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Hello Enchanted Friends: I’m busy picking stories and poems for the next issue, and with that in mind, I want to let you know that the August issue will be a small one. We will then go on hiatus in terms of buying and publishing new work through the end of the current year. That means submission windows will not be open again for publication in 2022. We are doing this to allow us to save money and time for the new publication we are launching in 2023! This is a long post, but please read the whole thing. I hope you’ll like what I’m saying here. Here are some of the big changes: We have a gorgeous new site thanks to Amanda Bergloff, Art Director and all-around-site genius. Our theme for 2023 is LOVE, with a special emphasis on romance. There will be two reading periods for next year’s submissions. I haven’t nailed down the dates exactly, yet, but I’m thinking that the first will be from early December of this year through mid-January, 2023. The second will probably be from the beginning of next May through mid-June. I’ll announce them formally in the next couple of months. We are publishing four issues next year. We will still be paying $50 per work (and probably buy around 30 total works next year), but I am going to allow a wider range for length, because some writers would rather be paid less per word and tell a longer story. That has been a consistent concern for many writers for years when they submit to us. The four issues next year will be available in a splendid digital magazine form from the platform ISSUU. The issues will be filled with art, poetry, short stories and “The Best of” from years past. (Best of writers will be contacted and have a new contract when we do that, and can refuse to participate.) At the end of the year, we will publish a print yearbook for 2023. That means that stories and poems (including “The Best of”) published digitally from 2023 will be on actual paper! At last! We will formally be doing business as “The Enchanted Press,” starting Jan. 1, 2023. We will also be a nonprofit. That means that what we earn has to significantly go to the health and welfare of the business, and that’s how I’d like to run things. Our financial statements will have to be filed with the state of Indiana starting in January, because we will have to be transparent. The other reason why we are going nonprofit is that we are going behind a paywall starting in January, and I hope that knowing the magazine is run as a nonprofit will encourage people to pay the low subscription rate per year. I haven’t decided how much the subscriptions will be, but they will not be high cost, I promise. Yes, you will be able to buy single digital issues, but the value of a yearly subscription will be higher. The yearbook will be sold separately. We are going behind the paywall so the magazine can continue. It’s that simple. With the stock market in a mess, inflation on the rise, and my husband and I approaching our retirement years, I have to find a way to keep the magazine going and at least have it break even. But we hope to do so much more. If enough people subscribe and become patrons, we can become a small-time book publisher of anthologies and poetry chapbooks. We dream of making The Enchanted Press a small but very real player in the fairy-tale/magic realism segment of the book market. To that end, in addition to subscriptions, we’ll be offering memberships at different levels to help support the site, and we’ll be selling merchandise on the site. We will not be using Patreon—and that campaign was suspended at the beginning and of this month—but will have our own pledge system that cuts the cost of Patreon out. We hope the added value we offer next year will encourage people to subscribe and buy memberships that will allow The Enchanted Press to expand. Next to last: There will be a spectacular serialized novel for subscribers in 2023, and I couldn’t be prouder! I’ll be dropping more hints in the future, but it’s by Lissa Sloan, one of my favorite writers. (That’s in addition to all the great work the very talented Kelly Jarvis, Contributing Editor, will be doing for the magazine.) Finally, Enchanted Conversation has officially become The Fairy Tale Magazine. To be honest, I got tired of having to write out Enchanted Conversation a long time ago, and I want the publication to reflect fairytalemagazine.com. The new site will reflect the name change. That’s all! Feel free to comment below or email me at katewolford1@gmail.com. Yours in Enchantment, Kate Wolford

