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(I-Ching, Hexagram 1, Yang--Immersed Dragon) "Heavy rain is dragon rain," the Chinese say. It’s not pouring cats and dogs—it’s pouring dragons today. Gripping the clouds with their black claws, their tails lash and rumble against the gray sky, releasing silver-scaled streams. When I click open my umbrella, their fiery breath pours lightning down, burning a ragged hole where the glistening rain pours through. My hair streams with rivulets like the dragons’ manes as they race above me, a fleet of pelting beasts. O to be a rain dragon, exultant in my power! Under the cleansing torrents of this wild maelstrom, I forget being human and its sorrows, I forget everything but my dragon power-- the power to heal, burst and flood away rigid paradigms. Heaven is my ocean. I growl, beat my wings, swerve up past the moon and join my clan snaking through the heavens. An aerial flotilla immersed in waves of lizard-green, glint-gold sunlight, polyp-red coral, lagoon-turquoise, all glorious in the aquatic sky, my thunder of dragons! Lorraine Schein is a New York writer. Her work has appeared in VICE Terraform, Strange Horizons, and Mermaids Monthly, and in the anthology, Tragedy Queens: Stories Inspired by Lana del Rey & Sylvia Plath.The Futurist’s Mistress, her poetry book, is available from Mayapple Press:www.mayapplepress.com Cover Image: Hokusai Cover Design: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff - Instagram: amandabergloff

I wandered in the desert until I found my way to an astrologer. She told me to seek a Virgo; instead, I seem to have found virga. Impressive clouds race toward me sweeping up my senses stoking my anticipation until at last rain falls toward the cracked, impatient ground. But then it stops. Halfway down the sky the rain evaporates hanging like ribbons tauntingly close yet still out of reach. I tire of building walls on which to stand to try and quench my thirst. I tire of wandering with my eyes wanting an oasis so badly that I hallucinate; I tire of the tantalizing mirage, lush and green yet having neither depth nor substance. If you want me, I will be here, continuing to chart my path by the positions of the stars and moon. But I will not spend energy to scale walls that will never reach your raindrops regardless of how much I desire to drink. Ryan E. Holman has published poetry in the Silver Spring/Takoma Park Voice and was featured thrice in the Third Thursday Takoma Park Reading Series. In 2016 and 2021, she won third prize in the Baltimore Science Fiction Society’s poetry contest. Ryan lives in the Washington, DC area. Cover Design: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

Editor's Note: We have a delightful essay on wishing today by our very own Kelly Jarvis. She does a deep dive into wishing in popular culture. Wishing is always in season. When my boys were little, they would run through the fields of late spring and early summer gathering fistfuls of dandelion stalks to use for wishing. Once they had plucked all they could carry, they would blow on the stems, sending their wishes into the air with each downy white seed that flurried across the breeze. On winter evenings, when another form of soft white magic was blown down from the sky, my boys would search the horizon for the first star and wish for a “Snow Day” filled with the hot cocoa taste of freedom from school. Wishing is always in season in fairy tales, too. While fairy tale variants shape and reflect the cultural conditions of the places they are told, the act of wishing is a universal quality of the stories, emerging in collected oral tales, literary renditions, and 21st century films. Snow White and Sleeping Beauty both famously begin with the wish for a child, and the wished-for children of fairy tales soon grow up to make wishes of their own, even when, in the case of Charles Perrault’s Cinderella, they are unable to articulate exactly what they are wishing for. Wishing is central to the contemporary fairy tales of Walt Disney which has turned a genie, a blue fairy, and an evening star into animated wish fulfillers. Perhaps most famous of all is their unique presentation of a kind-hearted fairy godmother, a construct most recently explored by the film, Godmothered, which attempts to give the donor character of fairy tale fame a turn in the title role. Even Disney soundtracks are full of memorable songs about wishing and wanting, and the theme park’s popular fireworks show, Wishes, ran for an unprecedented thirteen years. Although Disney may put its trademark “happily ever after” spin on the act of wishing, many traditional tales, gathered under the Aarne-Thompson-Uther Index 750A The Foolish Wishes, caution against the folly of wishing and imply that wishers often end up worse than they began. In The Three Wishes, a version of the tale collected by Joseph Jacobs, a poor woodcutter is offered three wishes in exchange for sparing a forest tree from his axe. That evening, tired and hungry after a long day’s work, he wishes for a link of black pudding which magically appears before him. When his wife realizes he has squandered a precious wish, she angrily wishes for the black pudding to be stuck to the end of his nose, and the couple is forced to use the third wish to set everything back to the way it was. The variants of this fairy tale have been explored in depth, and its pattern inspired the short horror story The Monkey’s Paw, published in 1902 by W.W. Jacobs. Each version ends by exposing the folly of humanity and the dangers inherent in the act of wishing. In spite of the dangers, wishing persists, spurred on season after season by folklore. People have thrown their wishes into wells, tied them to trees with colorful ribbons, and released them into the sky with the soft