Check out Kate's fabulous finds that you can enjoy, too! This week's pick: Magical Stuffing? Yes! Now that The Eating Season has officially kicked off, it’s time for those of us who celebrate Thanksgiving to consider the meal. Somewhat shorn of its less than wholesome origins, Thanksgiving is now just food and football for most of us. Or food and reading if you’re like me. But first, we have to prepare the feast, and this week, I’m sharing the best stuffing recipe in the world, according to my family. It’s my mom’s recipe for chestnut stuffing. It has a nearly supernatural reputation in my family, and we are quite the eaters. Mom found it in her 1955 Good Housekeeping cookbook, but didn’t start making it until the ‘80s. Before that, we had the classic stuffing made of white bread pieces, celery, a lot of butter, onions and poultry seasoning. I still make that kind and love it. It’s very easy and pretty much foolproof. Warning: The chestnut part of this stuffing can be painful, as the nuts will burn your fingers. We consider it a small price for excellence. Here we go: Magical Stuffing 1 1/2 pounds chestnuts 1 cup butter 1 1/2 cup celery, chopped 1 cup onion, chopped 2 tsp. salt 1 tsp. dried thyme (increase amount if using fresh thyme) 1 tsp. marjoram 1/2 tsp. black pepper 8 cups of bread cubes (use white bread without the crust) Chestnut Preparation: About a week before Thanksgiving, cut a deep X in each chestnut with a sharp knife. In a small pot, bring water to a boil. Prepare the chestnuts in small batches. Drop in 10 chestnuts at a time and boil for about 5 minutes. Remove 5 chestnuts from the pot at a time with a slotted spoon. Use a knife to quarter the hot chestnuts and peel them as fast as you can. Repeat this process until all the chestnuts are peeled and your fingers are burned! Coarsely chop the chestnuts, put them in an airtight bag, and freeze until ready to use. (Definitely consider preparing 3 pounds of chestnuts and freezing half to use at Christmas.) Stuffing Preparation: In a large pot over medium heat, melt butter. Add onion, celery, thyme, marjoram, salt and pepper. Cook until the onion and celery are soft. Remove from heat and mix in breadcrumbs. If the stuffing looks dry, add some extra melted butter. Add the chestnuts to the mixture. Gently pack stuffing into a buttered casserole dish. Cover with aluminum foil and bake at 375 degrees for 30 minutes. Remove foil and bake for an additional 15 minutes. This makes eight servings—which in my family really means four. Enjoy! Image info: Image bears no relation to the recipe. It’s just so bizarre that I thought you’d all like seeing it. Until next week, stay enchanted!

They draped sheets with holes cut away from their eyes and dangled chains from their wrists. "They'll never know it's us..." Editor's Note:: The Fairy Tale Magazine wishes all our readers a happy All Hallows Eve with this charming Throwback Thursday tale that uses the magic of Halloween as its backdrop. Enjoy! They became ghosts, both of them, that night. She tied her hair back in a ponytail just like she used to do in the days when she danced. He left his reading glasses on the sideboard. They draped sheets with holes cut away for their eyes over one another and dangled chains from their wrists. He tested the rattle and sway of his chains and smiled. “Boo-o-o-o-ah-ha-ha-ha-ha,” she said, carefully measuring out a single pirouette before squaring herself in front of the hall mirror. She leaned forward, bent her knees, tried to make herself small, to fit within the long oval of glass. “Well? What do you think?” “They’ll never know it’s us.” “Mm-hmm,” she said, tipping her chin up and grabbing the pumpkin-shaped bucket off of the end table. Then they stepped out into the night. It was cool and dark, and they could see a jagged line of stars low in the sky near Heather and Ray’s rooftop. Draco and Ursa Minor. Holding hands, they began to walk, chains dragging on the sidewalk. A shrieking herd – unicorn, zombie, the Incredible Hulk, and Wonder Woman - crossed over from the other side of the street. A mom following behind yelled to look both ways. She tugged on his hand and led him to Diego and Jocelyn’s porch. The herd of