Check out Kate's fabulous fairy tale finds that you can enjoy, too! This week's pick: THE BLACK FORAGER Here’s the first of what I hope will be many of “Kate’s Picks.” I was raised to shop and to consume with care and intuition (thanks Mom!), and I greatly enjoy sharing my finds. In fact, picking stories and poems and publishing them is a lot like shopping for an important meal. All of the ingredients must be chosen to work both individually and as a whole. As for food, my first official pick is the “Black Forager,” a.k.a., Alexis Nikole. This 2022 James Beard Award winner for social media influence has TikTok, Instagram and Twitter accounts—and are they ever fun and informative. Inspired by her African and indigenous roots, the Black Forager, using incredibly peppy and charmingly informative videos, teaches fans how to forage for edible foods wherever they find themselves. I’ve seen her forage, cook and eat something improbable in a one minute video. And I’ve laughed while watching her do it. For instance, look up her “daylily pickles.” She teaches you how to find the “ditch lily” buds, and how to pickle them, and of course, eat them. As a pickle fiend, they look scrumptious to me. But there are other little videos on issues like the various zoning laws that might affect the forager. As NPR reports, “For those not familiar with the term, Nelson says foraging is essentially ‘a very fun way to say, I eat plants that do not belong to me and I teach other people how to do the same thing.’” Even with all the fun, the serious issues get addressed. If you’re wondering what foraging has to do with a fairy tale site, I’ll tell you: Just how do you think all of those fairy tale protagonists sustain themselves over the long, long journeys they often have to take? Do you think they never forage for blackberries like my sisters and I did back in the ‘60s and ‘70s? Or scarfed up onion grass like my grandson does? Even Hansel and Gretel were able to find a few berries. “Foraging,” “folklore,” and “fairy tales” all start with “F” and that’s just one connection. As for Black and indigenous Americans, of course they would have supplemented their regular diet with foraging. So did white people. Foraging is a thing humans do, period. All over the world. We always have and we always will, and it’s especially beautiful to see Alexis Nikole tapping into her own roots. Nowadays, fancy restaurants take city people on foraging tours, and it’s a hot food trend. But I can’t imagine anyone delivering foraging lessons with more zeal and humor than Alexis Nikole. With her fabulous glasses, hair accessories and perfect lip color, she’s a bright spirit, delivering what you need to know with laughs, bouncy filming, and many closeups. There’s also a whole lot of wisdom and science and safety warnings delivered painlessly. Indeed, the Black Forager’s frequent video signoff is perhaps the funniest, most folkloric thing she could say: “Happy snacking. Don’t die!” I’ve linked a YouTube video on dandelions HERE, but the Black Forager is easiest to find on: TikTok @alexisnikole And Instagram @blackforager You can also find her on Twitter @blackforager Join the millions of fans who already love the Black Forager. Some bandwagons are worth jumping on and this is one of them. See you next week!

Editor's Note: Today's Poetry Showcase is a summer jewel of a poem originally published in 2016. Enjoy! The Summer Fairy wears a sea-green bikini under a diaphanous yellow tunic and shiny flit-flops on her feet. Her wings look like bright, intricately patterned Japanese paper lanterns. She has a small fan at the back of her neck that magically whirs to life when it gets very hot. The Summer Fairy’s eyes are the blue of a chlorinated swimming pool in August; her voice sounds like the boom and rushing spatter of a July thunder storm. The Summer Fairy can sometimes be glimpsed in the floating dark spots you see after staring at the sun too long. Because she is the best swimmer of all the fairies, you might also catch sight of her through the glaze of sunlit water on your face as you break the surface from diving. The Summer Fairy enchants adults into taking extra vacation days and makes children forget everything they learned in school that year. In the city, she goes to picnics in parks and parties on apartment rooftops where she clings to swizzle sticks and the little paper umbrellas in drinks and snacks on dips with baby carrots, buzzing over them like a firefly. Afterward, the hostess will wonder why she ran out of appetizers when she made sure to buy extra. Often the Summer Fairy is drawn by the scents from street fair booths that sell magical oils and incense. Then she’ll help the Tarot card readers by whispering secrets to them about their clients. She’ll make vegans want to eat greasy sausage and peppers and corn dogs. Her hair becomes woven with blue and pink wisps of spun sugar as she whirls around for a fun ride in the cotton candy machine. If you win at the street fair toss games or wheels of fortune, it’s because she likes you, and wants you to have a large sparkly stuffed unicorn. If you always lose, try leaving her some funnel cake and a vanilla milkshake on your kitchen floor by moonlight. The Summer Fairy answers those anonymous ads on Craigslist posted by people who have fallen in love with an attractive stranger glimpsed once while commuting. Usually, it's her they’ve seen, and when they meet again, she whisks the unsuspecting, besotted humans off to Fairyland, never to be seen till many seasons later. She’ll deposit them, spent but happy, like empty soda cans on the nearest cold beach in the fall. Lorraine Schein is a New York writer. Her work has appeared in Strange Horizons, Mad Scientist Journal, Gigantic Worlds, Aphrodite Terra, and the anthologies Drawn to Marvel, Phantom Drift, and Alice Redux. Detail from Alphonse Mucha painting.

