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I stand over the well, fingering the flint in my hand. My breath catches, and I feel like I am going to cry. Smacking myself hard across my stained face, I snap out of it. I light the dynamite, roped together like a bouquet, and toss it. Taking quick steps back, my eyes widen as I hear the plop of the sticks hitting the dry bottom and then finally the sweet release of the explosion. Like my rage, the fireball snakes its way into the air before it retreats, collapsing in on itself –– barring my tormentor from my world once and for all. I was fifteen when my stepsister, Mariel, returned, dripping in gold. Mother came to wake me, crying tears of joy, and I rushed from my room to greet her. She had been gone two weeks, and we had scoured the forest for any sign of her. I rushed down the steps to behold her, glowing in the backdrop of the morning sun. Her yellow hair matched the golden bracelets that made their way up both arms, her narrow frame weighed down by pendants and gems. My mouth hung open. We’d resigned ourselves to the fact that she might never return. Soon, we’d wish she hadn’t. Mariel’s father was my mother’s second husband. We had been born in the same year, under the same harvest moon, but our blood was different. She was light all over – thin, blonde, with ice-blue eyes and a voice that sounded like air. I was dark all over – brown and muddy with dimpled thighs and a hearty laugh that erupted at the most inopportune times. When her father died, my mother untangled his web of debts and took Mariel on as her own. We were inseparable until our monthly bleeding began and our differences became salient. “Did you notice Charles looking at me today?” She asked as we walked home from school. “No. Why?” I already knew why. “He was looking. Perhaps I’ll marry him if he’s lucky.” I knew everyone looked at her. She had bloomed overnight. That didn’t bother me. What bothered me was that suddenly all she cared about was their approval. “Eadie, can I stay home from school from now on?” She asked Mother over supper. “Why would you want to do that?” Learning was important to Mother. She had never been given the chance to attend school and was proud that we could. “I can help around here, learn things much more useful than anything in books. I want to learn to be a wife.” I grimaced, looking at my mother and then back toward Mariel. I had tried to talk her out of it. “You’ll stay in school until you’ve finished. You’ll have your whole life to learn about that.” My mother was stoic and gray from burying two husbands and meant what she said. “I can help you with your work,” Mariel pleaded. Mother pursed her lips and set down her fork. “I said no.” “You just don’t want anyone to marry me. You know no one will ever want Brie and you’re jealous. You want us to both be stuck with you forever,” she spat and ran from the house. I’d never thought about marriage, but the words stung. I knew their underlying meaning: Brie is ugly, Brie is unlovable, I don’t love her. She was my only friend, and she thought nothing of me. That was the last I saw of Mariel before she showed up decked in gold. “Where have you been?” I felt the release of all my fears for her safety. “Look at me,” She twirled and laughed airily. “Mother lost her job looking for you. I’ve missed school.” Relief turned to rage. “Did you steal this, child?” Mother walked over to her, inspecting. “Earned it.” “There’s no honest way to have earned all of this in two weeks.” Mariel snapped her hand back from Mother’s touch. “When I ran from here, I was so upset I didn’t notice where I was going. I ran right into the well deep in the woods and fell in. I thought I was doomed.” A knot of guilt formed in my stomach for not following her into the woods where it’s known that fairies reside. “I landed on a bed of flowers. The dark and cold were replaced by warm sunlight. For a moment, I thought I was in heaven but then an old woman beckoned to me. I followed her to a small cottage. Only it wasn’t small once you entered it. Once you were in, it went on and on and was filled with the most beautiful treasures.” “And then?” I asked, breathless. Mother had sat down with a hand over her heart. “It was Mother Holle from the nursery rhymes. She knew me and promised to give me what I wanted if I would keep her house spotless and prove what a good woman I was. I worked tirelessly to cook her beautiful meals, ensure her linens were freshly pressed, and not a speck of dust was left behind. In return, she gave me all of this.” She jingled her arms, her bangles clanking in a cacophonous melody. “I’m so happy for you.” I wanted to embrace her, my anger fading. “You are not. You are a sullen girl I’ve had to pretend to like so your mother would keep me fed. I’ve just returned to show you I don’t need you and never have. With this dowry, I will fetch a prince.” With those hateful words, she was gone from our lives, with only a few tattered dresses to remember her by. My mother’s employers never forgave her for missing those weeks, and soon we scavenged the edge of the forest for berries to satiate our growling bellies. “Brie, you must go to the well.” Mother gripped me by both arms one day when we could take it no longer. “Mother, I don’t know how to keep a house.” But I knew there was no use arguing. It was our only choice. That night I cried, hugging my books. Mariel’s words repeated in my head so loud I couldn’t sleep. Mother accompanied me to the well and urged me to stand on the precipice. When I could not bring myself to jump into its black depths, she closed her eyes tight and pushed me. I fell, my screams echoing through the abyss until finally, as Mariel said I would, I landed on a bed of soft flowers. “Well then, I guess you’ll be coming with me, Brienne,” an old woman who seemed to be expecting me beckoned to follow her, using my full name. “Mother Holle?” I knew her instantly. A kerchief tied her white ringlets back, and she walked with a cane, although her gait showed she had no real use for it. “I am she. And you, have come for my gold. Have you not?” she pointed the cane toward me, knocking me gently on the chest. I nodded sheepishly. There didn’t seem to be any point in pretending. “I’m afraid no amount of gold will buy you a prince.” “I don’t need a prince.” We began to walk through the forest. The trees seemed to move just in time for us to pass. “I just need enough money to keep my family fed until we can secure jobs.” “And what type of job would that be?” She looked down her long nose at me. I shrugged. “School teacher, perhaps.” It had been my dream for as long as I could remember. Humph, she frowned. “I won’t be having any talk of that here. Here, I reward grace, femininity, and beauty, not brains. You are no beauty, so you must be graceful as a gazelle to win my favor.” “I’ll do my best,” I swallowed sharply. No one had ever called me graceful before. “What if I don’t live up to your standards?” “Then you’d best leave now. You don’t want to test my patience.” She held out her hand, and a portal opened. Through it was my home, and I could see my mother lying in bed, sobbing. “No.” I let my gaze fall from the scene. I couldn’t go back empty-handed. “Well then, you should know I like my tea piping hot, but not so much so that it burns my tongue. I’ll show you to the wash basin so that you can start on the laundry.” She snapped her fingers, and a biscuit appeared in her hand. “I think you’ll be needing this for energy.” “If you can snap your fingers like that and have food appear. What do you need me for?” I asked in between bites, allowing my curiosity to outweigh