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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

Editor’s note: Parenthood leads to a million wishes, and this poem addresses one of the biggest wishes parents ever make with charm and honesty. Enjoy! She went to the grand wizard Babe at her bosom, herself sunken and sallow of face "Just one simple spell" she asked And wanted no more, truly with all of her heart Against snickers swirling the chamber, he took pity Ceding her solicitation "Magic will be wasted on her,” the whispers and shouts said But the wizard scoffed "How could one low as she threaten me? Or any of you?" And thereby silenced the chatter Grateful she left, child at breast But crying and fussing no more. She knew it not yet, but one day they'd regret Giving her this small slice of magic. From all around, the mothers they came Stumbling one over another Not in a rush, simply too tired to see one in front of t'other For the spell that she asked Truly was small, though by no means simple All she had wished was for quiet and calm from the babe in her arm and the power to speak it to be So the mothers all asked For one night of peace And kindly she always would grant it The mothers came to her from all 'cross the land Til the wizard, less grand Found his magic unfurled A new most powerful in the world The witch whose only spell Was to help a mother sleep. Jason P. Burnham is an infectious diseases physician and clinical researcher. He loves many things, among them sci-fi, his wife, sons, and dog, metal music, Rancho Gordo beans, and equality (not necessarily in that order). Image from Hill’s Manual of Social and Business Forms, by Thos. E. Hill, 1886

Editor’s note: Oh the traps that are laid for protagonists in fairy tales! That’s what this poem conjures up for me. It also makes me think of Andersen’s “The Nightingale.” It’s a lovely spell of a poem. Bird, girl, you perch upon words as if they were something solid like trees instead of shimmering notes of nothing. You have yet to learn that whether they are kind or unkind matters little. Betrayal is just an exposure of rotted wood beneath auburn leaves. Comforting nests, too, may only be made of twigs. Storms blow things apart, whether weak or well made. What have you then—as you look outward to vast sky? It is too simple to insist on you soaring on wings magnificently unfolded—for yours have been clipped and pinned. You’re not sure how they work. And so, I suggest you burst into flame instead: regold your glory outward. Become a purification of your own making, a sharpening of beak, an opening of throat, sing a keening or a calling, let it be yours, and yours alone. Whatever cage they wish to lock you in, whatever trap they’ve laid or sprung, never let the weaving cease, never let them hold your tongue. *** To learn more about the mythical Philomela, you can go HERE. Christine Butterworth-McDermott’s latest collection of poetry is Evelyn As: Poems (2019). Her poetry has been published in such journals as Alaska Quarterly Review, The Normal School, The Massachusetts Review, and River Styx, among others. She is the founder of Gingerbread House Literary Magazine, an online venue for fantasy and fairytale (GINGERBREADHOUSELITMAG.COM). Image from Pixabay

Editor’s note: Can you take one more Halloween treat? I know you can. The veil will be thin between the living and the dead for a day or two longer, so enjoy this gorgeous offering from our splendid Kelly Jarvis. It’s about trick or treating and love and Halloween, but you will see that it is still timely. That’s why it’s publishing at midnight. It’s all about the veil. The wheezy doorbell chimed as Old Pete shuffled across the threshold with his bowl of candy. The trick-or-treaters had been steady all night, and Pete happily dropped the last of his chocolates into their pillowcases. One of the mothers who trailed behind the group of children smiled and called out to him. “Are you ready for the snow, Pete? They say we haven’t had October snow in over thirty years!” Pete nodded silently. He had always loved snow. He had smelled it coming all day long in the air that blew through his open windows. Pete closed the door, knowing that this would be the final group of trick-or-treaters. Next would come the teenagers, ready for Mischief Night. Every year they would run round and round the ancient maple tree that grew in his front yard, draping its barren branches with rolls of toilet paper. Pete didn’t mind. It reminded him of his own boyhood mischief in the old country. Pete had left Ireland as a young man, just after his mother