If you enjoy fast-paced fantasy novels featuring new adult characters trying to find their way in the world, then Realm of Lore and Lies by Claire Wright may be the book you have been waiting for. Alternating between the limited omniscient perspectives of Aisling (Ash), Tiernan, Setana, and Maebh, the novel tells the story of the Fianna, a group of traveling clans living in 21st century Ireland who have inherited Faerie Sight which allows them to see through the glamour of the Fair Ones. The novel opens with Ash, a young woman who was destined to be the matriarch of her clan before leaving her people to pursue a degree in archaeology. When Ash finds the dead body of her mother in an ancient tomb, she is forced back to the world of the Fianna to complete her mother’s quest and solve her murder. The tone and style of the novel is designed to appeal to new adults, and it does fulfill this objective. The focus rotates quickly between the misfit characters, the language is casual, and plot is emphasized over characterization. The novel is the first in a series, so the conclusion prepares readers for more rather than bringing full closure to the narrative. My favorite part about the book is the use of Irish history, spirituality, and lore. Readers will learn about Puca, Changelings, Will O’ The Wisps, Banshees, the Tuatha De Danann, and Tir na nOg. The lore was more interesting to me than the plot, but overall, the book is a fun read that will leave you contemplating the way you define your family, your clan, and your home. You can purchase the book HERE. Thank you to NetGalley for providing a 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.

She found the cold invigorating; the howling wind and driving snow a tonic to her frigid soul... Editor's Note: Today's Throwback Thursday story combines traditional fairy tale and folktale motifs to create an original wintry tale that feels both old and new. Enjoy! Long, long ago, when the green world we know yet slumbered beneath thick glacial sheets and a comforter of snow, the ice child was born. Her mother, belly hot and heaving, had ventured alone deep into the forest, where, under spires of pine and a chipped glass sky, she lost her way. While crossing a frozen stream, she fell to her hands and knees, pushing and groaning, the snowy owls echoing her grunts and cries till the child emerged at last, transparent and perfect, connected to her mother by a silvery rope of ice. With her sharp-edged fishing knife the mother severed the ice cord. She opened the front of her coat, fashioned from the skin of a winter wolf, and cradled the ice child upon her breast. The infant’s blue lips suckled eagerly, her tiny ice hands cold and grasping, and the mother’s love flowed like warm honey from her heart, crystallizing where it touched the child, whom the mother named Gaska-geardi in the ancient language of her people, ancestors of the tribes of the far, far North. Winter was the ice child’s father. Weeks before the birth, the mother had fled his frigid embrace, fearing she too soon would find herself among the frozen maidens piled in stacks outside his palace walls. His attractions to mortal women were intense as they were brief. Yet the mother loved her ice child, as all mortal mothers love the beings their bodies bring forth, though the child, she could already see, more resembled her father, his elemental nature, his austere beauty, his icicle touch. And for a time, all was well with the mother and the ice child. They hid in a cave in the womb of a mountain, where the mother kept a small fire to warm herself while the ice child slept in a snowdrift nearby. But one day a man came upon them, a herder of reindeer of the mother’s tribe, and the mother and the ice child returned with him to the village. The mother was welcomed back with joy, for until that moment the villagers had believed she had perished in a winter storm. The people of the village were wary when they saw the ice child, whose strange appearance, they feared, marked her for calamity and some dire fate. The herder and the mother married. They went to live in a wooden hut with a roof of tin, a hearth and windows. The mother, happy there and warm, bore another child, a mortal boy. And the herder grew angry as the mother continued to suckle her ice child alongside his pink-faced son. “Thief!” he thundered, accusing the ice child of stealing his son’s rightful milk. Enraged, the herder struck Gaska-geardi away from her mother’s breast with a heavy blow that left a crack in the perfect transparency of the ice child’s chest. Then he opened the hut’s front door and tossed the ice child out into the frozen night, telling her never to return, or he would lift his iron axe and shatter her in pieces and toss her shards into the hearth’s hot flames. For a time, the mother continued to feed Gaska-geardi in secret. “When you are hungry,” the mother told the ice child, “write a