my fear. I did my best to keep crumbs from falling onto the floor, gathering them into my hands and stuffing them into my pockets. “Do you think the husbands can’t do what the wives do and vice versa? Of course, they can.” She wagged her finger at me. “I am teaching you many lessons already.” I started with the laundry. Before the day's end, I’d stained her whites, pink, knocked over a precious vase or two, burned her tongue with hot tea, and stepped on her cat’s tail. Despite my mistakes, she never raised her voice at me or her hand. I knew I’d likely not get much gold, but I hoped she’d spare a trinket or two for trying. We didn’t need much. “Enough,” she said finally with a clap of her hands after three days of torture. I missed my home and despite the beauty that surrounded me, there was nothing to occupy my brain aside from work. “Have I completed the test?” I was hopeful. “Yes. You’ve completed enough for me to see your worth.” She twirled her hands, and I saw my mother again, mending a dress by the hearth. “You may go now.” “And the gold?” I didn’t want to disappoint Mother. She had been disappointed enough in her life, and one daughter had already abandoned her. Mother Holle let out a cackle at that. “This is your payment for being useless.” She flung out her hand, and a sticky black substance was launched through the air, covering me from head to toe and propelling me through the portal. When I reached our home, I landed at Mother’s feet, gasping for air as the tar filled my lungs. Pitch stains skin – especially supernatural pitch created by a fairy mother. I didn’t leave the house for a month – scrubbing, scrubbing. Mother and I both scrubbed until my skin turned red and raw underneath the black. There are still some spots dotting my cheeks and my forehead, but in my classroom, the girls don’t mind. We learn. We laugh heartily, and we eat, allowing crumbs to fall to the floor as we share ideas. Mother doesn’t mind cleaning them up if we let her in on our jokes. We heard that Mariel married a Duke of something or other soon after my return from the well. I’d become nearly as famous for my stains as she had for her gold, and word of the misfortune must have reached her. She sent a small bauble, with no note, saving us from hunger and cold until we could get back on our feet. In return, when we heard she had died in childbirth, we lit candles in her honor and cried for the child she once was. Today, I went to the well, a place I have feared for so long, with dynamite in my hands to make sure none of my girls ever go in search of gold or promises of love that must be bought and worked for. When they find love, which we all deserve, they will find it on their own terms, as I have. Raina Alidjani lives in Philadelphia with her husband, toddler, and cat.  She works in advertising by day and writes feminist speculative fiction by night. Her short stories have been published by Myth & Lore, The Raven Review, Heartland Society of Women Writers, Mulberry Literary, and The Selkie. Image by Arthur Rackham.

Flowing hair tumbles from the sky to find her freedom and new fate delivered not by gallant prince but by connecting to the earth. Her tresses swirl in morning sun like rippling stalks of amber wheat. She whispers words that bees pass on to seek companions, pure and free. Come alive, come alive! She dreams of daffodils and marigolds so she weaves seeds into her hair builds cozy nests inside her curls. When spring arrives, she holds her breath, sees nestled in her golden locks flitting moths and dappled honey and goldfinch chicks and dandelions. A world soon blooms before her eyes— golden apples, beets, and peppers beating breasts of yellow warblers the swooning dance of butterflies. With nature’s chatter in her ears the tower cages her no more— the princess welcomes spring’s embrace a crown of daisies, breathless grace. Ian Li (he/him) writes speculative fiction and poetry from Toronto. Formerly an economist and consultant, he also loves spreadsheets, statistical curiosities, and brain teasers. Find his writing at Radon Journal and Flame Tree Press, as well as at https://ian-li.com. Image of Rapunzel by Emma Florence Harrison.

A persistent tapping at his door wakened the ferryman from an exhausted sleep. He thought he glimpsed flames outside his window and feared a bomb had landed near his hut. But when he opened the door, two agitated young men stood before him. “We must get to the other side of the river as quickly as possible,” they insisted. He nodded and pointed to his boat. “Give me a moment,” he said and watched as they suddenly appeared to shine with a light of their own. Will-o’-the-wisps? he wondered. He donned his white helmet and a few minutes later they were rowing across the wide river. Stormy winds churned the waters, but his passengers kept jumping from one side of the boat to the other. “Please sit still or we’ll capsize,” he cried. When they reached the other shore and the young men started to disembark, he asked for his fare. The two shook from head to toe, dropping gold coins into the bottom of the boat. “Stop!” he yelled. “I accept only the fruits of the earth.” The two laughed and continued shaking. “Please,” he implored. “Take it all back. If gold falls into the river, it will rise up and swallow us.” “We cannot take back what we have given, but we’ll bring your vegetables later today.” They jumped ashore and ran off, leaving the old man to dispose of the gold pieces. He rowed downstream until he came to some rocks where he tossed the gold into a deep crevice. The loud clattering of metal against rock disturbed a long green serpent who lived in the rocky terrain. She ate a few coins and realized her long belly had begun to glow. This stirred a memory of a prophetic tale. Hungrily she consumed every piece of gold. Maybe the prophecy is coming true! But as she slithered across the rocks, her inner light began to dim. Traveling upstream, she saw lights dancing in a meadow above the riverbank. “Hello,” she called. “I’m looking for the source of some gold coins I found.” “That would be us,” cried the young men with cheery voices and began to shake from head to toe. The serpent could not believe her good fortune as gold coins rolled toward her. “Why are you here?” she asked them. “We came to dance for the Beautiful Lily and the Vibrant Rose. Can you tell us how to find them?” “The garden of the Lily and the Rose is on the other side of the river,” she told them. “Oh, dear,” they moaned, “and we just crossed in such stormy weather. But we can ride back with the ferryman when he comes again. “Well, no, you can’t. The ferryman can bring passengers only to this side of the river. To get back, you must either cross with me when I form a bridge at noon, or you can find the shadow of the giant and cross with him at dawn or dusk.” “Thank you,” they said, shaking more coins onto the grass and off they went to find the giant. The green serpent licked up all the gold pieces and admired her brilliant reflection in the river. Back in her rocky terrain, it occurred to her that she now possessed the light to explore a tunnel she had long been curious about. She knew it led to a grand rotunda, but she could never see the details. The moment she entered the large hall, her belly illuminated four mysterious figures, each partially hidden in a niche. The first, wearing a crown of oak leaves, shone with a golden light as he stepped toward her. Two other statues, one silver and one bronze, also stepped forward into the light. The silver king was ornately dressed, with a jewel-studded crown and a silver scepter. The bronze king was clothed in armor and