children was already saying “Thank you!” and shuffling away. Purple light flickered from the eyes of a skeleton propped up on the porch railing as Bobby Pickett sang The Monster Mash from a speaker mounted beneath it. The two of them stepped up on the porch. She offered the bucket, and Diego dropped a handful of fun size bags of M&M’s into the bucket. They were giggling by the time they were back on the sidewalk. The sheets around them fit a bit snugger now. “He didn’t know it was us?” he asked once they were at the next house. “Oh, come on. We’ve been over how many times, for how many years? You were standing right there in front of him.” “Draped in a bedsheet. And he had a monster mask on.” “Well,” he said. “Yeah, but you said trick or treat. Your voice…” “Did you hear me say trick or treat?” He stopped, looked at her. “He was already in a giving mood. The kids said it for all of us. Besides, you did see the open bottle of Wild Turkey on the end table, right? Jocelyn kicked back on the sofa with a rocks glass?” “No,” he said, unsure, and looked back over his shoulder. “Hey, maybe we could...” She bumped him with her hip and squeezed his fingers. “Uh-huh,” she said. “Come on, you.” “Maybe we’ll stop by later.” “Perhaps,” she said and the two of them rounded the corner onto Blackbird Lane. The light shifted as soon as they did. The stars seemed to shimmer in a pale indigo. “Will you look at that,” he said. “The veil is thin. We’re walking in it.” “Veil, huh?” He pinched a corner of his costume, raised it up to have a look. “I thought these were old bedsheets.” She laughed, not unkindly. They kept walking. Both squeezed the other’s hand a bit tighter as they passed the empty lot where Ricky used to stay, back when he still had the trailer, when there still seemed to be a chance. Neither said a word. A witch ran by, squealing, hand in hand with a glitter-painted rock star, fur stole and all. They paused near the stop sign on the corner, watching them go. She shook the bucket and watched their latest score of fun-sized Snickers bars tumble over the Blow-Pops and Tootsie Rolls piled beneath. He pointed up to Orion, traced the lines between his points of light like an x-marks-the-spot in the sky. That’s when he realized something – not really something but its absence - and patted the top of his leg. “Hmm,” he said. “My hip.” “Uh-oh. The sciatica again?” He stopped, leaned against the stop sign and tested it. Lifted his foot and stretched his leg out long, moving the toe of his shoe this way and that, waiting for that warning sizzle. But it wasn’t there. He put his heel down and it began to tap in time to a song hovering just behind his thoughts. “No. Not at all. That’s the thing. It actually feels… really good.” “Yeah? Good is good.” “Yeah. But, yeah. I mean good like I could maybe even run again good. Like I used to. That good. Huh.” She poked his belly. “Ugh. Not going to go back to getting up at five in the morning to get a 10K in before breakfast, are you?” He tilted his head to the side, gave it a think. “I might.” “Oh, come on, you,” she said, grinning and shaking her head. She took his hands in hers and leaned backward, pulling him away from the corner, out into the street. The bedsheets flapped as they moved and the chains rattled, dragging against the asphalt. A few words began to pop up as he tried to hum the tune, make me feel this way… It was right there but it wouldn’t quite catch, something, something on a cloudy day… “Not so snug now,” she said, adjusting his sheet where it was slipping off of him, pinching a loose curl of the cloth back into place. “Hey. Have you ever seen the sky like that? Isn’t that something? And all the stars. Looks like a Jackson Pollack.” She tilted her head to the side, considered. “I like it.” “When’d the stars start being all different colors?” “When we rounded the corner.” “Well, then.” An idea lit in his head. All at once he felt certain that if he pulled his sheet away, he’d look the same as he had the day they met, both in their first job out of college. He considered giving it a go. But she was already guiding him further down the street, toward another lit porch with the promise of candy. “They’re good people,” she said, nodding toward the brick house on the corner. A mummy sat on a tree branch, loose strips of bandages waving in the slight breeze. Bats aplenty dangled on a string that ran from the tree to the porch. “Moved in last month. Deanna’s a paralegal, her wife is a nurse at the hospital.” “Good to know with my old ticker,” he said, tapping his chest with the side of his fist. “Never know when you’ll need someone handy with a defibrillator.” “Oh?” she said. “We’ll see about that.” They strolled up to the young woman in the doorway as a flock of Power Rangers raced away and said the magic words for their handful of sweets. “What’d we get?” he said after, peeking into the pumpkin bucket once they were back on the sidewalk, under a streetlamp. “Sugar sticks?” “They’re called Pixy Stix,” she said with a laugh. “Sugar Sticks sounds better,” he said. His foot caught the bottom of his sheet as he stepped forward. He almost fell, but she caught him. “Careful,” she said. They both took a moment to hitch their sheets higher at the waist, tying long, loose knots in them toga-style to hold them in place. The bottoms of the sheets dragged behind them like tails. That only lasted until they rounded the final corner, where the neighborhood ended at the corner of Oak and Owl, where the power lines led out into an old stand of pine. She placed the bucket of candy on the ground and the chains fell from her wrists, as she stood up straight, her hands now too small to hold them in place. His chains followed, moments after. “Will you look at that,” he said, his voice high and happy. She took his sheet in both of her hands and lifted it up and off of him. Then, he did the same for her. They stood there at the corner of Oak and Owl, each staring into the face of a child. Waves of the thin, shimmering blue ran through the sidewalk, the streetlights, the houses, which now seemed distant and faded, like something remembered from a dream. “Will you look at you,” he said. “My girl.” But she shushed him with a fingertip to his lips. Taking his hand in hers, she led him into the light. Jason A. Zwiker's fiction and poetry has appeared in All Hallows: The Journal of the Ghost Story Society, Apparition Lit, Weirdbook, Eureka Literary Magazine, and Resist & Refuse. He received an Honorable Mention in The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror (19th ed.).

The Gravity of Existence by Christins Sng (publication date: December 5, 2022) is a collection of horror poetry aptly described as “tiny terrors”. Each of the short poems in the book is a slice of fear designed to make you think about the world and the monsters that inhabit it. The collection is divided into sections including “Real Monsters”, “Childhood Tales”, “Ghost Stories”, “The Enlightenment of Science”, “In Sickness, In Death”, and “The End”, and is framed by a “Prelude” and “Requiem”. Although I was less interested in the alien and apocalyptic poems, I delighted in her series of fairy tale poems including “Little Red in Haiku”, “Snow White”, “Sleeping Beauty”, and “The Wizard of Oz”. The poems are almost shocking in their brevity as they allude to the untellable aspects of the stories. I gasped and laughed at her simple but powerful rendition of “Goldilocks and the Three Bears” which reads as follows: “after their walk / the bears discover something / tastier than porridge”. Sng’s sparse style forces you to imagine the atrocities beneath the words so that the poems stay with you long after they have been read. The collection is dark and filled with eerie humor, but there is hope in the poems as well. In one of my favorites, “A Better World”, Sng writes “I cast a magic spell / To manifest my grief / Creating a new world / Full of rage-filled ghouls / Bent on protecting girls”. Christina Sng is a three-time Bram Stoker Award-winning author whose collection, The Gravity of Existence, will give you the chills and leave you aching for more. If you enjoy small bursts of horror poetry that will linger long after the lights have been turned out, this collection is for you! You can pre-order a copy of 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 Enchanted Conversation’s special project’s writer.

