms, try to shine like the sun myself. You’re glad of it, but there’s no substitute for the light. The clouds, the gray, drag at my soul Drag it back to earth, ground it Where I know yours is. But the cloudy days don’t bother me so much Even when I can’t help you sing or fly Because I know another sunny day will come And you’ll fly higher and faster than I ever can. The bliss you have, flying among golden rays Sunny days are my favorite. Jason P. Burnham is an infectious diseases physician and clinical researcher. He loves many things, among them sci-fi, his wife, sons, and dog, metal music, Rancho Gordo beans, and equality (not necessarily in that order). Cover: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

A very long time ago a huntsman and his young wife lived in a small cottage by the forest. The huntsman and his wife wanted to have a child, but though they tried for many years, they remained childless. One day news came to them from a nearby village of a woman found living in a small cottage in the forest. This witch, for so she was called by the people of the village, could speak with the spirits of the dead during heavy rains and would grant favors to those who came to her in the wet dark. The huntsman begged his wife not to visit the witch. It was said that beyond the black forest there was a land of dead spirits, and that those who traveled there would be filled with dark and dangerous magic, but the wife was so overcome with her desire for a child that one morning when he was out hunting, and a heavy rain welled up suddenly in the sky, she traveled into the forest alone. She came upon a small shamble of a cottage set around a willow tree so ancient and thick that the rain could not slip through its leaves. When the wife knocked at the door of the cottage, a gnarled woman answered, her body bent and twisted and her skin holding the pallor of death. The wife was nearly overcome with fear, but her desire was so great that she found herself being led into the cottage where the witch agreed to help the huntsman’s wife conceive a child. In return, the witch asked a promise of the young wife. She would have to give her word that when the witch came for her she would leave her family and travel to the land of the dead. The huntsman’s wife was grieved to make such a promise, but so great was her desire for a child that she agreed and left the witch’s cottage with a magical draught. She was surprised to find the heavy rain halted and sunshine slipping through the heavy canopy of leaves as she walked. That night, before her husband could ask what she had done, the wife drank the draught and took her husband to bed. That very night they conceived a daughter and, overjoyed, the young wife forgot the promise she had made to the witch in the forest, but on the very night their daughter was born the rain welled up heavy and hard against the thatch of their cottage. That night, the witch arrived and forced the huntsman’s wife to keep their bargain. Leaving the newborn with its father, the wife left her family and traveled to the land of the dead, never to return. As the weeks passed the huntsman’s heart grew cold. He resented his newborn daughter. Her cries and needs. Her resemblance to his lost wife. One evening he woke to her cries and called out, “I wish you were a stone, and could be put out and forgotten.” Then he fed the child and returned to bed. When he woke in the morning there was a large round stone where his daughter had been. The huntsman sat the stone in the garden that had been his wife’s pleasure, and though he did not truly forget, the years that passed dulled the huntsman’s pain as it dulled his memory. Eventually the huntsman remarried, and with his second wife conceived a son who brought joy and warmth back to his father’s heart. When the boy was five years old, however, the huntsman’s new wife was also taken to the land of the dead. After her death, the huntsman grew afraid even of a light rain and locked his son inside their cottage, fearing that the world would take his one last pleasure. The boy grew strong in the cottage, but he also grew very lonely with only his father as company. Many times he tried to escape. Through his window he could see the world outside, but he could only open the window enough to breathe in the clear air and never enough that his small body could fit through. Every day he would stare out his window to their little garden and the forest beyond and wish for friends to care for him. One day during a light rain, while his father was out hunting, a pale and gnarled woman appeared at his window. Excited to see someone new, even if her visage was terrifying, the boy rushed to open the window wide to speak to her. To his surprise the woman only passed him a large stone through the open window. It was a stone from the garden, one that he had stared at many times but never really thought of. “Make your wish upon the stone,” the woman said, “and you shall have someone to care for you.” The boy, who had been warned about dangerous witches by his father, was wary, but his desire for a friend was so strong that as soon as the woman had gone, he sat the stone down on his small bed and wished for it to become a friend. Immediately the stone began to transform, and soon became his sister, now grown to a young woman. When the huntsman returned home, he was met by his son and his daughter. At the sight of the young woman who now looked so much like his first young wife, the huntsman’s heart was overcome, and he begged to be forgiven. His daughter, rather than see him in such agony, only said; “I wish you were a raven, so that you could fly far from here to be again with those you have lost.” Immediately, the huntsman was transformed into a raven. He flew from the open window and crossed the forest to the land of the dead, and when he had gone the stone-sister and her brother lived together in happiness. Betty Stanton (she/her) is a writer who lives and works in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in various journals and collections and has been included in anthologies from Dos Gatos Press and Picaroon Poetry Press. She received her MFA from The University of Texas - El Paso. Cover: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