carried a heavy sword. “Where have you come from?” they asked the serpent. “This is my home,” she answered and moved deeper into the cave to get a better look at the silent fourth figure. He appeared to be a composite of all three metals, but insufficiently amalgamated. Just as he was about to speak, a crevice in the wall opened and an old man carrying a lamp appeared. “Why are you here? We have light,” said the silver king. “As you know, my lamp cannot illuminate darkness; it can only enhance and make manifest the inner light.” Hearing this, the serpent whispered something into the old man’s ear. He turned to the others and cried, “The time is at hand!” His words echoed throughout the hall causing the metal statues to vibrate and ring. With that, the old man ran back though the crevice to the west, while the snake rushed out to the east. As the old man approached his hut, he heard his wife and children sobbing. “What is the cause of this misery?” he asked. “Two young men threatened to burn down our house if we did not agree to pay the ferryman their fare.” The children were most upset by the death of their cat. “They scattered gold coins all over the hut and our dear little kitty ate a piece and died.” The old man calmed his family and told them to place the dead kitten in a basket with as many vegetables from their garden as they could carry down to the river. “The vegetables are for the ferryman, including what he needs to appease the river. But take the kitten to the Beautiful Lily and the Vibrant Rose, for only they can bring it back to life.” The sisters were blessed with the touch that could restore life to the lifeless but cursed to bring death to any living thing that came in contact with them. As the family arrived at the riverbank, the ferryman was just arriving with a taciturn young man holding a walking stick entwined with sprigs of jasmine. After the wife paid the ferryman his vegetables, the family—joined now by the young man—proceeded along the river toward a distant green bridge that would carry them across to the garden of the Lily and the Rose. When the wife explained to the young man why they were carrying the dead kitten to the two sisters, he reached down and lovingly stroked its ears. “How I envy this tiny animal for I yearn to embrace the sisters but know that their touch would spell instant death for me.” Once they had crossed the bridge, the glittering span became slack, and the serpent dropped into the water and swam ashore in time to join the procession. The garden where Lily and Rose lived had become a refuge to people from across the region. There had been fighting among the many factions for so long, no one could quite remember what they were fighting about. They all loved the land and they all loved Lily and Rose, that was clear. But peace eluded them as they waited for the ancient prophecy to play out. Indeed, even as the group crossed the river and made its way to the garden, air raid sirens wailed in the distance and bombs struck both sides of the river, ever closer to the protected garden. The air was dense with smoke as one by one each member of the procession entered the garden and presented themselves to the sisters, beginning with the wife who placed the basket holding the dead kitten at their feet. “My old man asked me to tell you that just when misfortune seems greatest, you must see it as a sign of good luck, for the time is at hand.” Lily looked at the woman and suppressed a sob. “Can it be?” Rose bent down to pick up the little animal and instantly it came to life, running and jumping all around the garden. Next, the young man approached, but he became so overcome with desire that he ran toward Lily and could not stop himself. Rose held out her arms to warn him off, but no sooner had he touched her hand than he dropped dead on the spot. Everyone stared in horror at the scene. Lily and Rose dissolved in tears, barely able to stand. The green serpent rushed forward and encircled the lifeless body of the young man with her own, holding her tail in her mouth and creating a magic circle that would protect him. They all remained motionless as the day wore on and twilight began to settle over the garden. Finally, the green snake lifted her head and shouted for someone to go and find the old man with the lamp. The wife sent one of her sons and presently the old man joined the throng surrounding the magic circle, as did the two will-o’-the-wisps. Holding his lamp high above his head, the old man’s light intermingled with the beams emanating from the serpent, creating an otherworldly aura. He instructed Lily and Rose to hold hands and as Rose placed a hand on the serpent while Lily grasped the arm of the young man, the boy immediately stirred and took a deep breath. The old man leaned down to the green serpent, “Have you decided?” “Yes,” she replied. “I shall sacrifice myself in the name of love and peace.” Immediately upon saying this, her body disintegrated into a circle of precious emeralds. The old man and his family quickly gathered them up and tossed them into the river. No sooner had they finished this task than the ground began to shake, and the huge stone temple rose up and settled on the riverbank. “This time we must enter through the main portals,” said the old man and he showed the will-o’-the-wisps the great bronze doors secured by a golden lock. They made short work of the lock, and the doors sprang open, revealing the four kings. “Where do you come from?” asked the gold king. “From the world,” said the old man. “What do you want with us?” asked the others. The old man held his lamp close to the four statues. “All shall be clear,” he said, “for the time is at hand.” He led Lily, Rose, and the young man to the foot of a high staircase where the kings had fallen to their knees. “There are three things that rule the earth.” The old man spoke in a voice loud enough for all to hear. “Wisdom, empathy, and power.” As he recited these things, each of the kings stood in turn. Meanwhile the will-o’-the-wisps clung to the composite king, licking away the gold vein that traversed his form. In a last desperate attempt to ward them off, he grabbed one and flung it at the other kings. Suddenly flames engulfed all four figures and they quickly melted into a pool of molten metal that seeped into the green gemstone foundation. Lily picked up the oakleaf crown and placed it on her head; Rose salvaged the sword in its bronze scabbard and put it on; the young man found the silver scepter and cradled it in his arm. Then, the old man led the three up the stairs and held their hands high in the air. “If we unite and everyone does their duty, a universal happiness will resolve each individual’s pain. Love and sacrifice,” he said, “form the foundation of this new world. Remember that and honor the serpent.” As the rising sun shone through an opening in the domed roof, he pointed to the river below where a massive bridge was crowded with not just individuals, but also cars and transports, moving freely from one shore to the other. Beyond the bridge, what appeared to be a lighthouse proved to be the petrified figure of the giant, arm raised over his head, holding the old man’s lantern, its wondrous light erasing all trace of shadows from the land. K. L.  Shailer is a lifelong student of German and Scandinavian Romanticism, fairy tales, and myths. Her stories have appeared in CommuterLit and Uproar; in 2022 she won first place in the Canadian Authors Association’s inaugural flash fiction contest. She lives and writes in southwest Ontario and BC’s lower mainland. Image: The Prophecy (Charon and Psyche) by John Roddam Spencer Stanhope.