died. She had been a healer in their village, and people had come from all over the countryside to seek her magic elixirs. But after she passed, Pete had heard whispers behind his back. “Son-of-a-witch,” people called him, so he had set sail for America and settled on a small farm in North Massapequa, Long Island. Pete’s magic had always been a “growing” magic, and even in the rockiest soil he could bring forth plentiful crops. He loved the feel of dirt in his hands and the smell of young plants pushing up through the ground. He loved the sight of his rolling fields when the shadows of clouds traveled over them like boats on the open ocean. Now, when his great-grandchildren came to visit, they didn’t believe he had built his tiny house on farmland. They peered out the windows at the crowded neighborhood, trying to picture the rolling fields of their Grandpa Pete’s memory, but all they could see were the cars of the present as they sped up and down Boundary Avenue. Pete moved into his miniscule kitchen where pots were bubbling on the stove. The kitchen had once been full of life. Relatives and friends had crowded into it on holidays, so Pete built a dining room addition that was as big as the house itself. In the corner of the dining room was a grandfather clock, and, when Pete remembered those festive celebrations of the past, he could still hear the steady ticking of the clock beneath the joyous laughter. The clock was broken now. Pete shuffled to the dining room where he had already set the table and decorated it with candles. The sideboard was loaded with platters of spiced beef and whipped potatoes. There were bowls of nuts and a pyramid of late season apples. Pete had even set out a pile of foil wrapped chocolates for his wife. Sweets were her favorite, and in their golden years, she had grown as round as she was tall. He delighted in taking her in his arms and kissing her rippling cheeks. Pete dished out two plates full of food and set them on the candlelit table. He took a letter from his pocket and laid it at his wife’s place. Then he lowered himself into a chair, took a long sip of whisky, and waited. ​​​​​​*** Pete had met the love of his life long ago at a Harvest Festival. Her tiny stature and delicate features caught his eye. She reminded him of the fairies of his homeland. Pete watched her walk from booth to booth, snacking on sugared raisins and mincemeat pies. She stopped to play a game at one of the fortune-telling stalls, peeling an apple in one long strand and tossing it behind her to divine the name of her future husband. When she dropped her strand on the ground it formed the shape of a P, and it was then that Pete went up to her and boldly introduced himself. His name wasn’t really Pete, but he knew a little trickery was acceptable in matters of love. Since that day, everyone called him Pete. Now, he could barely remember his childhood name. They were married in November and their two children, a boy and a girl, followed quickly. Pete worked his magic on the farm until he was forced to sell the land and go to an office. His wife taught the neighborhood children to sing and play piano. She’d had the voice of an angel. Pete silently sipped his whisky, letting the thick amber liquid slide down his throat. ​​​​​​*** He had finished more than half the bottle when he heard a distant music, the trill of a soprano voice and the tinkling of piano keys. The rustling of a dress followed, and Pete held his breath in anticipation. When she entered the dining room and took her seat at the head of the table, she looked as beautiful to him as she had on the day they had met. He supposed that was what they meant by the phrase “true love.” Pete ate very little these days, but the sight of his wife brought back the appetite of his youth. He smiled as he dug into the potatoes, carefully chewing the tender beef with his worn teeth. His plate was almost empty before he stopped, suddenly realizing he did not want their silent supper to end. Samhain was the one night of the year when the living and the dead could mingle, and it was almost over. Pete looked at the shade of his wife through tear-stained eyes as the past and the present collided. Yes, they were sitting silently together in the dining room that he had built, but they were also young and stealing kisses at the edge of the sea. They were dancing in the moonlight while their newborn baby slept in his cradle. They were toasting marshmallows beside a roaring bonfire, their grandchildren playing at their feet. He was holding her hand as she took her last breath. With a sigh, Pete opened the