glow of lanterns. People have imbued ordinary objects with magical powers, turning ladybugs, lamps, clovers, and candles into instruments of achieving desire. Some say wishing should take place at a specific time of the year, like a birthday, when the smoke from blown-out candles carries wishes up to heaven, and others say wishing is best done at random times, like the moment the first red-breasted robin of spring alights on the lawn. New wish-making rituals are constantly being created and circulated within family structures; my older sister taught me to make wishes on watermelon seeds. On the hazy summer days of our childhood, we would each make three different wishes on three juicy watermelon seeds, sticking them on our foreheads to dry slowly in the hot sun. Only the seeds which stayed on our heads the longest would grant us the wishes we had made upon them, and we giggled, our fingers crossed for luck, as the seeds slowly shifted and slid down our sweaty faces taking our little girl dreams with them. One October day when my son was four years old, I told him that he could make a wish upon a falling leaf if he could catch it before it hit the ground. A breeze was blustering around us, and my little boy, who loved the wish-filled fairy tale Aladdin, ran back and forth for hours under the plummeting leaves, stretching his hands toward the magic foliage he believed would grant him his cave of wonders. The task was not easy, but by the afternoon’s end, my son had two crinkling wishes clutched tight in his hands, and he leaned close to whisper them into my ear. His first wish was to have all the toys he had ever dreamed of having, but his second wish surprised me. “I wish for you to have all the beautiful things, Mommy”, he said, unable to articulate exactly what those things might be. The dying sunlight slipped through butterscotch-stained leaves and danced in his amber eyes as he spoke, and I marveled at how quickly his wish had come true; in that precious moment when my little boy used his second wish for me, I was surrounded by the most beautiful things I could imagine. Perhaps wishing is always in season because we have so few seasons together on this earth. Wishes may seem trivial, but they also give voice to our deepest desires, our innermost longings, and our human yearning for something more than the mortal life we have been given. The act of wishing is an astounding expression of faith in the design of the universe, giving us hope that something as common as a leaf, a seed, or a star in the sky just might be the magical object that will season our days with beauty and make our wishes, and the wishes of those we love, come true. Kelly Jarvis teaches classes in literature, writing, and fairy tale at Central Connecticut State University, The University of Connecticut, and Tunxis Community College. She lives, happily ever after, with her husband and three sons in a house filled with fairy tale books. She is also Enchanted Conversation’s special project’s writer.

Editor's Note: We have an original bonus poem for the month to share with our readers today! Author Avra Margariti's wondrous poetry makes us want to wander an apothecary shop and discover its secrets... When I was the baker and the butcher’s daughter I never once visited the forest where lost princes or peasants fall in bramble patches, frozen ponds, early graves, where tree boughs claw and bleed you dry, and fairytales go to die, happy endings like pulling rotten teeth. When I was my parents’ child, I shied away from the city, with its dubious characters and roaring automobiles, its electric lights and dawns of progress of what a girl can do, or be. A witch visited my parents’ conjoined shops one day. After watching me work with gimlet gaze, she left me a book, although I told her I could knead dough and pluck chickens but could scarcely spell my own name. You know where to find me, the witch said nestled in her skirts, the scent of lavender and thyme, the stink of smog and petroleum. I traced my name in the fungi section, later. Amanita, she of agaric mycelia and fruiting bodies. Mushrooms that can kill, as easily as cure. When I devoured every word and illustration, the ink swirls memorized even after the book was snatched from my hands and thrown in the oven, when I could no longer call myself my parents’ daughter, I retraced the witch’s footsteps through the forest. I followed the scent of lavender, of thyme, nothing to my name but the rags on my back. I slept in rabbit warrens and badger burrows, supped on the leaves and bulbs deemed edible by the witch’s botanical grimoire, avoiding the conniving camouflage of poison. I dressed my blisters in natural salve and gauze, my scratches I smeared with honey. When at last I caught the subtle scent of smoke and oil, it led to a little shop tucked between the city and the forest, anathema to both my parents’ superstitions. The witch stood behind the apothecary’s worktable, before an astringent array of phials and tins. Child, the witch said, looking up from pestle and mortar, Amanita, are you ready to learn my craft? When every particle of me wanted to protest, say I’m not good nor smart enough, I’m not made of the stuff of cunning folk, I hushed the aching parts of me with promises of healing. I stepped farther into the pharmacopoetic altar, the witch welcoming me inside her herbaceous citadel. Avra Margariti is a queer author, Greek sea monster, and Pushcart-nominated poet with a fondness for the dark and the darling. Avra’s work haunts publications such as Vastarien, Asimov’s, Liminality, Arsenika, The Future Fire, Space and Time, Eye to the Telescope, and Glittership. “The Saint of Witches”, Avra’s debut collection of horror poetry, is forthcoming from Weasel Press. You can find Avra on twitter (@avramargariti).