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. When many people think of the Golden Age of Illustration, Arthur Rackham, Edmund Dulac, and other male artists come to mind, but there were also female artists that excelled during this time. Margaret Evans Price was one such artist that produced magical work, so learn a bit more about her and her art below... Margaret Evans Price (1888 - 1973) was an American children's book illustrator and author, but did you know that she was a co-founder of Fisher Price, one of the world's most popular toy manufacturers? Margaret was interested in art from a young age and when she was twelve, she sold her first illustrated story to the Boston Journal. She received a formal art education in Boston at the Boston Academy of Fine Arts, then moved to New York City for freelance illustration work. There, she worked for publications like Harper & Brothers, Rand McNally, and Stecher Lithography creating illustrations for children's books of fairy tales and myths. But illustration work was not her only career path as in 1930, along with her husband, Irving L. Price, Helen Schelle, and Herman J. Fisher, Margaret co-founded the Fisher-Price toy company that still exists today. She was the first Art Director of Fisher-Price where she designed push-pull toys based on characters from her children's books. Margaret continued to exhibit her art in national galleries in the U.S. after the formation of Fisher-Price. Her art was not only published in children's books, but also in Nature Magazine, The Women's Home Companion, and Pictorial Review. A permanent collection of her works are housed at the New York Historical Society. Margaret's simple, graphic style, combined with her beautiful compositions, makes her art enchanting for children and adults. Check out her work below: From Once Upon a Time - A Book of Old-Time Fairy Tales, 1921 From Enchantment Tales for Children, 1926 From A Child's Book of Myths, 1929 From Once Upon a Time - A Book of Old-Time Fairy Tales, 1921 From Off to Bed, 1920 Cinderella & Her Godmother, 1939 From Once Upon a Time - A Book of Old-Time Fairy Tales, 1921 The Land of Nod, 1916 The Old Woman & Her Pig, 1928 From A Child's Book of Myths, 1926 On the Road to Storyland, 1926 From A Child's Book of Myths, 1926 Beauty & The Beast, 1921 Little Red Riding Hood & The Wolf, 1921 From A Child's Book of Myths, 1926 And if you'd like to read a full children's book that Price illustrated, you can find The Troubles of Biddy 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: Today's essay, by Priya Sridhar, takes Hans Christian Andersen's tale of "The Little Match Girl," and looks at it through a modern literary interpretation. Enjoy! Modern takes on classic fairy tales can prove fascinating when they subvert the original narrative. Whether it's differing values, updated understanding of gender and economics, and plain wanting to add a new message, you can always find a new spin on older tales. Hans Christian-Andersen (HCA) earned fame in Denmark for his fairy tales. While a few had happy endings, the more infamous ones went to the downer conclusions. HCA believed that true love was hard to find and that sometimes death is the only happiness someone can find in their quest for dignity, or for a warm bed at night. Then modern writers like Terry Pratchett would lovingly mock this, and affirm that everyone may live, getting some comfort. Matches In The Snow "The Little Match Girl" is one of the most depressing HCA tales, and that is saying something. Even the first line warns us about the depression to come: "It was so freezing." We see the title character attempt to sell matches during a cold wintry night. She has a few coverings, and while she left the house with oversized slippers, a boy stole one of them and a horse carriage accidentally knocked off the other. If she doesn't sell any matches, then her father will beat her for bringing no coins home. Rather than go home after no customer comes to help, the girl crouches between two sumptuous houses and starts lighting matches to keep warm. They show her visions of loveliness to help her cope with the cold. People ignore her while going about their commute to work, or doing the shopping. As the night gets cold, the matches show different scenes: warmth from a stove, a good Christmas meal, and a shooting star. When she sees her grandmother in heaven, the girl asks for her grandmother to take her there. HCA was not in a happy state of mind when he wrote this. You can tell that he knew how to get into the mindset of someone facing a bitter cold in winter. Hogfather Says No To This Ending In Discworld, the fantasy parody series by the late Terry Pratchett, the little match girl story plays out during