Fairy Tales Can Change Your Life is a book that presents folklore and fairy tales as solutions to life’s problems. Alison Davies explores the characters, symbols, and plots of well-known stories, uncovers deep narrative meanings, and offers practical and creative exercises to help readers enchant their lives. The book covers the power of storytelling, the hero’s adventure, love and relationships, fears and desires, and transformations. The first chapter provides an overview of fairytale origins, making connections between the tales we know and ancient myths and legends. Each subsequent chapter focuses on a few well-known stories before providing the reader with questions, activities, and writing prompts that help them apply the lessons to their own lives. Davies believes that there is power in using fairy tales as a springboard for creative writing and storytelling, and she encourages all readers to find their voice. This book was a fun, accessible, and easy read. At times, Davies lacks an understanding of cultural context in relaying the tales and uses sweeping generalizations about “universal” fairy tale themes. For example, she spends time discussing the jealous anger of queens who worry their beauty is fading without ever exploring the complexities of intimate family relationships in fairy tales like Snow White, but her passion for using fairy tale symbols and images to better her readers’ lives shines through these types of generalizations. She introduces new fairy tale scholars to characters such as the trickster and encourages readers to find the heartbeat of each tale. The book is a fun introduction to how fairy tales can relate to contemporary human life and presents easy ways to deepen creative thinking. While many of the suggested activities deal with writing or telling stories, others offer ways to improve daily life by transforming thinking and behavior. Fairy Tales Can Change Your Life is a blueprint for taking simple fairy tale inspired actions that will bring enchantment to the everyday world. You can order 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.

Mountain Magic (publication date February 14, 2023) is a beautifully illustrated collection of the history and presence of magic and folklore in the Appalachian Mountains. Rebecca Beyer, an Appalachian ethnobiologist who was born in Western Pennsylvania and still lives in the mountains, dedicates the book to the diverse people who occupy the land. She teaches readers that the folk magic of Appalachia is ever present but difficult to see. Beyer notes that the Appalachian culture has been long misunderstood and badly represented by outsiders. She lovingly restores faith in the “old Wild Thing” that shrouds the hills and valleys with magic. The book is divided into sections including The Calling (a breakdown of the different types of Appalachian witches), Mountain Medicine (an overview of the landscape and the folk knowledge of the region), Occult Uses of Appalachian Herbs (such as blackberry, mandrake, goldenrod, and ginseng), The Workings (charms and curses), and Seasonal Lore and Mountain Astrology (a look at the rotating weather and movement of the heavens). Each section is accompanied by beautiful illustrations, recipes, and anecdotes about Appalachian life. Mountain Magic is full of surprises for the average reader. Beyer explains that Appalachian witches are often practitioners of Christianity who traditionally doctor their families with herbs and charms. She shares that mountain medicine has been heavily influenced by native cultures along with the arrival of Spanish, African, and Scotch-Irish immigrants. She teaches that blood, which can be high, low, thick, or thin, is the most important part of the body when it comes to staying healthy and living in balance with the community and environment. Although residents of Appalachia may be reluctant to share their folklore with outsiders, Beyer argues that Burn Whisperers (who can take the heat from a burn) and Blood Stoppers (who can heal wounds) have always existed in the mountains and continue to practice today. She explains the gendered rules of magic, reminds readers that forests existed before pharmacies, and shares healing recipes for wild salad and spicebush tea. I found this short book utterly fascinating and would like to read more books in the Modern Folk Magic series. Mountain Magic skillfully creates a portrait of a place that is steeped in mystery, and readers will come away with a new appreciation for the magic found in the world around them. You can pre-order the book here. 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 The Fairy Tale Magazine's special project’s writer.

Editor's Note: With Valentine's Day fast approaching this month, we thought this love-themed twist on a classic fairy tale would be the perfect fit for today's Throwback Thursday tale. Enjoy! From her position at the kitchen table, Anya watched her great grandmother flit across the room, her sly expression concealed beneath the hood of her frayed and faded red cape as Anya pleaded, “Grannie will you tell me how you met Grandpa again?” "Anya, aren't you tired of that tale by now? It’s ancient history.” “Anya, I told you not to nag your great grandmother.” Annoyed, Anya glanced at her Mother who sat darning a red cape, her brow furrowed before shooting a hopeful glance towards Grannie, pleased to see the other smiling broadly. "I don’t know Grannie; she always wants to hear that tale even though I keep reminding her that everyone needs to be here for it to be told right." The exasperation in her Mother’s voice made Anya frown, but unwilling to concede defeat she retorted, “We’re all here now." "Your father and grandpa aren't here," Red pointed out Aware that her request was perilously close to be being denied, Anya shot an appealing glance towards her great grandmother as she added in a wheedling voice, "But they'll be back soon. The two women exchange a look, and then Grannie pulled out a chair, “Well, why not? Anya squealed in delight and then aware of her Mother’s scowl, she sat down as the other commenced. “It was one of those warm spring days, and I was bored, so my mother decided to send me here, to my grandmother’s house with a basket of cakes and a bottle of wine. Your great grandmother was feeling poorly.” The note of sarcasm in her mother’s voice bypassed Anya, but her great grandmother took exception protesting, “You make it sound like I was an invalid Red, the truth was I had dyed my hair bright orange, and your grandmother was so embarrassed that she forbade me from venturing into town until it had dulled down a little. Didn’t you wonder why I was wearing a night cap in the middle of the day Red?” “Of course I did, but I was more interested in trekking through the forest and escaping chores,” Red said with a laugh, “Will you stop interrupting already, you’ll get your turn in a minute.” Grannie sighed, but refrained from commenting as Red continued. “So I’m walking through the forest, sticking to the path as directed, when I hear a voice call out, where are you going little red riding hood.” As her mother mimicked the voice Anya pulled up her hood and Grannie chuckled softly, “And of course I paused.” “Of course,” Her great grandmother's dry tone made Anya giggle even as her Mother reached out to push her hood down, before tousling her hair. “Alright, I was young, but you have to admit there was something enticing about his voice. It was like molten chocolate.” For a moment Red stared into space and then she shook her head, “So I turned around and there he was, the big bad wolf leaning against a tree with a quizzing expression.” “Where are you going little red riding hood? He asked, and though I recalled my mother’s warning, his brooding dark looks and his debonair smile sent my pulse racing, and bemused, I blurted out the truth, I’m off to see my sick Grannie.” “That’s enough of this sick grandmother nonsense.” Her mother smirked. “Why don’t you take her some flowers. She’ll be sure to love them. Now, I glanced around and sure enough, there were stacks of flowers, so I thought why not and began to collect them.” At these words, Anya swung round towards her great grandmother, anticipation etched into her features as the other smiled broadly in response. “I was at home alright. I was getting ready for my morning run,” At this, her great grandmother winked and Anya giggled. “You can imagine my surprise when there was a knock at the door, but that only lasted a second when I laid my eyes on the huge, strong, muscular creature that filled the doorway.” “Mesmerized, I watched as he leant closer whispering, time’s up, Grannie. I swear I almost swooned at his words and then as he leant forward to take a bite, I took my chance. I puckered up and our lips met, and I swear it was thunderbolts and lightening. He staggered back, and I gaped. I’d just kissed a wolf and mortified, I ran past him intent only on escape.” “And there I was heading to Grandma’s house completely unaware…” “That the wolf lay in wait.” Anya finished with a squeal of excitement. “Exactly, even as I fled something was plaguing me, and eventually I came to a halt,” Grannie continued, “Perplexed I wondered why a dark and handsome wolf had appeared on my doorstep, a dark and dangerous wolf who kissed like heaven on a stick. There was only one reason, and it made me turn quick smart, but I suspected I would be too late.” “For I had already knocked on the door, only to hear a voice call out, I’m too sick to get out of bed granddaughter, please come inside.” Red continued with a smile as she mimicked the wolf's husky drawl, and Anya grinned as her mother continued, “There was something funny about the voice. It was a rolling smooth sound which was so unlike Grannie’s that I was already suspicious even before I walked inside to see an unfamiliar figure lying in the bed.” As Anya leant forward, Red grimaced with a rueful shake of her head advised, “I knew this wasn’t Grannie but the figure in the bed was watching me so intently I said, oh grandmother, what big ears you have! To which the figure replied with a decided lack of enthusiasm, all the better to hear you with. I frowned, but continued on with, but grandmother, what big eyes you have, and at this the wolf sighed languidly before declaring, all the better to see you with. I must admit, I was getting nervous by now and edged closer to the door as I uttered, but grandmother, what a big mouth you have.” “And that’s when I stepped through the doorway,” Grannie stated with a wide smile, “and said real loud, which is so damn good at kissing, I want to do it again.” “To which I replied,” A voice said from the doorway of Grannie’s cottage, “And so do I, come her Grannie, you’re mine.” At the wolf's words, Anya started, and then with a wide grin, she threw herself at the huge muscular figure which towered above her, “Grandpa you’re back.” “Hey sweetie, I couldn’t leave your great grandma alone now, could I? She might run off with any old wolf that came along.” “Idiot,” Grannie stated affectionately, reaching over to kiss her husband on the cheek, “You know there is no one else for me.” “And Grannie kisses Grandpa, and he turns into a handsome prince.” Anya stated cheekily as her mother, Red rolled her eyes. “Perhaps not a handsome Prince, in this case,” Red noted dryly as her husband walked through the door. “And they lived happily ever after.” Anya continued, determined not to be thwarted. “That’s only in fairy tales sweetie,” Red muttered absently as she eyed her husband, who was determinedly avoiding her eyes and keeping his hands behind his back, “What have you gone and traded the cow for this time Jack? Beans, you traded the cow for beans? Here give them to me.” Deb Whittam is a graduated from Macquarie University Bachelor of Arts, recently she has had the honor her work being published in The Crux Anthology and The Rabbit Hole Anthology. She has also published a number of titles online which available through Smashwords, which includes the Daddy’s Angels series. Cover: Amanda Bergloff

What a month it’s been! We received hundreds of submissions for 12 spaces—so only about 3 percent of the submissions were accepted. More about that after I list the names. Here are the authors whose work will appear in the March or June issues: Kim Malinowski Brittani Jenee’ Cal Deborah Sage Jessie Aktin Peyton Dupree James Dodds Henry Herz Odyssa Abille Esther Ra Carter Lappin Marisa Montany Melissa Yuan-Innes These authors will join Marcia Sherman and Sara Cleto and Brittany Warman (the scholars behind The Carterhaugh School) in writing for each of the four issues in 2023. In addition, our contributing editor, Kelly Jarvis, will be contributing both fiction and nonfiction to each issue. Amanda Bergloff, our art director, will be doing her magic with some visual delights, and I’ll be writing several articles as well. I would have gladly chosen more submissions if we could afford it. While it’s true that uncounted submissions (because why put myself through that?) were unusable because the authors showed no familiarity with our publication or the submissions guidelines, the top 40 or so were very, very competitive. Really excellent work fell by the wayside. I hope people who read this and haven’t become subscribers yet will do so today. Remember, the only way to read what we publish will be through subscription. We will not be publishing anything more free on this site, so please sign up! A lot of old friends from our previous site as Enchanted Conversation are under the impression that we’re still providing a free magazine, but we aren’t, so please help out this little nonprofit and what I know is a great magazine, today. Image: by Christen Dalsgaard

“Shut Up and Write the Book,” by Jenna Moreci, is a book I hope all would-be novelists will buy and use. I say that as a reader and a publisher, and I hope it will become a bestseller. Yet, packed to the brim with thoughtful, detailed and highly practical writing advice as this book is, Moreci isn’t here to teach you how to promote or sell your book. Her advice is strictly about setting, world building, editing, characterization, plot development, outlining, dialogue writing, and all manner of writing pitfalls to avoid and skills to develop. (And that list is only partial.) “Shut Up and Write the Book” delivers a huge amount of thoughtful, practical advice for the novice writer or the experienced one who wants to be reinspired or brush up on their skills—without being intimidating. I enjoyed “Shut Up and Write the Book” for its wisdom, as a publisher, but I think a lot of readers would enjoy it as well. It reminds you about what good writing should be, and just how much hard work and imagination writing a novel takes. Jenna Moreci is an independent, successful dark fantasy romance author, and the funny and wise voice of a popular YouTube channel, Writing With Jenna Moreci. In the book and on her channel, Jenna employs racy humor and potty jokes to amuse readers while they learn. But don’t let the funny tone fool you, Jenna Moreci knows a lot about writing and genuinely wants other writers to succeed. The best testimonial I can make about “Shut Up and Wrote the Book” is that I love it, and I normally detest bathroom humor and am not a big fan of sexy romance either. I love romance novels, but only slightly steamy, thank you. None of that matters. Jenna is compassionate, funny and professional. She knows writing is a tough business and she has the empathy a teacher needs to help your writing along. “Shut Up and Write the Book” is worth your time and money. Highly recommended. Review by Kate Wolford. editor-in-chief of The Fairy Tale Magazine.

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

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

The Collected Enchantments, (publication date-February 14th, 2023) by Theodora Goss, is a book filled with magic. Goss has paired previously published stories and poems with never-before-seen works to create a must-read collection of fantasy and fairy tales. Goss begins her collection with an introduction titled “Why I Write Fantasy”, sharing her experience as an immigrant child born behind the Iron Curtain in Budapest, Hungary, a land rich in fairy tales. Goss attributes her love of fantasy literature to her liminal existence between two homes and reveals that she dreamed of becoming a writer, or a sorceress, when she grew up. The introduction perfectly prepares readers for the enchantments they will find in the book’s pages. The Collected Enchantments is rich with fairy tale retellings in prose and verse form. Classic stories include “Conversations with the Sea Witch”, which moves “The Little Mermaid” beyond its happily-ever-after, and “The Rose in Twelve Petals”, a retelling of “Sleeping Beauty” presented through the perspective of twelve different characters. Goss’s poems explore tales like “Cinderella”, “Goldilocks”, and “East of the Sun, West of the Moon”, and engage with legends and myths in works such as “Tam Lin Remembers the Fairy Queen” and “Medusa Gets a Haircut”. Her stories feature mothers who turn into birds and fly away, men who are ravens, a princess who is the daughter of the moon, and oak trees which bend down to take your hands as you travel through the forest. Each image creates a lasting mark in the reader’s mind. Fantasy poignantly collides with reality in stories and poems that confront death like “In the Forest of Forgetting” and “Rose Child”. In other poems, women and poets are transformed into harps, and daughters learn of mothers who dance to bring in the seasons of winter and spring. Goss explores the benefits of a magical education where former fairy tale princesses and witch girls learn “how to turn a poem into a spell”, and one of my favorite poems, “Seven Shoes”, uses the fairy tale task of wearing through seven pairs of shoes as a metaphor for becoming a writer. In her introduction, Goss reveals that it “took a long time...to become a writer. I’m still working on the sorceress part.” Her beautiful collection, part writing and part magic, proves that she has become both. The Collected Enchantments is an essential read for all who love fairy tales, fantasy, witchcraft, and magic. Goss uses stunning images and beautiful words to cast a spell over her readers. The book is sure to become a favorite in every fantasy reader’s collection. You can pre-order the e-book edition here. Thank you to Edelweiss + for a free copy of the book in exchange for a fair review. Kelly Jarvis teaches classes in literature, writing, and fairy tale at Central Connecticut State University, The University of Connecticut, and Tunxis Community College. She lives, happily ever after, with her husband and three sons in a house filled with fairy tale books. She is also The Fairy Tale Magazine's special project’s writer.

Editor's Note: We want to wish everyone a Happy New Year with this charming Throwback Thursday tale by author, Christine Tapper. Enjoy! The volcano rumbled in the dusk light, steam spouted and hissed from cracks in the earth’s crust. A sage in long silver robes appeared by the royal pond and spoke to Prince Diamrem. “Destruction is imminent. Why haven’t you left? I warned you hours ago.” “It’s my home, I like it here.” The sage’s face creased making him look more wizened. “At midnight when the New Year begins the volcano will send clouds of red dust billowing into the sky. Rivers of molten lava will cascade down the mountain slopes creating barren fields and craters. You must find a princess, start a new life." “A princess? Where?” Since the recent death of his parents, Diamrem had lived alone on the island. “One awaits you. You must walk the land now. Find your way to the whispering ocean.” "In the darkness...all by myself?" gulped the prince as a mantle of grey cloud concealed the moon. “Go if you want to meet her and see the New Year. Your choice.” The sage vanished. Back pack in place, the prince crossed the drawbridge and trudged away from the castle, chill wind at his back. Time and again, he stumbled and fell; picked himself up, pushed on. Before long, his leather boots crunched on a gravel surface and something nudged his elbow. Heart pounding, he turned expecting a beast to confront him. But he realized he had connected with a signpost. He wiped sweat from his palms and headed toward the scent of coastal pines. After a hundred easier steps, he encountered a barrier of thorns and shouted in despair at the dark sky. He groped through prickles and vines and emerged scratched and bleeding not far from a hollow tree where he sat taking refuge. Night creatures skittered through the undergrowth. Diamrem trembled and breathed deeply trying to settle his nerves. He soon sensed a shift in the cloud coverings. Taking advantage of the moonlight he set off through the trees and when he reached a clearing, he stopped and listened to the crash of waves upon rocks. Salt-laced air filled his nostrils He looked around and frowned. The only access point was by way of a steep path. Carefully he made his made his way but just as one foot reached the sand the other slid on a moss-covered rock and wedged in a crevice. He tried to free himself. The other leg buckled. Pain speared through him. Diamrem fainted on the rock. # He awakened to a hazy image of strawberry blond tresses cascading over a lady’s torso. Her blinked and saw she was combing her hair with a piece of coral. Her body, below the waist was buried in seaweed ribbons and sand. "Your legs are damaged. Fear not, I will help,” she whispered through crimson lips. Her slender, cool fingers caressed his forehead. He realized she had released his feet and removed his boots. As he reached out to touch her shimmering hair, she unfurled her long, elaborate tail. Diamrem spluttered. "Where are your legs?" "Don’t need any; my flipper propels me through the water." The prince asked her name. "I have no special name until my husband gives me his letters. Write your name in the sand." He picked up a white shell and wrote in large capital letters. DIAMREM. She flipped into the breakers. “Believe in yourself Diamrem." Her sweet voice echoed. "Swim to me." “I cannot swim." The volcano reverberated. “Hurry Diamrem. You walked in the dark of night. You can do anything. Come to me." Her melodic voice mesmerised him. He dragged himself to the seashore where waves lapped around him. She pointed to a passing starfish. “Let the water carry you. Like that.” He floated and grinned in surprise. The princess removed his shirt and ran her fingers down his spine. His whole body felt suddenly lighter. When he saw his legs had been replaced by a magnificent tail, he emitted a throaty sound. His first attempt at using the new tail made her laugh and she buried her face in a sea of bubbles. He managed to wriggle, at first like a tadpole, then found he could weave through the water more easily. “Now try this.” The princess soared like a porpoise in and out of the curling waves. Sunlight danced on her silver scales. They dived and swam together until loud rumblings and a red explosion erupted from the centre of the volcano. “The New Year has begun.” Diamrem pointed to the palace silhouetted against the crimson sky. Later, when the rumblings ceased and fringes of lava cooled all around the island, they lay on the beach and he stroked her hair. “Will you be my bride? Will you take my letters?’ “Yes DIAMREM. And you should know this. It is my privilege to reverse your letters if I want to. So I shall call myself MERMAID." “Mermaid? I like it. It suits you.” She smiled. “I like it too.” Christine Tapper lives in Australia and writes fairy tales, fact, and fiction. ABC radio broadcasted some of her stories; she’s been published by Oxford University Press, online and in anthologies.

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

I loved Close Your Eyes: A Fairy Tale, a beautiful novel set in early 1400’s Northern Europe. The story is told by Samuel, the Kingdom of Gora’s court jester, who is struggling to share the reasons his friends, Tycho the storyteller and Agnieszka the cook, have illegally fled from service. Tycho has left Samuel a scroll as a parting gift, and after spending four years learning to read and write, Samuel, a dwarf who lived a life as a traveling entertainer before coming to the court to amuse the King’s daughter, uses his storytelling techniques and skills to unfold Tycho’s tale, “hoarding secrets, {and} revealing them only as necessary”. The novel provides background on Samuel’s early life as well as the life and tragic love story of the King and his two children. Another important character is Ahab, the court astronomer, who becomes obsessed with learning Tycho’s destiny. The servants of the Kingdom are not free to leave the castle, and Tycho’s storytelling ability is a balm to a court living with an overwhelming cloud of grief. Ahab wonders where Tycho’s stories come from, and this initiates a contemplation of storytelling as an art form. As Tycho falls in love with Agnieszka, he will face difficult decisions that bring him and the reader to a deep understanding of the power of true love. This was a beautiful, sweeping tale that presents much food for thought regarding true love and storytelling (my favorite topics). I felt as though I was at the mercy of a skilled storyteller as Samuel wove together several narratives that ended with a beautiful and uplifting message. The book took me to another time and place and made me wonder about the human desire for meaningful connections and purposeful work. Close Your Eyes: A Fairy Tale is the perfect read for anyone who is interested in love and storytelling. You can purchase it here. Thank you to NetGalley for providing a free copy of this book in exchange for a fair review. Kelly Jarvis teaches classes in literature, writing, and fairy tale at Central Connecticut State University, The University of Connecticut, and Tunxis Community College. She lives, happily ever after, with her husband and three sons in a house filled with fairy tale books. She is also The Fairy Tale Magazine's special project’s writer.

Editor's Note: We're celebrating glorious Snow Queens this December, so please enjoy today's Throwback Thursday poem, full of wonderful winter imagery and fairy tale magic! I You do not have a Godmother To plait your hair with hues of dappled sunshine, Or sew a dress of scented roses That sings of summer each time you spin At the Prince’s Solstice Ball. II No kindly crone will comfort you In the creases of the forest While you wait for walnuts to fall like tears upon your mother’s grave. Their wrinkled shells won’t spill forth gowns threaded thick with autumn’s dying light. No wish will soothe your weathered wounds of grief. III An orphan of the Northern Realm, You must hitch your sled to ravens’ wings, And pay with heated copper pennies for your passage through the sky. You must journey, barefoot, through storms of ice, Clad in the skin of a beast you have slain, Its bloodied fur forcing you forward, Its death a sacrifice. You may encounter winter witches, You may cling to the backs of bears, You may let reindeer lick your salty tears and kiss you with their soft, pink tongues, But, in that barren landscape you will find yourself, alone, With nothing but the Northern Lights to guide your wandering way. IV Let your breath become a crystal prayer That echoes through the night Drawing down the silver light of December’s waning moon. Follow swarms of milk white bees. Find the Queen in frosted blooms, Beautiful, terrible, exquisite, cold. A glimmer of hope in winter’s white gloom. V If you solve her puzzles, she will gift you a glorious gown Stitched from ten-pointed stars and the black velvet of night. Shards of frost, clear as glass, become a crown for your hair, And snowflakes become slippers that slide over ice. Her sleigh, pulled by white chickens, will whisk you away Through dark billowing clouds that breathe windstorms of fright, Until you arrive where you started, in the Realm of the North, At the Ball that rejoices in the return of the light. VI Your beauty will shatter into thousands of pieces As you glide past gilded mirrors lining the walls. Shards, hard as diamonds, will lodge in the eyes Of the Prince, seeking his soulmate at the Solstice Ball. In you he will see the spheres of the heavens, Hear the songs of creation, Feel the romance of death. He will wish to possess your enchanted beauty far more Than you wish for a Prince or a safe place to rest. VII Strong from your trials, you will leave long before midnight, Your slippers of snowflakes still firm on your feet. You will laugh as the wind whisks the stars from your dress, And your slippers of snowflakes melt back into sleet. An orphan of the Northern Realm, You will hitch your rags to eastern skies, Let the dappled sunrise warm the seeds That barely breathe beneath the blackened soil, Knowing that soon, Snow-quenched roses will bloom, Each petal A gift from The Snow Queen. Kelly Jarvis teaches classes in literature, writing, and fairy tale at Central Connecticut State University, The University of Connecticut, and Tunxis Community College. She lives, happily ever after, with her husband and three sons in a house filled with fairy tale books. She is also The Fairy Tale Magazine's special project’s writer. Image: The Snow Queen, Amanda Bergloff @AmandaBergloff