Today's interviewee for our Enchanted Creators series is a true powerhouse of creative ability. She paints, she illustrates, she writes, she sculpts and she’s won awards for all four. You may recognize Lauren Mills’ beautifully illustrated versions of ‘Anne of Green Gables’ and ‘At the Back of the North Wind’. Or maybe ‘The Rag Coat’ and ‘Fairy Wings’ - original tales that she wrote and illustrated herself (the latter co-illustrated with husband, Denis Nolan). One thing you should know above all else is that Lauren’s work sparkles with magic, and a lifelong adoration of fairy tales resonates through every piece she creates. Browsing through her extensive gallery is like taking an idyllic wander through The Secret Garden - every glance reveals fantasy, delicacy and wonder. You too can immerse yourself, right here. Our favorite of course has to be the poem: ‘The Hedge Witch and the Fairies’, which Lauren penned and illustrated especially for Enchanted Conversation - but you’ll hear more about that, later. It was an absolute honor to interview Lauren; she’s kind, thoughtful and beholds a unique talent. Please don’t hesitate to read on, you won’t be disappointed... First of all, Lauren, thank you so much for agreeing to chat with Enchanted Conversation; we are so excited to learn more about you and your incredible work! I’m going to jump straight in with the big question: which fairytale is your favorite and why? Ha! That’s a tough one! As far as images I love Snow White… her black hair, rose cheeks and snow white face and mostly because of all the little dwarves. I love painting crinkly, old character faces and I loved playing with trolls as a child - my mother used to make Tomtens. Little old people (elves, gnomes) are adorable to me. That is one reason I chose to retell “Tatterhood and the Hobgoblins”. I also love that story - the mysterious birth, the love between two very different sisters and the spunkiness of Tatterhood. And like Tatterhood, I had goats and ate with a wooden spoon when I was a student in California. That picture book (story) I did also seems to have meant the most to many young girls who felt different and have told me it helped them get through their childhood. I also love Beauty and the Beast because I think it’s so romantic. You mentioned in a previous interview (https://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2016/02/06/illustrator-saturday-lauren-mills/) that, as a young teen, you were greatly inspired by Nancy Ekholm Burkert’s ‘Snow White’. What was it about Burket’s illustrations that affected you so? Do you have an affinity for Snow White? I absolutely love the delicate technique Burkert used - I especially love the cover - She painted with colored inks, applied in tiny lines. Her Snow White cover also looks like my late sister who owned the book when I first saw it and it also looks like my daughter. It’s still my favorite book cover and I have the poster hanging in my studio. You’ve written and illustrated countless tales and painted and sculpted beautiful works of art, but do you have a favorite project that you’ve worked on? If so, why is it your favorite? Oh, I couldn’t choose… and that’s my problem. It’s usually my recent work. I’ve recently sculpted a little girl from Sandy Hook who wanted to grow up to have an animal sanctuary and used to tell butterflies, “Tell all your friends that I am kind.” I also wrote a picture book about her, which I just submitted to a publisher and am crossing my fingers. I’m crossing my fingers that we can sell 10 editions of the small sculpture to fund the life size sculpture that will be installed at the animal sanctuary named after the little girl: “The Catherine Violet Hubbard Animal Sanctuary”. I’m also enjoying painting in oil using gold or silver leaf in a 19th century PreRaphaelite style. I’d like to be as good as my heroes but the idea of doing a painting just to hang in a gallery and hope someone will buy it isn’t as enticing as doing paintings that tell a story and go together in a book that reaches many people - so that is why I’m excited about venues like Enchanted Conversation. There hasn’t been a market in years for fairy tales in the children’s picture book world, but maybe there will be for people like us! Your sculptures range from life-like portraits, such as ‘Appalachian Woman’ to more whimsical figures, like ‘Legacy’. How do you capture that sense of magic in the latter? That’s interesting that you picked up on that. “Legacy” was originally a young fairy girl dancing with a little boy and it was illustrating Yeats’ poem, “The Stolen Child”. I submitted it for consideration for the Winona Lake Park in Indiana that needed sculptures for various themes. They wanted to use that sculpture for the “Legacy” theme and asked if I’d change the girl to a grandma. So, I sculpted another that way. Even in my sculpture I’m illustrating fairy stories. When you’re not writing/painting/sculpting/illustrating, how do you relax or unwind? I read fairy tales… from Enchanted Conversation and books about witches. And I spend a lot of time with my three Italian Greyhounds - two are puppies. My partner, Dennis Nolan, and I like to take walks in the woods; we are surrounded by hundreds of wooded acres and see a lot of wildlife. And I garden and make herbal concoctions. I especially like to make fairy mists and ointments with Sandalwood essential oil. You wrote and illustrated the stunning poem, ‘The Hedge Witch and the Fairies’, for Enchanted Conversation, which we and our readership absolutely loved! What was your inspiration for writing the poem? I had originally written it in first person from a child’s point of view, but when I changed it to a hedge witch, and [wrote in] third person, it really became a much better story. I liked the idea that she helped so many people (and probably animals) with little thanks but then thought there was no one who would come help her when she was ill, but the fairies had been watching and came to miraculously cure her… or I imagined that mothers and children came and helped her and she dreamt it was the fairies. I think someday I will be alone and people will gossip about that crazy witch in the woods who feeds all the chipmunks and the chickadees that eat out of her hand and the bear sometimes secretly watches from the woods and comes and steals the seeds. As a self-proclaimed hedge witch, can you tell us a little more about the practice and how it is incorporated into your day-to-day life? I grow roses, chamomile, echinacea, and lots of other herbs and make teas, tinctures, oils, creams, etc… But as I mentioned, I’m most attracted to the scented mists and body care. I also love to paint flowers. I would like to do a Grimoire - some sort of illustrated, calligraphed Faerie Botanica Notebook. Lots of plans and dreams and not enough time in the day. However, living like hermits now here at “Faun Hollow” in the woods - during a pandemic with my favorite places to go closed - does tend to slow down time a bit and helps me feel more creative. I like that no one will come inside the house which means I can leave messes and projects and herbs and puppy stuff about and not brush my hair if I’m too busy. You’ve been on quite a journey to get where you are today, do you have any advice for budding creatives hoping to make it - especially in this digital age? Yes - I would give the same advice I give to my daughter, students, and to myself: create every day because you can and because you love it. Making a living from your creativity has nothing to do with being a successful artist (writer or whatever). It doesn’t matter how you make money to pay your bills… just make sure you don’t stop being creative and someday your love for it will attract others to your work. I like the quote by John Burton, “It is the love of the process that pulls one through the discipline necessary to master that craft.” I also would advise people in this digital age to make sure you are giving your senses nutrition by walking in the woods and through gardens, reading good books, looking at paintings… No matter how down I might be I’m always lifted when I walk in the woods and still get that magical child-like feeling there which inspires me and stirs my creative juices. Check out more about Lauren: Laurenmillsart.com @laurenmillsart Molly Ellson is EC’s assistant editor. All images are by Lauren Mills

Editor’s note: This fantastically magical poem left my mind reeling in a very good way, and it explores the wildness of the natural world and the power of women in memorable words that inspired my imagination. It’s perfect for the last work of 2021. The gate is closed, rusting iron whorled in mimicry of the secrets within, but the warnings go unheeded when you’re too small to read the spiraling symbols. A girl can see coiled metal, the verdant overgrowth beyond and long to stretch her thin limbs through the gaps where a green world awaits. A girl can long for the wild wisdom of witchy women, that teeming, slithering, slippery awareness found in the psychedelic splendor of an acid dream, philosophy sipped from a flower’s nectar, power unearthed in a poisonous embrace. A girl can be drawn first to the bright blush of petals glowing among the tangled shrubbery and vines, having not yet learned such blooms have names, attributes, uses beyond beauty. A girl can breathe in the fragrance of a trumpeting datura, unaware it can drive her into dancing delirium. The hundred-eyed periwinkle watches her descent, gleeful in their garlands promising a girl’s death. The blue flag flies and the wolfsbane howls, blithe in the innocence scattered and lost among the lustful swoon of lilacs bowing, branches tangled in the tendrils of passion flower vines flowering with the promise of a long night’s sleep. A girl can learn to ignore the thorns that tug and tear at fabric and scratch at skin as she tends this fierce nest of greenery, each plant in its patient patch of soil cultivating its own secrets, hidden possibilities of poison or healing, waiting for a witch’s touch to crush the petals, grind the roots down, down into a dreamy potion of seduction, a preparation worthy of violent desire and promises broken. A girl has heard the stories, fair maidens who knew better, but slipped into the witch’s garden despite the warnings. The witches have stories too, stories about good girls who plucked petals from blooming plants to eat the secrets and plant the seeds in black soil and red hearts. They grow foxglove and belladonna and angel’s trumpets in gnarled patches, their own bones lengthening in aching bursts, flesh thickening, breasts blooming. The slender shoot becomes a vine, then a jungle. A girl who takes a chance, becomes a woman, then a witch. She will ramble in her garden, shedding pollen red as blood, red as the rust clinging to the iron gate that squeals as she pushes it closed. Carina Bissett is a writer, poet, and educator working primarily in the fields of dark fiction and fabulism. Her short fiction and poetry have been published in multiple journals and anthologies including Bitter Distillations: An Anthology of Poisonous Tales, Arterial Bloom, Gorgon: Stories of Emergence, Weird Dream Society, Hath No Fury, and the HWA Poetry Showcase Vol. V and VI. Andrea Blythe bides her time waiting for the apocalypse by writing speculative poetry and fiction. She is the author of three poetry chapbooks, the most recent being Twelve: Poems Inspired by the Brothers Grimm Fairy Tale (Interstellar Flight Press, 2020). Image of Angel’s Trumpet from Pixabay

Editor’s note: This is just so much fun. I love the way the baby arrives. I love the sachets. I love how accepting the characters are when a wonderful surprise happens to them. Enjoy. On the edge of a wood lived an old woman who was known to grant wishes upon occasion. Now Flora was a kind and generous soul, and was frequently visited by the town folk who had need of her magicks. She never turned down anyone in need, and worked diligently to make things happen for other people. Some wishes were small, some were large, and some were just downright silly. Flora worked in her gardens to prepare the ingredients needed for granting wishes. Everything was dependent upon the plants she grew, and she was always tending, gathering, and drying plants of one kind or another. Oftentimes, Flora didn’t even know what people wished for. She simply gathered the required plants, had the person blow on them, and then Flora made a sachet. She asked that they place the sachet under their pillow every night for a week, and think about what they wished for as they fell asleep. In typical fashion, one day a young girl came to Flora’s door and asked if the old woman could use an apprentice. Flora had seen this girl around the wood, and had visited with her several times, so she agreed. The girl was a quick learner, and Flora enjoyed teaching her all about herbs and the magicks within them. Most importantly, Flora taught her that she must never ask for anything for herself. That would be a recipe for disaster, and there were always consequences! One day, the girl requested a wish from Flora. She looked at the girl askance, and knew this was going to be a bad idea. The apprentice looked at her mentor with pleading eyes, and eventually Flora relented, reminding her that there were always consequences. Flora gathered ingredients and had the girl blow on them. She then painstakingly handcrafted a sachet. Flora instructed the apprentice on the proper use of the sachet, and told her to bury the little pocket of dried plants in her own backyard at the end of a week. The girl did exactly as instructed, except she tied the sachet shut with a lavender ribbon, unbeknownst to Flora. Everyone knew that Flora had longed for a child of her own for almost as many years as she had been alive. She and her husband were not gifted with babies, however. No matter how much she longed for a child, and how much she cried over it, her womb remained barren. One fine day, Flora discovered a new plant near her home. It was a lovely shade of purple, and unlike anything Flora had ever seen before! Puzzled and intrigued, Flora took her little hand spade out of her pocket and rescued the lonely plant, taking care not to damage its fragile leaves or roots. Upon returning home, she planted the flower in a bright sunny spot next to some lilies, and watered it generously. Every day Flora checked on her new plant, watering it when needed, carefully removing any offensive weeds, and making sure the soil was fertilized. The plant flourished, and seemed to grow quickly. One day, Flora noticed an odd bulge on one side of the plant, just under the blooming purple flower. “How strange,” she thought. “What could it be? A seed pod?” After a few days, the bulge began taking shape, and took on a deep shade of aubergine. In a week’s time, the bulge looked like a giant eggplant, and the delicate plant bowed under its weight. “My gracious!” exclaimed Flora. “Look at the size of you!” As the warm summer days turned into brisk autumn ones, Flora tended her gardens and especially the unusual purple plant. She talked to it daily, as all cunning folk know that plants flourish with good conversation. The plant grew taller and the eggplant grew larger, until one day, Flora noticed a crack in it’s deeply hued skin. “My gracious!” exclaimed Flora. “Look at this crack in you!” So heavy was the eggplant, it took both of her hands to lift it and examine the crack. She felt it wiggle, and then it began to split even more! Startled, Flora nearly dropped the eggplant. Suddenly, with a loud, juicy noise the two halves broke apart, leaving a startled baby girl looking up at her, like a pit in an avocado. “My gracious!” exclaimed Flora. “Just look at you!” The baby began to cry as the autumn wind brushed against her wet skin. Flora gingerly pulled the baby from the eggplant halves, and took her into the house. After cleaning the baby and making a makeshift bottle from an old vase and a torn glove, Flora settled into a rocking chair to feed her. The little girl eagerly sucked down the bottle of sugar water and promptly fell asleep. Flora studied the child while she was sleeping, and noticed something odd. It appeared that the babe had purple hair! How can this be? She thought. Right at that moment, her husband came in the door. He took one look at Flora holding the baby, and stopped in his tracks. “My gracious, what have we here?” he exclaimed. After telling him how the little girl came to be in her arms, he started to cry, so happy was he. Together the couple wept tears of joy at their incredible good luck. After very little discussion, they decided to call her Amethyst. The baby Amethyst grew into a young girl who was much loved by her parents, and her hair remained a deep shade of purple all the rest of her days. As for the apprentice, she grew into an old woman herself over time, but never revealed the secret of the lavender ribbon she had tied the sachet with. There were, after all, consequences! Krys Plate is a teacher from Iowa who collects fairy tales. A grandma who loves creating, she can often be found in her yard, harvesting “weeds” to turn into face and body products for herself and friends. Image by Pixabay.

Editor’s note: The structure of this story is pretty traditional, but I love the surprising little details. And I really wanted to know what happened next as I read through it. A very satisfying read. Long ago there lived an old king who when young had married a woman he deeply loved. She bore him one daughter and then she died. All the king’s advisers told him to take another wife, one who might bear him a son. All told him this but one tall and gaunt adviser, known as a skilled magician, who said that it was an ill-omen to marry with a heart sore sick with grief. And so the king refused every lady of the realm. Now in time the princess grew, and all the gentlemen of the kingdom wanted her. Not only was she as beautiful and witty as her mother, not only did she have the strength and tenderheartedness of her father, but any man who wed the princess would inherit the throne upon her father’s death. And yet still many advisers cautioned him to take a new wife. And yet still the magician said that it was an ill omen to marry with a heart sore sick with grief. The king still missed his wife dearly, and so he did not marry. Now this magician had a son not much older than the king’s daughter, and he so contrived it that his son married the king’s daughter. The match had not been to the princess’s liking, but the magician had the power of persuasion, and the king did as he suggested. Now it came to pass that the magician grew old and sickly. Fearing his death, fearing that the king might yet take a new wife, and knowing that his son had none of his powers, the magician decided to poison the king. Every evening when entertainment and supper were had in the great hall, the magician would bring the king his wine but sprinkle some powder with noxious effect into it. Soon the king grew sicker than the magician. The king’s council quickly called for all the herbalists and hedge-witches in the land to come forward and help cure their king, promising a rich reward. The magician knew not how he could argue against the plan, so he argued in favor of it. In favor of it but with a twist. The magician suggested that he, who had some knowledge of the healing arts, should guard against those who wanted to fraud their way into a kingly reward. And so the king’s poisoner became captain of those who would find the king’s cure. Week after week herbalists and hedge-witches, midwives and all sorts of cunning folk came to see if they could cure the king. The magician met with them all and questioned them about their knowledge of the healing arts. Whenever any herbalist or hedge-witch, midwife or cunning folk showed any sign of true knowledge, the magician cast them out as simple fools. Whenever they showed no true knowledge, he welcomed them in. And so the king worsened. One day when the king was especially sick, a woman came to the portcullis wishing to play her lute for the king. The magician still met and questioned her. And he noticed odd equipment in her lute-case. “What is that powder?” he asked. “It’s meal from my country, far in the East,” said she. “And what’re those straw-like objects?” said he. “Those’re capos from my country, far in the East,” said she. “And what’re those pebbles there?” said he. “They’re picks from my country, far in the East,” said she. He then asked about the healing arts and she pretended ignorance, for it is no evil to deceive a deceiver. Satisfied with the lutist, the magician allowed her to play for the ailing king. Her tone sang sweeter than honey, her melody made the sternest knights cry, and her rhythm carried all before it. To reward her, the king invited her to his table for the meal. “You played with wondrous skill,” said the king. “do you have other skills, madam player?” “Many, your majesty,” said the woman, “But you might enjoy these three.” She showed the king the powder, which she could sprinkle into wine to lessen its effects, and so allow one to drink longer into the night and with greater pleasure in the morning. This trick tickled the king mightily and he poured a heavy heaping into his own drink, and the magician frowned. She showed the king the straw-like objects, which she said would turn even the sourest wine into ambrosia. The king called to the kitchens, and the cook brought vinegar out. But after three twirls of the straws, the king could gulp the wine and declare it the best he had ever tasted. And the magician grew alarmed. She then showed the king the pebbles. “These, sire,” said she, “Will smoke in any poison-touched wine.” Then the magician stood and tried to end the night. “Your majesty,” said he, “That’s enough of petty parlor tricks.” But the king took three pebbles from the woman, and he tossed one into her drink, one into the magician’s drink, and one into his drink. His drink sputtered and smoked. The consternation and anger of the hall is better imagined than described. They captured the magician and promptly hanged him from the ramparts. And the king announced that he would immediately take the lady magician to wife. “But dear father,” said the king’s son-in-law, “isn’t it an ill-omen to marry with a heart full of grief?” And the king said, “I must do what I think best for the kingdom, pray, and bear the consequences if I am wrong. Only a fool trusts a proven liar.” And so the king and the lady magician married, and though the king never forgot his true love, he had some happiness. The lady magician bore him a son. The son grew strong and just, and as king he relied upon the advice of his brother-in-law who had learnt from his father’s disgrace, his father-in-law’s mercy, and his wife’s tenderheartedness and was always truthful and honest. Judd Baroff is a subcreator living the the Great Plains with his wife and young daughter. You may find him at www.juddbaroff.com or @juddbaroff. Image is by Wilhelm, no last name given, from 1890, for a pantomime costume.

Editor’s note: The use of folk magic in this poem, along with its economy of words, paints a truly magical picture for the reader. And I love the twist at the end—you will, too! You can keep witches from your door With two dead cats Underneath your floor. To guard against witches’ evil looks Press four leaf clovers In a heavy book. A better way to keep out ill Is a jar of broken pins On the windowsill. Both mistletoe and the rowan’s wood Will keep out the bad And in the good. Add horseshoes nailed to the front porch posts To give fair warning To the devil’s hosts. Then cross your fingers behind your back Throw salt past your shoulder Don’t step on a crack. Because you see it’s all their doing The still born calf The failed seed sowing. Behind the guise of midwife and nurse A witch works her evil And plants her curse. If you work these charms free of fear or doubt God will dwell within And the witch without. Don’t dwell upon that disquieting glitch That if your spells work Then you’re the witch. Wendy Purcell was a nurse, now she writes. Her short stories and poems have appeared in [Untitled], Braindrip, Unusual Works, Every Day Fiction, Vautrin and The Haibun Journal. She lives near Melbourne, Australia and is often in her garden that is both too big and yet never big enough. Broken lock Image from Pixabay.