a segment in both the novel and television special Hogfather. Albert and Death encounter her still body in the snow, while Death is filling in for the world's Santa Claus, the Hogfather. Death says that a little girl should not freeze in the night. He says that it is not fair, and this is a chance to right a wrong. Albert, a retired wizard, and overall cynic, tells Death that it's how the winter stories go. Going against the status quo should find disruption. Everyone romanticizes a girl freezing to death in the snow while thanking their stars that it wasn't them. Normal folks have enough food and coal to get through the night and if they don't, then at least they aren't a child freezing in the snow. They can tell stories to make up for the drafty holes in the wall. If Death weren't the Hogfather, and if not for events in previous books, he would have accepted this state of affairs. Death is not fair, and he comes for everyone. An earlier book had him chide an apprentice for saving a princess from a pre-appointed assassination, complete with smacking him on the face for insubordination. But here, Death says no. He gives life, rather than reaps it. The match girl is not a fictional character, but an actual child that he can carry in the snow. You may not see this in the film because it would have broken the budget, but the "affronted" angels show up to collect the match girl's soul and take her to heaven. Albert responds by tossing snowballs at them so they will go away. Even though Albert tells Death to let the story play out as is, he listens to his master. Unlike the original fairy tale, we see the angels attempt to complete the tale. Death asked why didn’t they come earlier, to give the child a hot drink and a blanket. He has a point and shows that he puts his money where his mouth is by picking up the child and asking several constables to give her a place to sleep for the night, and a meal. Angels are supposed to be protectors. Yet they did not protect an innocent kid. Why is it important that Albert toss snowballs at the angels? He shows them how humans feel about the cold, and how an object traditionally used for child's play can prove annoying and disruptive to a formal occasion. This is not a time to be civil, but to show anger. Add A Level Of Disruption Sometimes we cannot accept children freezing in the snow. We can't tell a crying kid, "There are starving children in Somalia, cheer up." You can't let the little match girl serve as your cautionary tale against parental abuse and thieves that steal slippers from the vulnerable. Pick up that child if you can, and change the story. Show that happiness is possible, even if difficult to reach. Instead of waiting for the angels, shoo them away, and use your powers for a new ending. Priya Sridhar has been writing fantasy and science fiction for fifteen years, and counting. Capstone published the Powered series, and Alban Lake published her works, Carousel and Neo-Mecha Mayhem. Priya lives in Miami, Florida with her family. Illustration: The Little Match Girl by Arthur Rackham

Whispers of wind stirred echoes of the past and scattered thoughts of a different time and place through her mind... ~ A. Bergloff In nature, it is the wind that brings in storms, and it is also the wind that clears them away. Wind brings change, and there is beauty in the idea that through the worst storm, the wind will come and usher in the clear blue skies afterwards. This month, The Fairy Tale Magazine is presenting four stories and four poems in the third issue in our series of "weather-works" for 2022 that explore some element of weather - from rain to wind to snow and beyond. So, please enjoy, and as always dear readers... Stay enchanted! - Kate, Amanda, and Kelly "The East Wind listens for the ghosts of last year's sadness..." Windy Season Eve Morton Hear your heart stop in an ocean of silence... The Queen's Temple Alexander Etheridge She could speak with the spirits of the dead during heavy rains... The Stone Sister Betty Stanton All forest adventures should respect nature... Lost and Found in the Rain Alicia Hilton "I am a weather witch, and I would reward each of you with a boon..." Seasonal Affliction Robert Allen Lupton Elf tears do not suffice... Climate Change TS S. Fulk "Who is with you in your storm..." The Shadow Prince Susan K. H. Newman We fly together, up into the light... Light Bird, Shadow Bird Jason P. Burnham MUSIC Sharing an enchanting favorite to accompany this issue: ALL COPYRIGHT to the written works in this issue belong to the individual authors. The Fairy Tale Magazine Editor-in-Chief ~ Kate Wolford Art Director ~ Amanda Bergloff Special Projects Writer ~ Kelly Jarvis Cover Illustration ~ Frank Dicksee Graphics ~ Amanda Bergloff