letter he had placed on the table. He had never been good with words, and, in the end, he had written only one sentence: “I sure do miss my girl.” Pete lifted the letter to the flame of the candle and watched it ignite. Ashes coated the tablecloth like faintly falling snow. “Merry meet. Merry part. Merry meet again,” she seemed to say. And then, she was gone. ​​​​​​​*** Pete finished the bottle of whisky and gazed out at the western sky. Already the snow had settled on the sidewalks. The papers had been right: snow was falling all over Long Island. Pete swooned peacefully as he watched the snow falling faintly through the branches of the ancient maple tree. Ribbons of toilet paper danced and swayed like the shadowy veil that separates the worlds of the living and the dead. Old Pete drifted off to sleep, and his solitary soul seemed to slip its earthly bonds, sustained by the death-defying power of everlasting love. 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. Unsplash image by Nana Nakazwe

Editor’s note: Happy Halloween to one and all. I couldn’t resist one more spooky (and funny) offering, so here you go. I liked the imaginative fun Henry had with this classic. It was quite unexpected. Enjoy! BANQUO (to himself): Ah, Macbeth, thou art king now, as the witches promised, and I fear thou played’st most foully for it. Still, they also said the crown would pass not to your posterity, but to mine. So, I have’st that going for me. (Enter Macbeth and Lady Macbeth) MACBETH: Welcome to our castle, Banquo. Thou art our chief guest. No celebration would be complete without thee. We have arrange a special dinner on your behalf. So please, no snacking. As anticipation shall make the um, banquet sweeter, we will keep ourself alone till suppertime. BANQUO: My lord. (Exit Banquo) MACBETH: To be the king is nothing if I am not safe. Banquo is my enemy and scarest the bejeezus out of me. He is noble, willing to take risks, and his mind never stops working. He has the wisdom to act bravely but also cleverly. LADY MACBETH: Why not simply take his head, milord? MACBETH: Well, I could with barefaced power sweep him from my sight and take claim of the deed. Yet I must not. For there are certain friends that are both his and mine, whose support I cannot lightly discard. I must be able to wail his fall who I myself struck down. And thence it is, I must mask this foul business from the common eye. LADY MACBETH: What will you do, milord? MACBETH: Remain innocent of the plot, my dear, til thou may applaud the deed. Come, night, and raise your bloody, invisible hand to extinguish my foe. The day creatures begin to drowse, while night’s black agents to their prey do rouse! LADY MACBETH: My lord! Thou employ’st rhyme? MACBETH: Marvel at my words, but hold thee still. No one questions my iron will. To sharpen a blade, one must hone. Now, where’s the royal telephone? (A cavern. In the middle, a boiling cauldron. Thunder. Phone rings.) FIRST WITCH: Thank you for calling Acheron BBQ Pit. May I take your order? Uh, huh. Anything else, Lord Macbeth? Very well. That will be three pound twenty. Your order will be ready in the hour. We are open all night, milord. Yes, we do take credit cards. Good evening. (hangs up) Four orders of beef stew, one with poison! SECOND WITCH: Four stew, one spicy, aye. Round about the cauldron go, In the poisoned entrails throw. Toad bespeckled, wart and blot, Boil thou first in rusted pot. THIRD WITCH: Double, double toil and trouble, Fire burn, and cauldron bubble. SECOND WITCH: Fillet of a forest snake, In the cauldron boil and bake. Eye of newt and toe of frog, Wool of bat and tongue of dog. Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting, Lizard’s leg and owlet’s wing, For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth, boil and bubble. THIRD WITCH: Double, double toil and trouble, Fire burn, and cauldron bubble. SECOND WITCH: Tooth of wolf and dragon scale, Witches’ locks, teeth and tail Of a ravenous deep-sea shark. Root of hemlock dug in the dark. Liver of a kangaroo, Gall of goat and slips of yew, Slivered in the moon’s eclipse. Nose of Turk and Tartar’s lips. Finger of birth-strangled child, Ditch-delivered and reviled. THIRD WITCH: Double, double toil and trouble, Fire burn, and cauldron bubble. SECOND WITCH: Cool it with a wand of wood, Then the charm is firm and good. And now about the cauldron sing, Like elves and fairies in a ring. THIRD WITCH: By the pricking of my thumbs, Someone wicked this way comes. Open, locks, whoever knocks. (Enter Macbeth) MACBETH: We are in a royal hurry, as our coach is double