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

Editor’s note: The power of dreams and the obsessive devotion of a mother made this story ring true to me. There is sadness and grace in this powerful story. The broken-winged moth stumbled into my mason jar like a drunkard, its left wing torn like the paper scraps I used for writing shopping lists: baby formula for James, half-price turkey, dandelion greens. I set the jar on the cabin windowsill facing the petunias so I could pretend the moth would fly back home. Later when I saw my baby boy slumping in bed, I thought of that moth: the flap of a single wing against glass, shards of moonlight illuminating its legs, the clear glass both a promise and a prison. The doctors ran tests. Ventricular septal defect. A hole in his heart. We’ll waitlist him for surgery. No guarantees. I brought James home and watched him. When his lips blued and his breath shallowed, I clutched him in his dot-patterned baby blanket and kissed his dandelion-fuzz hair, fearing it would be the last time. The night winds whispered to the blue moon. Before she passed, Grandma Rose had rocked with me on the porch swing and told me that blue moons attract Dreamkeepers, healers with hands the color of dried blood and hair made of milkweed blossoms. I thought they were a myth that people blanketed themselves with when the world grew too cold, until the Dreamkeeper appeared at my moonlit window. Metallic silver revealed her in streaks like a Polaroid picture developing. It doesn’t have to be this way, the Dreamkeeper said gently. Do you know what it’s like to lose a son? I asked. I’ve never had a child. She stroked a half-heart birthmark on her cheek. But yours can grow up in your dreams. When I saw my boy’s body crumpling, like that moth in the jar, I didn’t ask the price. I just said yes. Word spread that James was gone. The townspeople brought potato casseroles and whispered about funeral arrangements. Cremation, I lied. I couldn’t tell them I had handed my son to the Dreamkeeper before he could take a last breath. I nodded politely from the doorway, my unbrushed hair like wild vines. Then I shooed them away so I could sleep. James’s bunny rattle jangled in my mind as I drank chamomile tea. Soon, the wood-paneled bedroom walls dissolved into the gray mist of dreams. I heard James’s cries before I saw him resting in his oaken cradle in our shared bedroom. His tiny breaths warmed my palm as I stroked his cheek. Hush. Mama’s here. I placed a hand on his chest, hoping my warmth filled the hole in his heart. I shook that bunny rattle, the one Papa had wrapped in jackrabbit fur. James kept his eyes closed, and his cries calmed into the steady noiselessness of things that flourished as we both slept. In my dreams, James lived and grew just like the Dreamkeeper had promised. Once, I woke with sore fingertips from soothing the nub of his first tooth breaking through. Chickadees outside the window cawed along with his murmurs. I wondered what songs and whispers he heard when I wasn’t there. Another night, golden dreamlight suffused the cradle. The light danced and James laughed from the alphabet carpet on the floor. He curled his lips and murmured. Mmmm. Ma. Mama. His first word. My heart full, I gazed at him. But James stared past me, his eyes seeking something beyond. I turned and ran to the rough-hewn window frame. I searched the hollow night air for answers. I was only in his world when I dreamt. I needed a way to help him remember me. The next time I drifted into dreams, I envisioned Papa’s old Polaroid camera. I held its image firm in my mind until it appeared on the bedside table. I would take pictures of us and leave them in his world. In the first picture, the two of us nestled in front of the window. It developed slowly, the shapes coming into focus one at a time. James smiling, turning and stretching toward the window. Blood-red hands. Milkweed blossoms for hair. The Dreamkeeper stroking James’s dandelion-fuzz. Her words rushed back to me. I’ve never had a child. At dawn, my fingers combed the chill air, grasping for him, reaching nothing. I paced the creaking floorboards into a distorted lullaby. Sorrow drenched me, beckoning me to return to my dreams. Beside my bed, the trapped moth dipped a leg into a moonbeam. Blue moonlight always attracted moths. And Dreamkeepers. I picked up that mason jar, clasping it like a lucky rabbit’s foot. I would use it to trap that false mother, the Dreamkeeper, hoping her dream-mist form would slip inside like rainwater. I slipped into a hazy morning dream, envisioning the jar in my hand. James. The Dreamkeeper spun him in a dance, cupped sunlight in her hands and offered it to him to drink. His laughter kept time for their songless waltz. The townspeople’s voices cut into the dream. She’s still mourning. Sleeping. James shrieked at the clang of dishes they set on my doorstep. The echoes of my world were leaking into our dream world. A hole in his heart. He couldn’t make it. She needs to let him go. The wind flapped like that torn wing against glass, struggling for freedom. I studied the Dreamkeeper. She smiled as James’s chubby finger stroked the half-heart on her cheek as if fingerpainting it to completion. James would grow up hearing the wind swish through milkweed blossoms, dancing until dizzy with a mother’s love. He would heal. So would I. I set down the mason jar. There was no need for capture. Just release. It didn’t matter that she was happy. He was. I bent toward his head and kissed his dandelion-fuzz hair until my lips grew numb. I shook the jackrabbit fur rattle. It thumped like a weak heart: damaged but alive. The Dreamkeeper pressed a milkweed blossom into my hand, our fingers meeting briefly on its petals. Then I let go. Alexandra Otto writes flash fiction and short screenplays. She has just completed her first novel. When she is not writing, she can be found outsmarting the largest bears in the world in southcentral Alaska. Image by Pixabay