On the first day of Windy Season, Mina woke at dawn. The house was already filled with life. Her mother boiled water in the kitchen, the hiss of steam matching the clattering of the wind against her window pane. Her brothers whispered in the room beside hers, the walls thin as the skin over their bones. "When the North Wind wakes, He carries a large sword," Vincent said, reciting the chant her family had spoken for years. "He cuts down the trees so the seeds will spread and circle the globe, making new life and forms." "Then the West Wind carries a large spoon to stir the waves," Samuel added, his voice reedy like the wind through the chimney. "He scoops up the pearls, the fish, the whales, and sweeps what we need onto the shore, to eat and rejoice." "Then the South Wind swallows the land whole. He kicks up dust and makes a fuss so we can see our better selves." "While the East Wind listens close for the ghosts of last year's sadness, and He gives them back to the land. So it can start again." "So it can start again," Vincent echoed. Mina repeated the final line for herself, "So it can start again." Then she let out a long breath, like she knew each of her brothers was doing, pretending to be the wind. Mina listened as her brothers scrambled into the kitchen, greeted their mother, and began breakfast. Though Windy Season would last another three months, allowing the dirt, crops, and landscape to change all around them, the first day was special. And while Mina had longed for this moment, she was also afraid. After breakfast and a reading from their grimoire, the family would gather the ashes of the dead. Last year, it was their dog, Sanders. The year before that, there had been no dead, only dried flower petals used as a substitute in order to say Thank You to the spirits for keeping them hale and fit. A different year, there was another dog, Mackenzie. Before that, a stray cat, a calf, and a fox that her father had accidentally killed. Then Mina's memory became fuzzy, like sand grains or snow squalls against a window. This year it was her father in the clay vessel on their mantelpiece. It was he, Jordan Sullivan, who would be released into the wind the first day of Windy Season, so he could begin his long travel to the land of the dead with the help of the four cardinal directions. Like all the deceased in their village, man or animal alike, Jordan had been cremated shortly after death. That had been six months ago, when a flu gripped his chest and not let go. The death midwife, a woman named Bea, delivered the ashes to them and stayed for a celebratory dinner, where they spoke about Jordan Sullivan's life. Though long ago now, Mina was still sure she could smell the venison, cooked potatoes and other root vegetables, and the flowery scent of the death midwife in the air. Mina had been silent during that dinner, only speaking a handful of words about her father--good man, I loved him--and her mother had been saddened. "You are the oldest," she chastised once the death midwife was gone and the ashes of her father remained on the mantelpiece, waiting for Windy Season. "You need to set an example." Mina had taken her lashings and apologized. But she'd also remained quiet, aloof, in the background, a shadow for the following six months. No more. Now that Windy Season had truly begun, she believed she could sing her father into absolution, leading him to his first stop on the journey of the dead. "Well," her mother said, once Mina had joined them at the table. "Look who finally showed up." Mina ate in silence. Her brothers sang their song, and though it moved their mother to tears, she didn't ask them to stop. Once the dishes were cleaned, they gathered their Windy Season gear: goggles, bandanas, and long clothing though the heat of the day would grow. The wind whipped against the house, clattering the windows, and making the chimney scream out. Mina grabbed her father's ashes. When her mother challenged her, she simply said, "Please." "If you're sure, then." Her mother held the door open, her knuckles white against the fierce winds. "Hurry. We do not have much time." The four of them assembled on their front lawn. Trees bent in all directions; all grasses were flattened; and beyond their hands, nothing was visible. Mina licked a finger to check directions, but it was soon caked with dust. Her bandana stood up straight, as if attacked from all sides. She didn't know what direction her father was to begin. "Hurry!" her mother cried. "He cannot wait another year." Mina surveyed the vast horizon. There was no sense of direction, no opening her father could ride to his final resting place. Nothing to see or hold onto. Vincent began to sing. Samuel followed. Their voices warbled, but not with sadness. Their words were plucked by the wind, steering the directions according to the song. When her mother joined in, the directions grew stronger. Mina sang too, the wind following all their voices in tune. At the final verse, Mina opened her father's ashes. They exploded like sparks on a lit fuse, like fireworks from another time period, distant and foreign. The wind took the ashes and held a body in place. A man, a shadow. Perfect. Then he was gone. Her family cried, tears mixing with dirt and making mud on their cheeks. They sobbed for their lost father, their husband, a man named Jordan Sullivan, who was now part of the earth, ready to fly towards his rightful place in the land of the dead. "So it can start again," Mina said. "So it can start again," the wind echoed back. Eve Morton is a writer living in Ontario, Canada. She teaches university and college classes on media studies, academic writing, and genre literature, among other topics. Her poetry book, Karma Machine, was released in late 2020. Find more info on authormorton.wordpress.com. Cover: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