rapunzel: it wasn’t a prison. well, it was at the start, but i came to enjoy our games of cards, of chess, came to look forward to letting her braid the copper river of my hair or braiding the silver river of hers. after a while though, although she was excellent company: well read, loved to converse, and could tell a mean joke, i suppose in the end it was the terrible boredom of familiarity. the witch: i felt badly at first. see, my motives were far from pure. but as she grew more beautiful with each round of the moon, and seemed truly to enjoy the world i’d built for us, in her presence i felt just a little bit lovely. she loved to cook and i to eat; she sang like a thrush. i don’t want to seem ungrateful for all the years, but i suppose that at some point i became just a little bit bored. the prince: i heard the singing - a sound that turned the air to honey - and called up to that unreachable window hoping for a glimpse, but gave up and sat amongst the thistles and nettle. as i fell into a slumber, the song above changed, now a second voice sang and i wondered what magic is this? but my eyes closed, as though pulled and stitched fast with threads of copper and silver silk. rapunzel: when we heard him call up to us at first i was afraid for visitors to this part of the wood did not usually bode well. but he looked harmless enough if a little silly in that princely get-up, he had a sweet smile and eyes that were no less beautiful for their obvious lack of sight. the witch: okay, so i meddled, can you blame me? i knew the girl was lonely for company of her own age; it seemed an innocent enough spell but then, things don’t always turn out the way one hopes and my motives might not have been quite so pure besides, the prince was a much better chess player than she. the prince: after a year, my eyes healed and i pretended not to have figured out what had been done as i was quite pleased with the outcome the girl is charming and witty, and the woman is a worthy chess partner and can talk far into the night about any subject in any of her books and she tells me that i’m free to read them all. rapunzel: she thought i didn’t know what she’d done and i didn’t mind, really. i could see that they also had much in common plus, i was happy for a bit of free time and it is rather nice in here with more voices filling this tower room. i do love to listen to our girls sing as they embroider by the fire one with hair like the sun, the other with hair like the moon. Lynn Hardaker is a Canadian artist and writer currently living in Germany. Her short stories and poems have appeared in journals including Mythic Delirium, Mirror Dance, and Not One of Us. Image by Anne Anderson, “The Witch Spies on Rapunzel.”

Beauty & The Beast Should you discover the beast of loneliness that haunts the halls in the castle of your heart: behold the world upon you, for there be no monster that cannot be alchemized by the beauty of stillness. Sleeping Beauty Should you prick your finger on the spindle of brokenness; should bracken burst in fractals from the wound: If the world be your kingdom, and time be your Prince, Rest now, dear one, for he cuts with a pendulum and not with a sword. The bracken may wither, but slow goes the cutting, and the density of the briar is equal to the depth of your pain. Cinderella Should you find yourself plucking the dregs of dreams from beneath the cinders of a fire, and tucking them safely into the tattered pockets of a year, there be no shame in unraveling a spool of tears at your feet. Tears, like diamonds, fashion the armor of strength– that with which you rise to meet the world. Let the finch in the scar and the raven in the wound teach you the subversive magic of  “no”–a curse on those who wish to bind you; and one of these midnights, no man, no fool, no wicked stepmother will keep you from breaching the castle walls. Snow White Should you bite into the poisoned apple of lies, and fall into a deep sleep of false possibility, let love carry you to beauty, enrobed in a crystal carapace of tenderness and memories, and, sure as the moon rises, the prince of truth will 'rouse you from that wicked, tiny death. Jack & The Beanstalk Don't be like Jack. Just don't. Hansel & Gretel Should you find yourself a'wander in the forest of loss, beware the witch of beguiling, as she is wont to prey upon the abandoned, the lost, and the broken. For this: a recipe of breadcrumbs, to lead you home again. 1 Parcel of Flowers For when belief seems to fatten upon deception, the grounding of nature will tether you to this realm. 1 Drop of Cunning To draw the witch closer, that you might see her more clearly. 1 Ounce of Courage To slam the oven door. For there is no lie that cannot be fired in the oven of knowledge. Little Red Riding Hood Should you meet with wolves in disguise, remember that wolves were once men, before swallowing the poison of greed. They will hunger for your magic, and thirst for your wonder; Feed them neither, and pay them no mind. You may be Red, but also the Hunter, and no one can touch you in these woods. Your power will catch in the throats of the wolves, and in your wake, they will starve. Let them starve. Silvatiicus Riddle (He/They) is a Rhysling-Nominated Dark Fantasy & Speculative Fiction Writer living on the borderlands of New York City. He's appeared in Abyss & Apex, Dreams & Nightmares, Enchanted Living, Eternal Haunted Summer, and Spectral Realms, among others. You may find him at Facebook.com/SilvatiicusRiddleAuthor or Instagram @Silvatiicus Image by Gustave Dore.