Editor’s note: Lynden’s story is unexpected, twisty, and stitched together very well. You’ve not read a tale like this one before. The idea is magical. I’d actually like to learn more. At the funeral, every memory shared was of Grandma Susie's kettle. It was always on, ready for anyone to drop in with their woes—gardens that wouldn't flourish, marriages that struggled, babies slow to come. Things always got better after a visit to Susie, they said. No one mentioned sewing. So why had Grandma, in her will, left Lizzie a sewing box? The truth was, though she'd worshipped Grandma as a child, when the depression of her teenage years clung on into her adulthood she stopped visiting, ashamed of the way her own life had gone nowhere. Now she realised she hadn’t known Grandma at all. Lizzie lifted the lid and rummaged round half-heartedly. Needles pierced the cushioning, arranged from smallest eye to largest. Shiny beads and bright embroidery threads packed the trays. She’d never had the stamina for crafts herself, despite Grandma’s urges: “I think you’ll find you have the gift for it.” Odd she should try so hard to persuade Lizzie when it seemed Grandma didn’t have the patience either. At the bottom of the box was a layer of patchwork squares, joined only in twos or threes. She glanced at the clock and sighed. Her manager had grudgingly given her the morning off for the funeral, but she had to go in for the afternoon. It wasn't just the greasy washing up and the smelly mop, it was the running commentary. There was still egg at the bottom of this pan, the customers were waiting, why on earth was she so slow? Lizzie grabbed her coat. It had been raining all week. Grandma always told her to look up at the sky, that things always felt better that way. But Lizzie preferred to look into the puddles. There was one section of road with a myriad of potholes, and after rain they made a patchwork of reflections. While the traffic honked and spewed out fumes, in the puddles it was all sky and trees. # Hours later, Lizzie trudged home and crawled straight into bed. Dreams began to flicker through her brain. "Lizzie! Lizzie. The sewing box. Have you used it yet?" It was Grandma, but the one Lizzie used to know as a child, lithe and active. Her hair floated round her head, the silver only streaks. I don't know anything about patchwork, Grandma." "Never mind that, Lizzie. The puddles! Make a patchwork of the puddles." Lizzie sat up in confusion. It was just a dream, wasn't it? And dreams never made sense. She got up and opened the sewing box again. Maybe she should try to finish Grandma’s patchwork. She spread out the fragments. Really, they were beautiful. Each square had a different pattern, and the pairs were joined in a range of stitches, embroidered over with extra designs. This one had red hearts on white, joined to a square of white hearts on red. Here, a blanket stitch joined a Russian doll to a perambulator. Next, two squares of different greens were bound with herring-bone, itself studded with beads, a long forget-me-not embroidered across both. A memory slowly sharpened in her mind. A quarrel with her best friend, tears. Grandma saying she could mend it with her needle. Lizzie had said through her tears: "Don't be silly, Grandma." Yet, what if it was true? Could Grandma really mend things with her needle? On hands and knees, Lizzie studied each fragment again. Hearts—a restored marriage? Flowers—a flourishing garden? Perambulator—a baby at last? And could Grandma's tools work magic without her presence? I need my spirit to be healed, thought Lizzie. But how? Sleep eluded her for the rest of the night. Sewing...patchwork...mend...puddles: round and round in her head. The hours on the alarm clock flicked onward. Only five hours, then back to the cafe. Steam and grease and vitriol. No. She’d take no more. Into her pocket she slipped a capsule sewing kit: one needle, a fistful of thread, and the little scissors. In the predawn light she ran down the road to the stretch with the best potholes. She threaded her needle and selected two puddles from the road. They slithered in her hands like satin, but the needle glided through them. Now two more. Tiny stitches, so the water wouldn't run out. It lay rippling across her lap as she made the last join. Knot the thread, snip! Lay the puddle patchwork on the sidewalk. The potholes they'd come from were a foot deep at most. The patchwork puddle was miles deep. Lizzie stared into it. A face formed, smiling, nodding. A hand stretched towards her. A man? In a suit, made of leaves. She took a breath and stepped in. "Lizzie Simmons? We've been expecting you. Admitted at...05:25 Tuesday 28th. How long do you plan to stay?" Lizzie looked around her. They stood in a colonnade, open at either side to grass threaded with wild flowers, watched over by majestic trees. She could glimpse a lake further up. Wandering the winding paths, made small by distance, were men and women and children. A girl drifted round the corner and nodded her head. Serenity lit her face. "Forever!" Lizzie breathed. "Not possible, I'm afraid. But it will aid your recovery to know you can return whenever you need it." "Recovery? Is this a hospital?" "If you like. A sanctuary, to build up your strength for the outside world." A thought hit Lizzie. “You said you were expecting me?” The man nodded and checked his clipboard. “You were booked in by Cunning Susie." "Grandma?" "A regular guest when she was younger." The man smiled to himself. "Now make yourself at home." "Where should I go?" “Anywhere you like. Excuse me, another admission to log." Lizzie walked slowly down the path and into a cluster of trees. Fine rain made beads on leaves, but on her skin it only felt cool and fresh. She titled back her head and spun, and all around was leaves and sky and air. Lynden Wade spends as much time as possible in other worlds to avoid the dirty dishes in her home in eastern England. She has stories in several publications, including The Forgotten and the Fantastical series. She’s still hoping for a house elf. Photo by Pixabay