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

Zeus scowls down one summer Sunday afternoon at a town unconcerned with a grimace from the sky. He glowers. He glares. He strives to blanch the tame blue blush of pristine July. His frown intensifies. A single wet drop of Olympian spittle descends through contortions of cumuli. His grumble exacts no tribute save an idle upward glance and the half-hearted curtsy of my umbrella. Every other passerby ignores the once-lord of weather’s unheralded return. No one asks him for an alibi. The braised rage of the sun pierces a cloud in two places— his unblinking eyes. Blind to being so scrutinized, vacationers occupy beaches and benches, luxuriating in the leisure of their waning weekends while high above the trimmed green park, intermittent Frisbees fly. Only I spot Zeus observing the frolics of fearless apostates until the sharp breeze foretold on TV by pinstriped oracles with Hollywood smiles shears off his beard with such precipitous vigor and smothers his final, silent, harmless goodbye. Eric Pinder is the author of Counting Dinos, If All the Animals Came Inside, How to Share with a Bear, and other books about animals and nature. He teaches in New Hampshire at a small college in the woods, a few miles down the road less traveled. Cover: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

You're not like other fairy godmothers Her tone is disapproving As if my weakness is an affront To her--little brat Wait until the next storm rolls in Lots of people get headaches Yes, many do but this isn't Just a headache, this is migraine Systemic, my body perpetually Overreacting to stimulus It doesn't make them useless Not useless; just not what she's Used to and she knows not to push Too hard, because my power Comes in with the rain and lightning Is a storm coming? You'd think she would open with The question, not the light insults But she's never been terribly Astute--or kind Is that why you've got the lamps off? It's not, it's just a normal too-bright day But a storm is coming, I can feel it The same way she can tell when her Prince is looking at her Maybe we should move you to the dungeon This is an old--and tired--joke I don't bother answering "Take in the crops before Sunday" Her look changes; she has learned to listen Just the crops? I nod because the rest I must do Stay awake and keep our little kingdom On the border of the storm, make destruction Skip and jump and mostly miss us I hope this isn't like the one last year I made the mistake of trying a new tincture Right before the storm: I slept through it And it tore through the land I let what's left of my power show in my eyes Are you trying to scare me? Frustration and betrayal surge through me And the shutters slam, one at a time She smiles, respect on her face like It used to be when she was young I guess you're not worthless after all I guess I'm not--I'd ask her To bring me some tea Or at least send a servant But she's already to the door Hope you feel better The worst hope and I've told Her so, this isn't a temporary illness That one recovers from--this is my life One she stomps all over Maybe try some exercise I let her hurt me because I need Her and at some point during Our campaign to win a prince I grew to love her Well, good night I'd like to say she loves me too But though migraine makes my vision Sparkle and dim, I can see the truth: I am useful to her and nothing more Gerri Leen is a Pushcart-nominated poet from Northern Virginia who's into horse racing, tea, and collecting encaustic art and raku pottery. She has poetry published/accepted by The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Strange Horizons, Dark Matter, Dreams & Nightmares, and others. Visit gerrileen.com to see more. Cover: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