Long ago, when magic was like applesauce—delightful, but nothing out of the ordinary—a farm boy named Jack eked out a meager existence on his hardscrabble farm. Rocks defied his attempts to plow and plant and the rains ignored him. Although Jack toiled from dawn to dusk to feed himself and his dear old mother, not a word of complaint left his lips. A practical person, Jack didn’t waste breath on complaining that could be better spent on laboring. One cold morning, Jake awoke to find the cupboard was bare. He had no choice but to take their cow to market. There, mere steps from the butcher’s stall, with its promise of coins for food, Jack spied a curious sign: “Second-Hand Magic.” Against his better judgment, he sidled up to the booth. Five minutes of slick talking later, he found himself trading the cow for a fancy pair of boots. “Seven Yard Boots,” the vendor proudly proclaimed. “Don’t you mean Seven League Boots?” asked Jack. “No lad. These are second-hand. Seven yards is as far as they go. But think how practical that is! With Seven League Boots, you travel twenty-one miles with each step. Who knows where you’ll end up! But at twenty-one feet per step, these handy helpers make short work of rounding up strays, bringing in a crop, or chasing varmints. And if you act now, I’ll include this once-in-a-lifetime offer of Maerlin’s Magic Seeds. Plant just one to feed a family, two to feed everyone you know and three to feed a village.” Jack rolled his eyes. Magic boots were commonplace. But magic seeds? I wasn’t born yesterday, he thought. “Sure, friend,” he said as he tucked the packet into his pouch. The chickens’ anxious cackling announced Jack’s arrival. His mother looked up from sweeping the stoop to see a roiling cloud of dust barreling straight for the farmhouse. “A dust devil!” she gasped. Before she could shoo the hens to safety, Jack stood grinning in front of her. “I’m home!” His mother’s eyes narrowed as she took in his new boots. “You traded our cow for these... toys?” Jack’s face fell as she spun on her heel and stalked off. “Not toys,” he said, following her. “Tools. For the farm.” “Hah!” she snorted. “I thought you had more sense!” Jack danced around in front of his mother, pulling the seed packet from his pouch. “But I got these seeds too,” he said, waving them under her nose. “They’re...” “Magic seeds?” she sneered. “Pah!” She slapped his hand away and stomped into the farmhouse. The packet tumbled through the air, spilling seeds to the ground. Jack scuffed at them with a boot heel. “Probably not,” he muttered. Supper that evening was a single turnip. As Jack ate, alone at the table, a cold rain began to fall. Thick fog shrouded Jack’s farm as the sun rose. As he peered through the gloom, a light breeze stirred the mist, revealing monstrous shapes. Jack rubbed his eyes as he edged up to the closest one. A ray of sunshine broke through the murk, revealing a vast orange globe. “It’s a pumpkin,” he breathed. “The size of a haystack.” As the fog lifted with the rising sun, the truth in the magic vendor’s words shone forth. Gigantic pumpkins crowded corn stalks towering forty feet high. Lettuce heads ten feet across fought celery stalks with trunks like oaks for growing room. But the most magnificent vegetable of all was the beanstalk, rising so high Jack couldn’t see the top. As he craned his neck upwards, the stalk quivered. “Something up there is tugging at it,” he said. “I intend to find out what.” Without further thought, Jack began to climb. The leaves and tendrils made for an easy ascent and the farm below soon dwindled from sight. Jack stopped to rest. Looking up, he saw the beanstalk vanish into a layer of clouds. As he pondered this, a low buzzing reached his ears. On the tendril just above his head crouched a bee the size of Jack’s fist. On her head sat a small golden crown. The bee regarded Jack, then raised a foreleg in greeting. Jack tipped his cap. “You are the queen bee?” She nodded. “Well met, your highness. You had to investigate this green monster too, didn’t you?” The queen quivered her wings, buzzing out, “Yes,” then “Danger.” She lay flat on the tendril, her abdomen heaving as she gasped for breath. “I’m pretty winded too,” said Jack. “But we’re almost there. Won’t you ride in my pouch the rest of the way?” He held out his hand. With a happy buzz, the bee crawled onto his palm. Jack tucked her in a secure corner of his bag and resumed climbing. Curiosity drove Jack upwards. Soon he entered a mist, thick, cold and clammy. His world shrunk to his hands, his feet and their purchase on the now-slippery beanstalk. Jack slowed. It wouldn’t do to fall now, he thought. I don’t have enough breath to scream all the way down. Eventually, a glowing area appeared overhead. Jack climbed into the light and found himself in a wondrous new land. Solid ground stretched away in all directions. Everything looked the same as below, except ten times larger. Flowers as high as Jack’s head, trees that towered into the sky. And half a league away, looming like a fortress that held a thousand men, a castle, with a stout oaken door fifty feet tall. “No man my size lives in that castle.” His heart pounding, Jack leapt to the ground and tiptoed toward the castle. He was nearly there when the door flew open and out burst a two-headed giant. The monster was on him in three steps. One head was terrifying—a rough beard and lank, greasy locks falling over wild, bulging eyes. The other was clean-shaven with cropped hair. That one smiled at Jack. “Well, little man,” he began, when he was interrupted. “FEE! FI! FO!” bellowed the greasy one and then he paused, brows furrowed. “Uh, FEE, FI, FO… FO.…” He looked to his other head with a hopeful expression. “Fee, Fi, Fo?” he asked. “It’s Fum,” replied the other head patiently. “But we don’t do that anymore. Nobody does.” “Then stewpot!” shouted greasy head. He ground his few teeth. “Of course, brother. But first, the challenge.” He smiled again at Jack. “Well, little man, you’ve come for my treasure. It’s yours, if you win the challenge.” Jack drew himself up. “And what would that be, Sir Giant?” “Why, anything you like. Arm-wrestling, for example.” Jack shook his head. “I’m afraid that would be too easy for me.” Clean-shaven head laughed. “You’re funny, little man,” he said. “I hope you taste as nice as you talk.” Greasy head scratched his ear, frowning, then brightened. “I know! The riddle game! I’ll go first. What has hands, a face and tells time like a clock?” Clean-shaven sighed and shook his head. “No brother, that’s not your best game. Let our dinner come up with the challenge.” At that moment, the queen bee stirred. Jack snapped his fingers and said, “How about a rock throwing contest?” “Agreed,” said the giant, grinning. He picked up a small boulder and heaved it clear over the castle. “Beat that, little man!” Jack pulled the queen out of his pouch, pulled back his arm and let fly. And fly the bee did! Straight up and out of sight. “I win!” he shouted. Greasy head snarled, while the other laughed. “Sorry, but no. New challenge—a squeezing contest!” The giant lunged forward, hands outstretched. Jack clicked his heels, triggering his boots, and leapt out of the way. “Wrong! A footrace!” he yelled, and dashed off towards the castle. Leaving the bellowing giant behind, Jack was inside in a trice. “Now, where would that treasure be?” he muttered as he raced towards a grand staircase. “Yoo hoo!” came the answer. “I’m up here! Hurry!” Jack took the stairs and followed the voice to a room containing a table and a small cage. On the table sat a harp. In the cage paced a large hen. “Here I am!” sang the harp. “Free me from this giant. I shall play and sing for you!” But Jack only had eyes for the hen. “Be practical. What good is a singing harp?” he said. “You can’t plow, plant, or reap. You just make noise. This magnificent hen, though...” Jack broke off as the giant’s roar echoed through the castle. He stuffed the hen in his pouch and made for the stairs. “Take me too!” cried the harp. Jack paused, then grabbed it. The giant saw Jack clutching his harp. “Mine!” he bellowed and pounded up the stairs, roaring with rage. “Fine!” Jack shouted. “Catch it, then!” He flung the harp high over the giant’s head. Strings twanged as the harp screeched. The two-headed behemoth reared up to grab it and fell backwards, tumbling down the staircase. Jack slid down the banister, past the groaning giant and sobbing harp, and sped away to the beanstalk. Halfway to the bottom, the massive vine bucked like a mule. The giant had leapt onto the stalk. Jack flew into the air and dropped like a stone, the beanstalk just out of reach. A roar filled his ears. Rushing wind—the last thing I’ll ever hear. The wind became a deafening buzz as thousands of bees latched onto his clothing and flew him back to the beanstalk. Jack clung for his life, heart pounding out of his chest. Above, the giant slid down the stalk at breakneck speed. He’s coming too fast, thought Jack. I’ll never make it. The queen bee and her subjects left Jack and swarmed up to attack both heads, viciously buzzing and stinging. The giant fought back with both hands—a fatal mistake. He hurtled earthward, trailing a long howl of rage and terror. Jack’s mother rejoiced as he clambered off the beanstalk. Jack grinned. “I’ve been to the sky and brought back a fine hen, courtesy of our large friend.” He plucked her from his pouch and set her down. “Based on her size, we should get magnificent eggs!” The hen scratched about for a bit, then began clucking. Moments later, she laid an enormous egg. Jack whooped, then frowned. “What’s this?” he cried. He examined the fresh egg, lips curled in disgust. “It’s gold,” came a voice from behind them. They turned to behold a shimmering being alighting on the ground. “That’s the hen that lays golden eggs—the most important magic treasure in the kingdom. It belonged to my fairy sisterhood. I’ve come to bargain for it.” Jack picked up the hen and thrust it at the fairy. “It’s yours. I’ve got no use for a hen that lays eggs I can’t eat.” “But it’s...” began the fairy. “Gold. Yes, I heard you. Men kill for it. I have no wish to die defending something I never wanted in the first place. Take it.” “You’re a practical man,” the fairy observed. “Unusual for your kind.” She glanced around, her eyes lighting on the giant pumpkin. “Fine. But I must reward you somehow. Rules, you know. Give me that pumpkin and I’ll bless your farm with good soil and abundant water from this day forth.” “What do you want with an oversized pumpkin?” Jack asked. The fairy giggled and twirled her wand, sending sparkles everywhere. “My goddaughter needs a ride to the ball tonight.” “In a pumpkin?” Jack snorted. “How grand. What will she be wearing? A corn husk dress and potato-skin shoes?” “Oh no!” tittered the fairy. “Her gown will be crystallized stardust—dazzling! And her shoes? Why glass slippers, of course!” Jack laughed. “Take your pumpkin and enjoy the ball.” The fairy curtsied, then she, the hen and the pumpkin vanished. “Glass slippers,” Jack muttered. “How impractical.” Then, taking in the bumper crop around him, he said, “Come mother. It’s harvest time.” James Dodds is a recovering technical writer. More recently, he has gotten serious about writing fiction. His short fiction has appeared in The Avenue, Enchanted Conversation, Fairy Tale Magazine and Flame Tree Press, among other publications. He is a co-author of American Roulette, a novel. Image of “Jack and the Beanstalk,” by Jessie Wilcox Smith.