message on the window and I will come.” And so each night the ice child waited, watching from where she stood in the darkness outside the hut’s window as the herder dandled the fat baby boy on his knee and the little family laughed their laughter of belonging and tenderness while the crack in the ice child’s chest would ache. When the father and baby boy fell asleep, the ice child would write a message to her mother on the window in frost, and the mother would steal out and nurse Gaska-geardi until the ice child grew drowsy in her mother’s arms, though each morning she would awaken to find herself alone in the snow’s cold embrace. Then one night the mother did not come. Gaska-geardi wrote her messages again and again until the window was layered deep in frost, and she could no longer see inside. And after many days and nights, when her mother still did not appear, the ice child set off all on her own, for, she told herself, Winter could be no more cold or cruel than these supposedly warm-blooded mortals who had left her there to die. The ice child discovered she needed little to sustain herself. Away from her mother, her hunger dwindled. The cold she found invigorating; the howling wind and driving snow a tonic to her frigid soul. She grew to young womanhood, sleek and slender, a figure of glass-like grace, and the crystalline crack diminished as she grew till it was no more than a forgotten childhood scar. One day her father found her by cold magic. She was swimming with the narwhals, white unicorns of the northern seas. “My child,” Winter sighed, and wrapped her in his iceberg arms, and Gaska-geardi wept, surprised by the sudden hot mortal tears that welled and melted furrows in her perfect cheeks, which her father’s silvery fingers instantly smoothed and healed. He took the ice child back to his palace and taught her the language of wintertide, a hundred words for snow alone: the soft snow one’s feet sink into while walking; the hard icy crust that melts under a day-sun’s warmth and refreezes in the night; the soft, sticky snow that falls thickly in great flakes; the snow that blows up from the Earth in fine gusts; the old snow; the fresh snow; the empty space between snow and ground. He revealed to her the secrets of the blues of ancient ice and sky. Enchanted, she traced them through the palace’s sculpted corridors, its silvery ballrooms and banquet halls set with lavish tables, sconces alight in cold blue flames. The changing light of day and night, refracted through the frozen architecture, wrought endless variations of image and reflection, every surface a gallery of shifting display, and she was certain, in all her travels, she had never seen anything more lovely. There was only one place in her father’s palace where the ice-child-turned-woman was forbidden to go: the wing that held Winter’s impregnable prison, where three inmates had been sentenced to languish for eternity. A shape-shifting warden guarded this prison day and night. When Gaska-geardi first saw him, he wore the form of an enormous winter wolf, asleep at the foot of a wall of blue ice which bore no door, no lock nor key. As the ice woman bent to stroke the wolf’s white-silver fur, she recalled her mother, whom she hadn’t thought of in quite some time, and what was left of the old crack in her chest creaked and ached. Startled from his slumber, the wolf nipped her wrist. Her ice hand broke off and lay between them on the white marble floor. “You’re a brittle one,” the wolf said, his round golden eyes gazing into hers until she grew drowsy. Then, with a great effort of will, Gaska-geardi looked away, picked up her severed hand and took it to her father. “Disobedient child,” her father chided, “I should leave you to suffer the consequences of your actions,” even as he healed her, “but I am too fond.” The ice hand, reattached, shimmered seamlessly at the end of her arm as before. “Father,” the ice woman said. “What do you keep imprisoned in that far wing of the palace? Your power is great. Your might rules the land. What remains for you to fear?” Winter regarded her gravely. “Are you happy here, my child?” “As happy as an ice being may ever hope to be,” she replied. “Father, you have been most kind.” “Then you must promise never to return to the palace prison wing.” And the ice woman promised, a promise she would not keep. Some days when she visited, the warden was a wolf, other days an Arctic fox or a snowshoe hare. Some days he was a polar bear, or a silvery lynx with silent flat paws, or a velvet-soft harp seal with great, dark eyes. Some days he was a man in a white fur coat, and on these days she loved him least, yet she was enthralled by his endless variety, and he by her transparent adoration. And thus they went on meeting at the juncture of enchantment and prohibition, until the day Gaska-geardi asked the warden to reveal to her what it was he guarded, what lay on the other side of the