Once there was a girl born without eyes. She didn’t know any better, so she was happy. She had a voice like a nightingale and loved to tell stories. But her mother hated her because she was imperfect. One day as her mother stormed the girl asked, Why do you shout so, mother? and the older woman snapped Because you are so ugly! The girl asked what ugly was and her mother got crosser and crosser till she shouted Ugly is a bag of onions! and she threw onions at her daughter. But the onions did not hurt the girl. Instead, two fell into her empty eye sockets and suddenly the girl could see. Of course, they were still onions so her mother screamed and ran and the girl, sadly, bound up her possessions behind her and set out to try her fortune. At night Onions wandered villages and towns singing for her supper. She was always welcomed until she came into view. Then people ran away and she would weep. Unbeknownst to her, however, each time she cried—almost every night— her tears dissolved a ring of the onions. Rain didn’t dissolve them, nor snow. Just the hot salt of tears. Came the time it was winter. Onions burrowed into a haystack and made herself a room of sorts, where she could sit and sing, invisibly, and asked the villagers to leave food and water, which they did. An acrobat wandering by fell in love with Onions’ voice and paid the farmer good money to live in the barn and do chores so they could listen and talk to Onions. But she refused to leave the haystack. She had been beaten and run from enough. The acrobat persisted, saying the animals must have hay, and, finally, Onions couldn’t bear the thought anything, even animals, suffered because of her and she emerged hay every which way in her hair. The acrobat had never seen such beauty, As she raised her head, they saw her eyes, and they began crying. That must hurt awfully, they said, and as they wept and held her, the tears they shed rolled down her face. The last of the onions dissolved leaving real eyes as gold as onion skin. And they lived happily for many years. And that is why, child, you cry when you cut onions. Hurry up now. Put them in the pot. Jennifer A. McGowan won the Prole pamphlet competition in 2020, and as a result, Prolebooks published her winning pamphlet, Still Lives with Apocalypse. She has been published in several countries, in journals such as The Rialto, Pank, The Connecticut Review, Acumen and Agenda. She is a disabled poet who has also had Long Covid for 15 months at time of writing. She prefers the fifteenth century to the twenty-first, and would move there were it not for her fondness of indoor plumbing. Cover: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

Wind Spell —after Joy Harjo In the time before, it was never written down No pens. A long line of mouths. A wolfman hovers beyond the tree line, taste of flesh on his tongue. A basket over a girl’s arm, crumbs fallen. The predator prowls the woods, the path, the outlying cottages. He eats every unfortunate passerby. What he cannot eat, he saves for later. He makes wine. Jars flesh. Waits. Rumors run like pigs. Like school children. Like a mother’s butterfly stomach, weighted for the wind’s howl. Like shortcuts loafing toward full moon twilights. Like a basket inside a cottage door. A dandelion seed purchased where there is no wind spell for wishes to float free. Wait! Not this once. Instead, try Once there was a woods that was only a woods. The village folk used to go birding, speak to owls, hear the throaty croak of ravens, listen for the songs of a nightingale. They had lived together, cooked together, whispering rumors of red sky mornings. They had tried to pretend a wolfman hadn’t moved in, grandmother’s cottage was under construction and the disappeared had left only damp shadows soaked into paths. But once again Once upon another time Memory failed and the forest shadows grew larger and toothier with eyes sharp enough to see in the dark— the fallen fabric of a daughter’s red hood, the ribbon, the sash, a walking shoe wilting beside the path of pins the basket lined with cloth for protecting cakes Start with a different once! Once, after a lifetime lived inside the village walls grandmother had moved, longing for the seclusion of the forest. Trusting her granddaughter would come, she had left the cottage door unlatched, curled up in her nightgown, recalling memories of trips made when she had been a girl. Choosing her path. Before If the girl in the red hood starts here she’ll never make it to the end of her story. Someone has to keep her eyes open, sings her grandmother to the day, to the night, to the wind spell that can carry dandelion wishes to far-off places where it can seed into the heart’s loam and take root even as the girl walks the path of pins or that of needles. It would not matter. For even if grandmother was eaten, the girl would have the sense to escape. And she would find helpers along her journey home. Yes. Once upon this story. Kristen Baum DeBeasi’s poetry has appeared in Blue Heron Review, Contrary Magazine, Menacing Hedge and elsewhere. She was Moon Tide Press’s Poet of the Month for July 2021. When she isn’t writing words or music, she loves testing new recipes and collecting fallen leaves or twigs for her fairy garden. Cover: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff