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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.

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.

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: 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.