blue ice prison wall. The warden refused. “You will not survive it. And if I should lose you now, I would surely die of a great loneliness of spirit.” “As would I, should you leave me,” the ice woman assured him. “But I must know what my father fears.” The next time she saw the warden, he had taken the form of a large snow goose with sleek white feathers and black-tipped wings. He bent his pink legs and the ice woman climbed upon his back. “You may look down,” the snow goose said, “but I cannot land.” And in a rush of wind and feathers, her slender ice arms wrapped tightly around the goose’s long white neck, Gaska-geardi was quickly aloft, the snow goose soaring toward the top of the blue ice wall. And as they crossed over the wall and the snow goose circled in flight, “I understand now,” the ice woman whispered. For below them stretched Summer, pulsing lush and hot. The ice woman’s eyes were dazzled by bright fluttering butterflies. Her ears rang with songs of birds of every hue. Her nostrils filled with a thick perfume of blooming flowers and ripening fruit. Summer’s long-enclosed heat, magnified, reached up and enveloped them, and the ice woman felt the surface of her frozen skin grow moist and slick and slippery until, with a small cry, she lost her grip upon the snow goose and plummeted downward through the fecund, heated air. The snow goose watched in horror as his lover fell and was caught by the branches of a lilac tree, where she hung, helpless and stunned. A creature of winter, the snow goose could not land. Instead, he retraced his path, returned to the winter side of the blue ice wall, and alighting, assumed the shape of a man. He retrieved an axe and wielded it desperately, chopping a narrow passage through the doorless ice wall. He squeezed through the opening, disentangled Gaska-geardi from the lilac tree where she hung. He carried her fast-melting form in his arms, back into the palace, then sealed the breach in the prison wall with snow. But it was too late. Summer had escaped, scorching its exit through Winter’s palace. It could no longer be contained. The two remaining prisoners, Spring and Fall, assaulted the breach in the blue ice wall, broke through and freed themselves before Winter could intervene. Furious, Winter banished Gaska-geardi and her lover. He seized the warden’s skins and feathers and burned them so the warden could shapeshift no more. Trapped in the body of a mortal man, the warden grew old. Gaska-geardi, much reduced in size from Summer’s melting, wept yet again her mortal tears as her lover froze in her fatal embrace, and there was no one now to heal the cracks and furrows that marred the perfect surface of her face. Winter, much diminished in power, forfeited his dominion over the land. Summer gained ascendancy, allied itself with Spring and Fall. Winter kept only his most far-flung territories, and some say a time is coming when he will lose them all. The ice child found her way back to her mother’s hut in the far north village, but years had flown and her mother had long since passed away. Yet, on the coldest nights, they say, the ice child searches for her mother still, writes on warm windows her ancient runes in frost as she waits outside, bereft, having lost all she loved, her heart an aching crack. And if you should see her message on your window, do not go outside. She seeks what she will never find, and all that is mortal will die in her embrace Tara Williams lives in Arizona, where the average winter temperature is in the 60s. Her fiction has previously appeared in Entropy's Black Cackle, Apparition, The Weird Reader Vol. III, and other publications. Cover: Amanda Bergloff @AMANDABERGLOFF

“An Evergreen Christmas” is a delightful mix of old stories and poems, mostly from the Victorian era. It celebrates Christmas in an old-timey way, but those of us who enjoy Victorian vibes, no matter how goody-two-shoes they are, will get a special kick out of it. You’ll find O. Henry in this book, and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and Dickens, of course. But there’s also Christina Rossetti and L.M. Montgomery, plus many more. This is a fast and pleasing read, and children will enjoy it as well. There are many old-fashioned customs and ideas here that could spark conversions with little ones. And speaking of “old-fashioned,” the attitudes of the 19th and early 20th centuries have not been cleaned up, so bear in mind that you will encounter ideas that many of us nowadays don’t subscribe to. You’ll meet good kids and a lot of poor families in this treasury, which is no bad thing. It behooves us to recall the poor in a season of over-the-top spending and the Victorians had no problem piling the moral lessons on. I don’t mind that a bit. You can find a copy of the book HERE. Thank you to NetGalley for providing a free copy of this book to review. Review by Kate Wolford. editor-in-chief of The Fairy Tale Magazine.

The poems in Christi Steyn’s collection What the Moon Gave Her revolve around the theme of self-discovery through the natural world. Divided into six chapters (“birth by the ocean”, “you plucked too many petals”, “how to grow wings”, “dancing dolphins”, “full moon/bloom”, and “two trees intertwined”), the book explores metaphorical birth, awakening, and connection. The poems are often personal with Steyn advocating “if you cannot write poetry / write about yourself my dear / there in the lines / a poem will appear.” This excerpt is similar in style and tone to many of the poems in the book which directly address the reader and use simple rhyme. Several poems suggest the reader connect with nature to “become a waterfall” or “let [your] wings grow”. Some poems meditate on the pains of romantic break up, isolation, and loneliness, while others unfold as lists such as “how to be invincible” or “how to become love”. An interesting series of poems sets out to explain colors to someone who can’t see, and a standout in the collection, “hands and names”, uses the moving image of the hands of the poet’s grandmother to explore love and loss. The poems are scattered with simple pen and ink drawings that match the mood of the collection. Although I didn’t find any memorable stanzas and was sometimes underwhelmed by the simple use of rhyme scheme, there are many pieces which may resonate with female readers who have experienced friendship, doubt, love, loss, and spiritual awakening. Like the moon in the title, the collection offers readers the potential for beautiful transformation. You can purchase the book here. Thanks to NetGalley for providing a copy of this book in exchange for an honest 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: Food and spells. Food as spells. Completely irresistible and so we didn’t resist it! Brittany and Sara are scholar poets who are also terrific teachers of folklore and writing, so enjoy this magical Throwback Thursday poem! There are spells of cast iron we know with lines that echo, soft and low, in our minds, in our hearts, that help us not to fall apart. The simplest one is easy to make, soothing to mix, cleansing to bake, a bit of milk, vanilla flower, cinnamon for spice and power. The brightest pumpkin from your path, a few quick tears and buried wrath, a circle of protective salt, the knowledge that it's not your fault. We sugar the spell a bit too sweet, get distracted, drag our feet, But it comes together, nonetheless, this easeful comfort we possess. And when the world is just too much, we let our lips this hearth spell touch - and in that act of letting go, our next right steps begin to glow. Dr. Sara Cleto and Dr. Brittany Warman are award-winning folklorists, teachers, and writers. Together, they founded The Carterhaugh School of Folklore and the Fantastic, teaching creative souls how to re-enchant their lives through folklore and fairy tales. Their fiction and poetry can be found in Enchanted Living, Uncanny Magazine, Apex Magazine, Liminality, and others. Image by Ilze Lucero, from Unsplash.

“Christmas Past” is a delightful book packed with just enough information to keep you entertained, but not overwhelmed. Author Brian Earl, host of the very popular podcast “Christmas Past,” has gathered together the origins, reasons and details of diverse Christmas folklore and traditions, like eggnog, carols, Santa, gingerbread, staging “The Nutcracker,” and candy canes. (The red stripes on the famed Spangler candy canes are hand painted on, which really surprised me.) Earl’s tone is self assured and lighthearted. He has a way of packing a lot of information into a short space, but the book never feels stuffed or jumbled. Each of the 26 chapters focuses on a popular Christmas item, tradition or folklore. I learned something new from every entry, and never felt like I was being given too much or too little information. The images and designs in the book are delightful as well, as they tend to be old ads or illustrations of common Christmas customs. You could read this book in one sitting, but I took a few days to read it, because it’s so enjoyable. It would also be a great gift for kids ages middle school and up. Kids adore reading information nuggets, and these are especially accessible and easy to relate to. I recommend “Christmas Past” without reservation! “Christmas Past: The Fascinating Stories Behind Our Favorite Holiday's Traditions,” will be published on Nov. 1, and you can order it here. Thank you to NetGalley for providing a free copy of this book to review. Review by Kate Wolford. editor-in-chief of The Fairy Tale Magazine.