There’s a scorpion in your mind, and vast fires in your eye. The sun went down ten thousand years ago, its light fell into a swallowing dark. Listen to the bell ringing over a mass grave, hear your heart stop in an ocean of silence. Hear an absolute absence, there where a frigid blue sinks into the forest. Hear the bell stop, watch the fox and the lamb fall into black shadows. Was it in this misty world where you first touched the face of grief? Do you remember those closed eyes, and that first wave of cold rain? One vision bled into the next— the first dream wove with a dark thread a death mask for the final dream . . . it was there that you were born into blind hungers and stark prayers, and it was there where you set out to find a hidden path up the mountain to the Queen of Birds in her ancient temple, where beauty’s word, one perfect word, lights the dusky chambers. Alexander Etheridge has been developing his poems and translations since 1998. His poems have been featured in Wilderness House Literary Review, Ink Sac, Cerasus Journal, The Cafe Review, The Madrigal, Abridged Magazine, Susurrus Magazine, The Journal, and many others. He was the winner of the Struck Match Poetry Prize in 1999. Cover: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff

The month of April passed without any showers elf tears do not suffice so May flowers struggle where shall bees and faeries flit and pirouette now Plastic iron radio waves proud symbols of mankind’s progress modern wards to keep the fae at bay letting us safely watch TikTok somewhere a puckish garden grows a refuge from technology and its child metamodern angst far from this dull castle and cage Please accept this offering my soul yearns for rain’s kind caress TS S. Fulk lives with his family in Örebro, Sweden as an English teacher and textbook author. TS S. Fulk also plays bass trombone, the mountain dulcimer and the Swedish dulcimer (hummel). His poetry has been (or will be) published by BeZine, The Button Eye Review, Perennial Press, and more. Cover: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

A farmer had five sons and when he died his farm was divided into equal shares, one for each son. The sons worked hard, married, and had good harvests for several years. One year, the sons loaded their extra produce on their wagons, drove to town, and sold their crops at market. On their way home, they encountered an old woman covered in mud. She sat crying near a stream. Her wagon was turned over and most of her belongings were scattered along both sides of the stream. Her two horses were mired in the mud. The brothers, being of good heart, stopped and helped the old woman. They dug her horses from the muck and mire. They uprighted her wagon and pulled it from the steam. The oldest and youngest brother repaired two broken wheels and the other three gathered the woman’s belongings from the stream. The middle brother brought the woman water to drink and water to clean herself. They hitched the woman’s horses and then helped her into her wagon. The oldest brother said, “What a beautiful day. We fared well at market and were rewarded by helping you in your difficulties. Safe travels.” The old woman replied, “Don’t be so quick to leave. I thank you. I am not just an old woman. I am a weather witch and I would reward each of you with a boon, a wish if you will. What would you have from me?” The brothers laughed among themselves for they were ones who believed in hard work rather than witchcraft. The youngest brother said, “Let us make wishes. It will make her happy and will do us no harm.” The youngest spoke first to the witch. “I hate winter. I hate cold and I hate chopping wood. I would have no winters on my land.” The second son said, “Spring makes my eyes water and my nose run. I hate rain. I would have no spring on my land.” “Summers make me sweat. I hate heat. No summers for me.” The fourth brother complained about fall and hating the hard work that comes with the harvest. “As you will,” said the witch. The oldest brother thought carefully and asked if he might wait before requesting his favor. The witch agreed and said that he could have a year and a day to make his wish, but no more. They agreed to meet at the same spot in a year and a day. The brothers and the witch went their separate ways. A year later, the four younger brothers came to the oldest brother’s house. The youngest complained. “Without winter, the soil didn’t have time to rest and my crops were weak and died during the hot summer. We’re starving.” The second brother said, “With no spring rains, my crops wilted and died in the over-long summer.” “Without a summer, my crops were not ripened when the first killing frost came. I lost everything.” The fourth brother