Editor’s note: This story’s spare style, as well as the great twist in it, really grabbed my attention. The details are well chosen and there’s a lightness to it that you’ll enjoy. Young Hannah Fairweather believed in fairies, so much so that she swore someday she would live among them in the fairy realm. Hannah had no idea where the fairy realm was located, nor had she ever actually seen a fairy outside the pages of her storybooks. Neither of these facts bothered her, however. Hannah spent countless hours gazing at pictures of fairies, fascinated by their tiny forms, flawless features, and fluttering wings. Fairies were small and beautiful creatures, just like Hannah herself, and in the best stories, they used their fairy magic to get their way. Hannah liked getting her way. On Hannah's eleventh birthday, two things happened that hastened her determination. First, Hannah's father, the village magistrate, presented her with two silver shillings—no small gift in a land where many a farmer labored nearly a month for such a sum. Secondly, Elizabeth Weirwood came to town. Elizabeth had been around as long as the eldest village elder could recall. Bent with age but razor-sharp in wit, she was only seen in the village once or twice per year. It was well known, especially among the women of the village, that Elizabeth could cure nearly any malady. What was not well known was where the Weirwood woman, as she was sometimes called, came from or how she acquired her miraculous skills. Some said she had learned ancient healing arts in the deserts of the Holy Land, while others claimed she was a doctor's daughter who had studied throughout Europe. Still others—and this was the prevailing theory—said she hailed from a small island off the Irish coast, where the fairy folk taught her all manner of otherworldly things. Hannah, who believed this third theory rather intensely, dashed to the village square the moment she learned Elizabeth had arrived. Catching up with the old woman at the village gate, Hannah, out of breath, held her coins in front of her. The old woman greeted the young girl with a slight, knowing smile. Hannah looked the right age for a blend of herbs Elizabeth made specifically for the newfound pains of emerging womanhood. But her smile transformed into a scowl when the young girl demanded passage to the fairy realm. "Would that I could cure you of your foolishness!" Elizabeth spat. "Do you not know fairies live in their separate realm precisely because they wish to be left alone? Go, and bother me no more!" But Hannah would hear none of it. The next day, the young girl again took her silver shillings in hand and set out for Elizabeth's hut. Following the old woman's footprints over the paths and trails, she easily found her way. She pounded on the Weirwood woman's door, demanding to see the fairies. Elizabeth refused. "Would that I could cure your stubbornness!" Elizabeth said. "Do you not know the fairy folk delight in consuming young mortals who wander into their realm? Do you not know they replace children with changelings who bring doom and despair to their victims' human families? Go, and bother me no more!" But Hannah would hear none of it, and returned the next day, begging to see the fairies. This time, when Elizabeth started to refuse, Hanna threatened to tell her father that Elizabeth had cheated her out of her silver shillings and that he and his constables would burn the poor woman’s hut to the ground. "Would that I could cure your father of his doting ways," Elizabeth said, reluctantly taking the coins. "Come.” The old woman guided Hannah to the back of her hut, where she removed a canvas drape from a full-length standing mirror. Instructing Hannah to stand facing the glass, Elizabeth sang a fairy incantation—a language strange and wonderful to Hannah's ears. Before long, the young girl's reflection was replaced by a swirl of multicolored clouds that parted to reveal a forest of many colors. There, Hannah finally saw what she had longed to see. Fairies! Fairies of all colors! Fairies with all manner of butterfly wings! Fairies beckoning her to join them in their realm, just as the stories had said! Hannah stepped through the glass and laughed merrily as she ran down a misty path filled with welcoming fairy folk. Elizabeth turned away. Having seen such sights before—knowing they always turned out badly—she couldn’t bear to watch. And so, the old woman was neither shocked nor surprised when the young girl's giggles turned to screams. The fairies were feasting, the old woman thought to herself. Nothing to do now but wait for the changeling and send it on its way. However, Hannah's cries became muffled, and a roar shook the hut. An astonished Elizabeth looked up to see the mirror, now filled with sparks and billowing smoke, shaking and rattling, moving itself across the floor. The mirror shattered with the sound of a thundercrack as Hannah flew from the center of the glass to land on the floor with a thud. Bewildered, the old woman found the young girl very much alive, bound and gagged with grapevines thick as sailing ropes, upon which was pinned a note. It read thus: "We return thy childe to thee, for no changeling could e're hope to be as damning to her family as this petulant bit of devilry." While it's true fairies can be cruel, apparently, their cruelty can do some good. For when Hannah returned home, two shillings poorer but none the worse for wear, she found her only desire was to be neither foolish nor stubborn anymore. As she grew, she discovered the joys of giving, sharing, and helping others, which she did for the next ninety-one years. And so, on the day the village laid Old Hannah Fairweather to rest at the age of one hundred and two, few were surprised when Elizabeth Weirwood arrived to pay her respects. After all, Hannah and Elizabeth had been around longer than the eldest village elder could recall. Matt Decker is a writer and artist from Lebanon, Missouri. He recently completed a five-issue comic-book series, The Paranormal Misadventures of Zombie Dave, which he wrote, drew and published through Stone Pi Media, which he founded in 2009. Image by Arthur Rackham, from “Irish Fairy Tales.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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