The Golden Age of Illustration is a term applied to a time period (1880s - 1920s) of unprecedented excellence in book and magazine illustrations by artists in Europe and America. Advances in technology at the time allowed for accurate and inexpensive reproductions of their art, which allowed quality books to be available to the voracious public demand for new graphic art. Today, The Fairy Tale Magazine is shining a spotlight on one of our favorite artists from this time period, Arthur Rackham, whose art was influenced by the Arts and Crafts movement, Art Nouveau, and the Pre-Raphaelite and Post Impressionist artists of their time. In turn, Rackham went on to influence many modern illustrators as well. Learn a bit more about this artist below: Arthur Rackham (September 18, 1867 - September 6, 1939) is widely regarded as one of the leading illustrators from the Golden Age of British book illustration. His work is seen as a fusion of a northern European Nordic style with the Japanese woodblock tradition of the early 19th century. His background in journalistic illustration, combined with a subtle use of watercolor created a unique look that was able to be mass produced in high quality illustrated books due to technological developments in photographic reproduction. Born in London in 1867, Rackham was one of twelve children. He loved drawing from a young age and knew he wanted to be an artist. While he worked at the Westminster Fire Office as an insurance clerk during the day, he was also enrolled in evening courses at the Lambeth School of Art in 1884. He spent seven years studying art while working full-time until he became a staff artist at the Westminster Budget in1892. A year later, his first published book illustrations were featured in To the Other Side by Thomas Rhodes. In 1894, Rackham's first serious commission was published in The Dolly Dialogues, the collected sketches of Anthony Hope. With the success of this book, other commissions followed, and his art was in enough demand that he was able to quit his job with the Westminster Budget and concentrate on illustrating full time. By the time Rackham turned thirty, he had illustrated nine books, including, Tales from Shakespeare (1899.) After meeting his future wife, painter Edyth Starkie, in 1900, Rackham was encouraged to follow his interests in drawing worlds of fantasy and fairy tale magic. He illustrated The Fairy Tales from the Brothers Grimm that same year which proved to be such an overwhelming success, that it was reprinted twice. Rackham's approach to illustrating started with carefully drawing his subject in pencil, then inking over it in India ink. For color, he used transparent watercolor paint, and laid down wash upon delicate wash which gave his illustrations an ethereal quality well-suited to the fairy tale/fantasy subject matter that he loved. Rackham's reputation for pen and ink fantasy illustration led to him illustrating many beautiful gift books like Gulliver's Travels in1900. In a survey of British Book Illustration of the time, author John Salaman wrote, "Mr. Rackham stands apart from all the other illustrators of the day; his genius is so thoroughly original. Scores of others have depicted fairyland and wonderland, but who else has given us so absolutely individual and persuasively suggestive a vision of their marvels and allurements? Whose elves are so elfish, whose witches and gnomes are so convincingly of their kind, as Mr. Rackham's?" Other notable works of Rackham's include his illustrations for Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie, A Midsummer Night's Dream by William Shakespeare, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll, The Sleeping Beauty by Charles Perrault, The Valkyrie by Richard Wagner, and many more. Rackham's art defined how fairy tales looked inside my mind, and his work still resonates with fairy tale enthusiasts all over the world. Enjoy some of Rackham's wonderful & inspiring art: From Little Red Riding Hood, 1909 From The Sleeping Beauty, 1920 "Lancelot Slays the Dragon" From Tales of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, 1915 "Hynd Horn" From Some British Ballads, 1919 Allerleirauh, 1914 From Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens,1906 "Guleech" From The Allie's Fairy Book,1916 "The Lady & The Lion" From Grimm's Fairy Tales,1909 "The Welsh Giant" From The Allie's Fairy Book,1916 "Who Won the Caucas Race" From Alice's Adventures in Wonderland,1907 "The Maiden & Winter" From The Allie's Fairy Book,1916 "The Haunted Wood' From Arthur Rackham's Book of Pictures, 1913 "The Three Bears" From English Fairy Tales, 1918 Frontispiece of English Fairy Tales, 918 "Titania Asleep" From A Midsummer Night's Dream, 1908 "The Meeting of Oberon & Titania" From A Midsummer Night's Dream, 1908 And if you'd like to see an image gallery of Arthur Rackham's illustrations for Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, you can view it free HERE Enchanted Conversation's contributing editor, Amanda Bergloff, writes modern fairy tales and speculative fiction. Her work has appeared in various anthologies, including Frozen Fairy Tales, After the Happily Ever After, and Uncommon Pet Tales. Follow her on Twitter @AmandaBergloff Join her every Tuesday on Twitter for #FairyTaleTuesday to share what you love about fairy tales, folktales, and myths. Also, if you like sharing your #vss fairy tales on Twitter, follow @fairytaleflash and use #FairyTaleFlash so we can retweet! Cover: Amanda Bergloff

Editor’s note: The ease of language in this Throwback Thursday poem, and the way every word helps build a picture appealed to us. We can see every move and item, and we think you’ll enjoy it, too. Not every maiden Who accepted the strange little man’s deal Discovered his name (Rumpelstiltskin) Facing the threat Of losing their newborn child The cruel imp spending their labour Standing in the corner Of the royal birthing chamber Rubbing his hands with glee But, a quick-thinking midwife Can still provide a win At the very last moment Slipping a warming pan into blankets Bundled up like a babe Handing it over “Is this what you wanted?” “Yes! Yes!” clapping with delight (Words seal the deal) Mother sobs as the little man vanishes Then, midwife smiles Hands over newborn child… DJ Tyrer is the person behind Atlantean Publishing, and has been published in issues of The Horrorzine, Illumen, Sirens Call, Spectral Realms, Star*Line, and Tigershark, and online at Lonesome October, and Three Drops from a Cauldron. SuperTrump and A Wuhan Whodunnit are available to download from the ATLANTEAN PUBLISHING website. He also has a personal BLOG. Image by Arthur Rackham

Melissa Yuan-Innes’ newest book, Chinese Cinderella, Fairy Godfathers & Beastly Beauty: Feminist Fairy Tales from Ancient China to Contemporary North America, is a joyful read that will enchant fiction and fairy tale lovers. This collection is the second work in her series Spellbinding Speculative Fiction, and it will bring readers from ancient China to twenty-first century America with its blend of classic folklore and contemporary characters. In addition to the titular retelling of the “Cinderella” tale, the book offers a cultural variant of “Little Red Riding Hood” and a sexy, humorous take on “The Three Little Pigs”. Some stories provide innovative representations of famous pairs from Greek mythology and British legends (like Apollo and Daphne or King Arthur and Merlin), while other tales create memorable characters like Trenton Lo, a seven-year-old boy who defeats an evil fairy godfather in “Fairy Tales are for White People”. The sequel, “The Bao Queen”, shifts the narrative focus to Trenton’s adorable little sister and includes a recipe for Char Siu Bao. Yuan-Innes’ humor and medical knowledge shine through her narratives, but my favorite pieces, first published in The Fairy Tale Magazine, are poignant explorations of life and love. “Death and the Mother”, a retelling of “Snow White”, contemplates the depth of a mother’s love for her child, and the stunning poem, “A Half Century of Beauty”, turns the struggles of infertility into a celebration of life. This beautiful collection, which brings the magic of folklore into an urban environment, is a must have for fairy tale lovers looking to lose themselves in laughter, hope, and enchantment. You can find a copy of the book HERE. Thanks to NetGalley for providing a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review. Kelly Jarvis teaches classes in literature, writing, and fairy tale at Central Connecticut State University, The University of Connecticut, and Tunxis Community College. She lives, happily ever after, with her husband and three sons in a house filled with fairy tale books. She is also Enchanted Conversation’s special project’s writer.

Check out Kate's fabulous finds that you can enjoy, too! This week's pick: The Enchanted Art Oracle Deck Now I love oracle decks, but not for the reasons you might suspect. Although I used to cut the cards to see what they might suggest to me, I don’t do the divination thing. Instead, I collect them as the delightful pieces of art that they are. This week’s pick is an oracle deck that’s perfect for fairy art fans: the Enchanted Art Oracle deck. The images on it are from commercial and book illustration collections from the late 19th to early 20th century and they are gorgeous! A dainty fairy rides the moon, a glamorous couple trips the light fantastic, Alphonse Mucha deities cast come hither looks. If you are remotely interested in pretty, mystical, enchanted art, you’ll love this sweet deck, for looks alone. I have created an oracle deck board, which will be in the background at our next and last free Zoom meeting of the year, which will be Dec. 5, at 7 p.m., EST. (If you aren’t on our mailing list, scroll below to sign up.) Here’s a peek at my board, which features cards from a variety of sets, but today’s is well represented. As for the deck, there is not a book accompanying it, as it’s pretty freestyle, but that opens you up to all manner of dreaming when using the cards. The deck is the work of Mimi Pettibone, the Dream Detective, and she’s chosen her words and images very well indeed. The images are perfectly filtered to maximize their beauty and impact. The cards come in a pretty aqua organza bag with an information card. At $16, they are considerably more affordable than most decks. All in all, the Enchanted Art Oracle card deck is a delightful, decorative, inspirational, and affordable luxury. You can buy them here: https://www.etsy.com/listing/454635860/enchanted-art-oracle-card-deck Until next week, stay enchanted!

Editor’s note: The wild, prose-poem imagery of this work grabbed me with its teeming, excited, magical, fevered language and pace. It both exhorts and exalts. Listen. To the language that requires no ears to hear with, no vowels, consonants, diphthongs, declensions, or twisting acrobatics of the teeth and tongue. Consider the bowed willow and the bottomless well, the rusted gate, the creeping rot in the castle walls, the fork in the road, the broom on the hearth, black crow, drop of blood, wolf, thorn, snake, shooting star, moon and sun. In daylight we are deaf to portents, blind to treasure. In dreams we dance with them from midnight til dawn, forgetting our shoes and ourselves, bloodying our toes without a care for the doctor’s bill. The kingdom of dreams is a forest glutted with soul’s gold, thick as porridge in a hungry bear’s bowl. Here, all the falls you take never end. Here, every path is winding (in on itself, ouroboros). Until you wake up with a jerk, a thump, a snap of the blinds rolling up (eyelids) as the bleating alarm rollercoasters through your ear whorls. Tiger tiger burning bright in the forests of the night stares with sad cartoon eyes from the cereal box. Every bottle at the table beckons, "Drink Me,” and every day you reach for the bitterest potion of them all. Wonderland weeps while you dig Mr. Sandman’s crusty gifts from your dry eyes and brush your teeth. Every day you take the highway most traveled by in the forest-less kingdom to which you banished yourself in search of the prince(ss), the cure, the shiniest object (so many you cannot recall). Here, everyone has a magic mirror; here, we devour all the pretty red apples, every gingerbread treat. Can’t Stop, Won’t Stop. The Hustle is Real. The magic mirror shows all and comes with an iron-clad pinky swear promise that it does not lie (read the fine print: it sells dreams, my dear, for a very steep price). In the tower overgrown with sleeping briar roses, the child you once upon a time were wonders when you’ll stop following crumbs and pills and climb out of the oven. Can’t you see all of the bones? Are you blind? Are we better off awake or asleep? Some say we are asleep—we need to wake up. Be Woke. Woke AF. It’s on t-shirts, in memes. Wake up from the dream! Or if you must dream, Dream Big! Dream Better! Need help? Consult the magic mirror for more great tips! You have a dream. You are seated at a dinner table, honored guest. There is no silverware. You panic. Everyone at the table is a stranger, except the janitor from your elementary school. They are hungry, but they cannot eat until you begin. The feast steams impatiently on silver plates. Anxiety squeezes your guts. Do you eat with your hands or ask for a fork and a knife? Or do you run? Your legs are rusted tin, your head withered straw. You dig in your pockets for courage—there is none. For a moment, the veil lifts. In that magical realm between asleep and awake, choices can be made. Unlock