hung his head. “With no fall to make the harvest, my crops died when winter came.” The oldest brother had made a great harvest and had food in abundance. He welcomed his brothers and their families and promised to feed them. The youngest brother promised to work hard and even chop wood for the coming winter. The oldest brother said, “It is good that you are here for tomorrow is a year and a day since you made your wishes. Come with me. We will meet the weather witch and I will make my wish.” The next morning the five brothers met the old woman at the stream. She greeted them with great cheer. “Hast your wishes worked as you hoped.” “No, they haven’t,” said the oldest brother. “They didn’t choose well. For my boon, I ask that you restore the seasons and the weather to my brothers’ lands. Make things as they were before.” The weather witch looked at the brothers. “Would you have me cancel your wishes?” “Gratefully,” said the youngest. The witch agreed and rode away. The brothers never saw her again. The five brothers all grew good crops the next year and the year after that and for many more years. They worked hard. They rested in the winters, planted in the springs, weeded and watered in the summers, and made harvests in the fall. They never complained about the cold or the heat. They laughed in the rain, sweated in the hot sun, and marveled at the lightning and thunder. They taught their children to take the weather as it comes, for nature knows what it needs. There are reasons for the seasons. Robert Allen Lupton is retired and lives in New Mexico where he is a commercial hot air balloon pilot. Robert runs and writes every day, but not necessarily in that order. Over 180 of his short stories have been published in various anthologies. His novel, Foxborn, was published in April 2017 and the sequel, Dragonborn, in June 2018. His third novel, “Dejanna of the Double Star’ was published in the fall of 2019 as was his anthology, “Feral, It Takes a Forest”. He has four short story collections, “Running Into Trouble,” “Through A Wine Glass Darkly,” “Strong Spirits,” and the newest story collection, “Hello Darkness,” was released on February 14, 2022. All eight books are available from Amazon. Cover: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

Hiking through a forest preserve, I tried to find myself hiding in dappled shadows. Hazy clouds veiled the sun, unleashed icy drizzle. A blue jay squawked, berating me for trespassing in his territory. The mist thickened. Raindrops beat a staccato patter. My teeth started to chatter, but I was too stubborn to turn back. Down the hill I trod, carefully stepping around a mound of Artomyces pyxidatus clinging to a downed log. I stroked the lacy fungi, so tasty when sautéed, but the coral crown was too perfect to pluck. An old pine tree bent and swayed, whispering, this way. Pinus strobus pointed at a creek. Her branches clacked, a swift jab in my back. The needles tickled, but I dared not laugh. All forest adventurers should respect nature, especially trees, so regal. I crept closer. Wet moss smelled like mysteries. Water gurgled over rocks, saying, come and play. I shed my boots, socks and inhibitions. Algae made the creek bed slick. Bracing cold swirled around my toes. Foam formed a face. The Nereid demanded that I dance. Dumbstruck, I swayed. Dance, she commanded. Geese flying overhead cocked their heads and honked while I pranced. I spun in a circle and fell on my ass. The Nereid vanished, but I heard her laughing with me. Alicia Hilton believes in angels and demons, magic, and monsters. Her work has appeared in Daily Science Fiction, Enchanted Conversation, Modern Haiku, Neon, Unnerving, Vastarien, Year’s Best Hardcore Horror Volumes 4, 5 & 6, and elsewhere. Her website is https://www.aliciahilton.com. Follow her on Twitter @aliciahilton01. Cover: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

A very long time ago a huntsman and his young wife lived in a small cottage by the forest. The huntsman and his wife wanted to have a child, but though they tried for many years, they remained childless. One day news came to them from a nearby village of a woman found living in a small cottage in the forest. This witch, for so she was called by the people of the village, could speak with the spirits of the dead during heavy rains and would grant favors to those who came to her in the wet dark. The huntsman begged his wife not to visit the witch. It was said that beyond the black forest there was a land of dead spirits, and that those who traveled there would be filled with dark and dangerous magic, but the wife was so overcome with her desire for a child that one morning when he was out hunting, and a heavy rain welled up suddenly in the sky, she