Jess Armstrong’s novel The Curse of Penryth Hall, is a complete delight for fans of folklore, fairy tale, and murder mysteries! The story follows Ruby Vaughn, an American socialite living in England after World War I, who is asked by her boss, a rare book shop owner, to deliver a box of books to a folk healer in the Cornish countryside. Ruby uses the errand as an excuse to visit her old friend Tamsyn, the wife of Sir Edward of Penryth Hall. When Edward is brutally murdered, it appears he has become the victim of an ancient family curse, and Ruby must stay at Penryth Hall to investigate the true cause of his death in the hopes of protecting Tamsyn’s life. The folk healer who receives Ruby’s box of books is Ruan Kivell, a Pellar who serves the town with his insights, visions, and herbal remedies. There is both competition and attraction between Ruby and Ruan, and their tumultuous relationship sizzles as they uncover clues to help them solve the murder. Ruby, a woman who hates the past and appreciates science, believes the killer is human, but Ruan, the seventh son of a seventh son born in the superstitious Cornish countryside, must investigate the supernatural angles of the crime as well. The Curse of Penryth Hall is filled with exciting action, luscious Gothic detail, and fascinating Cornish legends and folklore. The landscape is both startlingly realistic and haunted by giants, witches, and Merfolk. The description made me feel like I was visiting an ancestral mansion, and the expertly drawn characters, each with a past full of secrets, kept me turning pages. I couldn’t put this one down! I highly recommend this story to fans of classic mystery novels. You can find the book here. Thank you to NetGalley for a free copy of the book in exchange for a fair review. Kelly Jarvis works as the Assistant Editor for The Fairy Tale Magazine where she writes stories, poems, essays, book reviews, and interviews. Her poetry has also been featured or is forthcoming in Blue Heron Review, Mermaids Monthly, Eternal Haunted Summer, Forget Me Not Press, The Magic of Us, A Moon of One’s Own, Baseball Bard, and Corvid Queen. Her short fiction has appeared in The Chamber Magazine and the World Weaver Press Anthology Mothers of Enchantment: New Tales of Fairy Godmothers. You can find her at https://kellyjarviswriter.com/

Today we officially welcome Lissa Sloan as a Contributing Writer at The Fairy Tale Magazine. It feels a bit funny to do that, as she’s been a friend to the publication, and in real life, for a long time! Anyway, we feel very fortunate to have her on the team, and welcome aboard Lissa! (KW) So, I have a confession to make. I write recipes on old envelopes. My mom would occasionally lament that she wasn’t the housekeeper her mother was (and had not passed those skills on to me and my sister). My grandma was neat and tidy, an accomplished seamstress and excellent baker. I have a few of her recipe cards, written in her careful handwriting. My mom used recipe cards too, but she also improvised, as did my dad and especially my mother-in-law. So in my house today, our recipes, while sometimes printed out or saved as a document, are other times written out on tiny bits of notepaper, receipts, and envelopes. Here, then, is a print-out and an envelope that frequently come out this time of year: Sloan birthday cake with butter icing. You see, all four of us in my household have our birthdays within three weeks, and Mother’s Day is not far behind. These days we may only make it once during that time, and we may only make half the recipe because it’s so rich. But the cake (adapted from the Cook’s Country recipe for Hostess-style cupcakes) is moist and dark, and the butter icing (from my mother-in-law) is creamy and a tiny bit salty, and all together it’s just so devilishly good! For 24 cupcakes, a 9 x 13-inch cake pan, or two 9-inch round layer cakes: Cake: 2 cups all-purpose flour 1 tsp. baking soda ½ tsp. salt 1 cup hot coffee (decaf is fine if you don’t want to be up all night) 2/3 cup cocoa powder 2/3 cup semisweet chocolate chips 1 ½ cups sugar 1 cup sour cream 1 cup vegetable oil 4 large eggs 2 tsp vanilla extract Butter Icing: 1 ½ cups milk 7 ½ T. flour 1 ½ cups sugar 1 ½ cups salted butter 1 ½ tsp. vanilla Make the cake: Heat oven to 325 degrees. Grease and flour cake pan. Combine dry ingredients (flour, baking soda, and salt) in a bowl. In a second bowl, whisk together hot coffee, cocoa, and chocolate chips (this melts the chocolate) until smooth. To the chocolate mixture, add sugar, sour cream, oil, egg, and vanilla, and mix until combined. Then bake until a toothpick comes out with few dry crumbs attached, 35-45 minutes for 9 x 13-inch oblong or 2 9-inch rounds, 18-22 minutes for cupcakes. While cake is cooling, make the icing (we often make the cake the day before the icing): Whisk together milk and flour (or shake in cup with a lid). Then heat in a saucepan, stirring constantly, until mixture thickens. Remove from heat and refrigerate until very cool. When mixture is cold, soften butter, then cream butter, sugar, and vanilla with an electric beater until fluffy. Blend with the thickened milk mixture until thick and smooth. Spread on cake and eat immediately or refrigerate it to set the icing a bit. IF there is any left, keep refrigerated. These days, we make half a portion (just one 9-inch round), so we cut the cake recipe in half and make 2/3 of the icing (or you could make the whole batch and get in some graham crackers to help you finish off the extra). If you are a fan of dark chocolate, give our recipe a try. I think you’ll love it! Lissa Sloan is the author of Glass and Feathers, a dark continuation of the traditional Cinderella tale. Her fairy tale poems and short stories have appeared in The Fairy Tale Magazine, Niteblade Magazine, Corvid Queen, Three Ravens Podcast, and anthologies from World Weaver Press. Visit Lissa online at lissasloan.com, or connect on Facebook, Instagram, @lissa_sloan, or Twitter, @LissaSloan.

Hello Enchanted Friends: If you’re new to FTM in the last two years, you may not know that we were called Enchanted Conversation: A Fairy Tale Magazine, for many years. That’s where all of our Throwback Thursday material comes from. Today, I’m sharing the link to the archived site for those of you who’d like to check it out and explore. Here is the link. Why haven’t we shared the link before? Because by doing so, we will drive views away from this site, which is where we actually now live online, to the old site. The old site was on Blogger, owned by Google. By sending people to the old site, we may very well be pushing this site further down on search results. This site is on Wix; Google privileges Blogger over Wix. However (and I really have resisted saying anything about this, but realize I have to), the many inquiries by writers about the old site and/or Throwback Thursday (some of them very pointed and demanding) have finally pushed me to provide the link to the EC archive. A work per week through Throwback Thursday is what we can manage. I can only plead that we don’t have the womanpower for more than that. We can’t just merge the sites. We’ve tried. And I also need to give an announcement, that I previously thought would have been obvious: This site will not go on forever, and it too will be archived or maybe disappear. I don’t own the Internet. In fact, it will no longer be an active site after the end of 2026, unless someone else wants to run it. That’s just before I turn 65. There are many reasons why, but the fact is, I’ve been at this for well over 15 years already, and I’ll definitely be willing to pack it in by then. I enjoy