the forbidden door, trade your cow for the magic beans, grab that oil can to your right, next to the roast beef. You hesitate. The alarm roars. You wake and forget. You forget the language of the most tender, loving tongue hiding in plain sight, breathing endless buoyant ribbons of wordless tales to tilt the trees, wave the grass, sing the birds, churn the waters, flame the fire, and strike the blossom up through the strip mall parking lot. Pluck it. And with a swish-flourish-slash cut away the strangling briar hedge and set all of the sleepy prisoners free. Huzzah! In this wondrous Imaginarium, this universe-kaleidoscope, this endless rollicking play—you, too, are the wordless words. Can you hear you? Close your eyes, click your heels three times and whisper: “I am infinite possibility.” Listen. In my house there’s a wolf who lives like a dog, but has not forgotten he’s a wolf. He reminds me with his hunting slink, his howl and growling over a bone. He prowls the kitchen and delights the daycare children down the street. “Wolf!” they shout with glee and point and laugh and waggle their fingers, reaching through the fence to touch his wet black nose and weave small hands into his cool gray fur. They know what they see when they see it. They have ears to hear with, eyes to see with, noses to smell with, and teeth to eat with. No ovens for them. No crumbs and stale candy houses. No magic mirror tricks. They choose the wolf. As do I. Trip trap typing on my magic mirror I conjure the words from each precious heart thud spiraling rosy life through my 60,000 miles of winding arteries, veins, and capillaries (and back again). Ferocious and tender love for the woods and the path, for the wild wolf and the wild child overflow this electric tangle of space and flesh, blood and bone, constellations and stories. Words, thoughts, firecracker synapses unravel in an endless river of poppies, poppies, poppies red as my hood, red as my blood from the finger I pricked on the endless spinning wheel on this spinning rock in a spinning galaxy of stars—I dream. Listen. The clock is striking twelve, final as the blow of the huntsman’s axe, transformative as a kiss. Run. Feel the moss and flowers kiss your bare feet in welcome and relief. Ahead, an ancient hut dances round in circles on wizened chicken legs and throws open the front door. On the hearth, fast asleep, the wolf dreams of grandmothers and rabbits. The skulls on the rusty iron gate douse their light, for the dawn rider is already thundering by. The path is clear before you and the morning here is soft and sacred, touched everywhere by gentle gold. You are home, dreamer, weaver of stories woven in dreams. Awake. Liz Bragdon is a Movement Educator and Storyteller. In her Louisiana studio, she helps folks create healthier movement stories to live by. Beyond the studio, she reimagines folk and fairy tales, mixes them with creative movement, and shares them with children through her “Tales with a Twist: Stories That Move!” programs. Image: Pixabay

There’s nothing supernatural or fairy tale-ish in the delightfully wild and fun novel, “The Goddess Effect,” by Sheila Yasmin Marikar, but I’m using this as a pick of the week anyway. It’s a hoot! Anita is a 30-something woman who has chucked her unsatisfying job in New York and moved to LA to start over. She’s hurting from the loss of her beloved father and has some ill will toward her mother, who she, nonetheless, clearly loves. What follows, as she shares a house rent free with some other young people trying to hustle a life in LA, is a series of terrible, yet fascinating, decisions. Anita drinks waaayyy too much, doesn’t really pursue the job opportunity she moves for, and gets caught up in an awful “wellness” semi-cult: “The Goddess Effect.” Anita absolutely grows in this story. And along the way, we learn a lot about race and Indian culture and the way it is fetishized and co-opted by rich white women. But we also get to read about a stupendous Indian wedding, a truly bonkers retreat (there’s something horrible in those gummies at that whacky gathering). And we learn that there’s a lot of racial box-ticking along the way by several characters. Marikar uses humor and wild behavior to make excellent points about friendship, culture and race and how we never should stop growing in this life. She’s a fresh new voice, and I look forward to reading more of her work. Note: “The Goddess Effect” is definitely not for people who get upset and put out by heavy alcohol and party drug use and swearing and hookups. But I’m a grandmother, and I wasn’t offended. The author uses these elements to get her larger, more important, points across. You can find a copy of the book HERE. Thanks to NetGalley for providing a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.