traveled into the forest alone. She came upon a small shamble of a cottage set around a willow tree so ancient and thick that the rain could not slip through its leaves. When the wife knocked at the door of the cottage, a gnarled woman answered, her body bent and twisted and her skin holding the pallor of death. The wife was nearly overcome with fear, but her desire was so great that she found herself being led into the cottage where the witch agreed to help the huntsman’s wife conceive a child. In return, the witch asked a promise of the young wife. She would have to give her word that when the witch came for her she would leave her family and travel to the land of the dead. The huntsman’s wife was grieved to make such a promise, but so great was her desire for a child that she agreed and left the witch’s cottage with a magical draught. She was surprised to find the heavy rain halted and sunshine slipping through the heavy canopy of leaves as she walked. That night, before her husband could ask what she had done, the wife drank the draught and took her husband to bed. That very night they conceived a daughter and, overjoyed, the young wife forgot the promise she had made to the witch in the forest, but on the very night their daughter was born the rain welled up heavy and hard against the thatch of their cottage. That night, the witch arrived and forced the huntsman’s wife to keep their bargain. Leaving the newborn with its father, the wife left her family and traveled to the land of the dead, never to return. As the weeks passed the huntsman’s heart grew cold. He resented his newborn daughter. Her cries and needs. Her resemblance to his lost wife. One evening he woke to her cries and called out, “I wish you were a stone, and could be put out and forgotten.” Then he fed the child and returned to bed. When he woke in the morning there was a large round stone where his daughter had been. The huntsman sat the stone in the garden that had been his wife’s pleasure, and though he did not truly forget, the years that passed dulled the huntsman’s pain as it dulled his memory. Eventually the huntsman remarried, and with his second wife conceived a son who brought joy and warmth back to his father’s heart. When the boy was five years old, however, the huntsman’s new wife was also taken to the land of the dead. After her death, the huntsman grew afraid even of a light rain and locked his son inside their cottage, fearing that the world would take his one last pleasure. The boy grew strong in the cottage, but he also grew very lonely with only his father as company. Many times he tried to escape. Through his window he could see the world outside, but he could only open the window enough to breathe in the clear air and never enough that his small body could fit through. Every day he would stare out his window to their little garden and the forest beyond and wish for friends to care for him. One day during a light rain, while his father was out hunting, a pale and gnarled woman appeared at his window. Excited to see someone new, even if her visage was terrifying, the boy rushed to open the window wide to speak to her. To his surprise the woman only passed him a large stone through the open window. It was a stone from the garden, one that he had stared at many times but never really thought of. “Make your wish upon the stone,” the woman said, “and you shall have someone to care for you.” The boy, who had been warned about dangerous witches by his father, was wary, but his desire for a friend was so strong that as soon as the woman had gone, he sat the stone down on his small bed and wished for it to become a friend. Immediately the stone began to transform, and soon became his sister, now grown to a young woman. When the huntsman returned home, he was met by his son and his daughter. At the sight of the young woman who now looked so much like his first young wife, the huntsman’s heart was overcome, and he begged to be forgiven. His daughter, rather than see him in such agony, only said; “I wish you were a raven, so that you could fly far from here to be again with those you have lost.” Immediately, the huntsman was transformed into a raven. He flew from the open window and crossed the forest to the land of the dead, and when he had gone the stone-sister and her brother lived together in happiness. Betty Stanton (she/her) is a writer who lives and works in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in various journals and collections and has been included in anthologies from Dos Gatos Press and Picaroon Poetry Press. She received her MFA from The University of Texas - El Paso. Cover: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

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