the work, but it’s very time consuming, and I have fantastic help from Kelly Jarvis, Kim Malinowski, Madeline Mertz and Lissa Sloan. Even with their truly stellar efforts, the site is a lot of everything. (But they really are an awesome bunch.) There are many moving parts to this effort that most readers and writers never see. That’s because I want you to just enjoy yourselves. But the pressure of writers’ expectations over the last two years has become too much. Hence this post. I do want to make it clear that most writers are lovely to work with! If they weren’t, I’d quit. But as with any endeavor, the malcontents really bring down the vibe. Asking polite questions is fine! I encourage them, I promise. But if you do have questions, email them to me. Don’t put them under this post or on another public forum. My email is in many spots on this site, and it’s the official email for the entire enterprise, but here it is, again: katewolford1@gmail.com. One last thing: A shoutout to the Fairy Godparents Club. Your suppprt, in every way, helps make FTM better. Thank you! The Club is closed for this year, but will open again in January. Best, Kate Wolford

Fairy tale readers expect reversals. Princesses are exiled, tailors become kings, poor children become rich. But Rebecca Buchanan takes reversal to a whole new level in her searing poetry collection Not a Princess, (But) Yes, There Was a Pea & Other Tales to Foment Revolution. You know the fairy tale about the girl who arrives at the palace in a storm and gets a heck of a lot of scrutiny from the queen before she proves herself to be a princess by having a really thin skin? What if that rain-soaked heroine, instead of going from a down-on-her-luck princess to scoring an advantageous marriage, had a far different reversal in mind? This is only one of many “what ifs?” in Buchanan’s inciting arsenal. Not a Princess’s Content Warning page is more than an alert about potential triggers; it is a call to arms. It prepares the reader to expect the traumatic elements of both the fairy tales to follow and the real world we inhabit (ecological destruction, murder, abuse, and much more). But it also warns of the rewards of action and speaking up against injustice—things like hope, compassion, and courage. Like her titular poem, Buchanan’s other chosen tales will be familiar to most readers, making her pointed commentary all the more striking as she deftly pivots to examine stories from multiple angles. For instance, one Frog Prince poem features a princess who’s more than a little spoiled and entitled, while another’s heroine just isn’t okay with having a creepy stranger in her bed demanding kisses. Taking aim at greedy rulers and abusive parents as well as sexism, economic inequality, and injustice, Buchanan confidently invites readers to join her revolution or consider their own. Her voice is sharp, authentic, and filled with hope, and her words never miss their mark. Not a Princess, (But) Yes, There Was a Pea is heartbreaking, bold, and breathtaking. You can find it here. Lissa Sloan is the author of Glass and Feathers, a dark continuation of the traditional Cinderella tale. Her fairy tale poems and short stories appear in The Fairy Tale Magazine, Niteblade Magazine, Corvid Queen, and anthologies from World Weaver Press. Glass and Feathers appeared as a serial in The Fairy Tale Magazine last spring. Print and ebook release from The Enchanted Press was on March 26, 2024. Visit Lissa online at lissasloan.com, or connect on Facebook, Instagram, @lissa_sloan, or Twitter, @LissaSloan.

Yes, you read the title correctly. I really am recommending an over-the-counter pain relief cream that's similar to one the Amish traditionally use. I live a few miles away from a large Amish community--Northern Indiana is home to one of the largest populations of Amish in the world. Amish and Old Order Mennonite women clean our house and men from the same communities framed our house 18 years ago. I also used to teach a unit about the Amish in writing classes at a regional university. So, for an Englischer, the term the Amish and Old Order Mennonites use for all non-Amish people, I know a bit about the Plain People--which is not much, as the Amish and Old Order Mennonite people are far more diverse in their habits and customs than most people realize. But I'm not here to explain the Amish, which I am unqualified to do anyway. Instead, I'm here to recommend a cream for sore muscles that actually works. It's called Amish Origins Deep Penetrating Pain Relief Cream, and while I couldn't find a definitive origin story for it, the company that makes it claims the simple traditions of the Amish inspired this product. Here's what you need to know: I had the most epically debilitating lower back pain of my life last week. It. Was. Excruciating. As is often the case when I need comfort, I read some Regency and Amish romance novels. In one of the latter, a salve was mentioned as a sovereign remedy for muscle pain, arthritis, body aches, etc. Curious, I went to the Google machine and ordered Amish Origins cream (the ointment alternative is said to be very greasy and hard on clothes). The cream's ingredients are in this picture I grabbed from Amazon, where I bought it. Well, it worked. Within two days, I was able to move a bit, and last weekend I actually got out and about! So I'm using the cream I ordered on Amazon and giving it a strong recommendation to readers. I'll bet Cinderella would have used it! Kate Wolford is the publisher of FTM and The Enchanted Press. The press published its first book, Glass and Feathers, by Lissa Sloan, on March 26. You don't want to miss this engrossing continuation of Cinderella's story.

I gave an old woman two dollars, Meant for my morning coffee, And then handed her my coat, For spring is coming, But she looked so cold, Standing in her rags on the corner of the street. She looked at me and whispered; “You have a good heart, May God bless you.” We both smiled, And I went on my way. In the evening after work, It was cold, So I bought a coat, at a second-hand store. When she saw it, My aging mother cried; “We aren’t made of money!” Later, I discovered, Five hundred dollar bills, Stashed in the pocket, Of my new old coat. The next day I got a promotion, It came with a raise, And my mother was delighted. In the coming weeks, I found; Two hundred dollars on the streets, A winning lottery ticket forgotten on a bus seat, And a diamond earing, Strewn on the floor, By a bench where I sat. Before a month had gone by, A distant relative passed away, Leaving us a house, Along with a small fortune, And we gladly moved, As fast as we could, From the two-bedroom apartment, We had called our home, And lived like kings. Late for work, I pushed passed an old woman, Knocking over her cup of coins, And hurried along, Barely noticing, The familiar shape of her coat, Or hearing the words, That chased me down the street; “Damn you.” I lost my job, By the end of the week, And when I came home, I found the big house, Overridden with pests, Roaches and rats and toads. My wallet fell, As I sat on the bus, Those who found it, Emptied my account, And when I finally went, To exchange the diamond earring, I was told it was worth, Nothing more, Than shining plastic. Aliza Faber loves reading, writing and anything to do with fairy tales. She hopes one day she will have enough time to continue introducing less well known fairy tales on her blog taleaday.blogspot.com. (Editor's note: This is Aliza's bio from 2017. Her blog is still up even Thor she is not active on it. But this dark poem was irresistible for Throwback Thursday! KW) Art by Amanda Bergloff.