parked. How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags? FIRST WITCH: There’s no need for name-calling, milord. Welcome to Acheron BBQ Pit. Will you dine in or are you here to pick up? OTHER CUSTOMER (interrupting): Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! MACBETH: What’s this? How does’t thou know me? Had I three ears, I’d listen with them all. OTHER CUSTOMER: Oh, king be bold and laugh to scorn, Banquo’s power for none of woman born, shall harm ye. MACBETH: That is all to the good, but I’m no fool. Will Banquo’s sons yet come to rule? OTHER CUSTOMER: Be lion-hearted and take no care, who frets or where conspirers fare. Macbeth shall never vanquished be, until to Dunsinane come a host of tree. MACBETH: I like the sound of that, good dude. Excuse me whilst I claim my food. I called in four orders of stew. Poison into one you threw? FIRST WITCH: Yes, milord. That’s three pound twenty. MACBETH: You have filled my urgent need. Now, I’m off to do the deed. Keepeth the change. Henry Herz has authored over 25 traditionally published short stories, including eight for the pro-pay markets Daily Science Fiction, Blackstone Publishing, Albert Whitman & Co., Air and Nothingness Press, Highlights for Children, and Ladybug Magazine. He has edited three anthologies and has written 11 traditionally published children's books. Image by Sawsan Chalabi. You can learn more about her and her work HERE.

Editor’s note: This story appealed to me because it has a classic fairy tale structure, combined with beautiful details—especially about the Firebird. The story reminds me of why I love fairy tales. Once upon a time there were three witches. They were sisters and they each lived alone in her own hut deep in the darkest forest. The oldest sister was feared by all the surrounding villages. She was known as mean and wicked and most people left her alone. Occasionally, a knight would show up, intending to kill her. But he stood no chance against her in her own home. She had a collection of human skulls on her fence posts surrounding her hut to warn away any other brave young men that came to try to challenge her. The middle sister was also known by the surrounding villages. But she was loved and trusted by those who came to her in need. The middle sister was often willing to give aid to the sick and injured. She also offered potions and lucky charms to those who could convince her that they were in need. The oldest sister and the middle sister did not get along at all, for they had very differing views about how a witch should behave amongst the human world. The oldest thought witches were better and more important than others because of their power given to them by Mother Earth. The middle sister felt that witches were given the power to aid humans and other creatures and that they were to behave with benevolence and authority over the poor wretched villagers that were tasked to them. The youngest of the three sisters had a secret. She lived deep in the dark woods and she wasn’t known by the people of the villages. She wasn’t mean, she didn’t have to go up against young knights who were looking to prove themselves. She wasn’t known for her healing or her spells and wasn’t sought after by the sick of body, mind, or heart. But she did have her secret. On All Hallows’ Eve, the three sisters were in the forest collecting mushrooms for use in meals and potions. And in hopes of coming upon a firebird. Firebirds were magical creatures that were exceedingly rare indeed. Coming across a firebird was considered to be very lucky and one who could even touch it was considered to have the most powerful magic themselves. A firebird could only be found on All Hallows’ Eve, as it was the only day of the year that they could be seen with human eyes. The youngest of the three sisters was the first to see the firebird. He was beautiful and regal, sitting tall in the tree with his red feathers blazing hot in the dappled sunlight that found him through the orange and yellow autumn leaves above. She could see waves of heat rippling off his body and into the air. His long tail dangled far below the branch he sat on and the plume on his head bobbled back and forth as he cocked his head to the side to look at her. She ran over to her older sisters to point him out to them. She was so happy that she was the one that was lucky enough to see the bird first as he stared down at them. The bird sat high up in a tree and looked down at them with a casual glance. He seemed unconcerned that the three witches below him were very excited to see him. For he was not at all excited to see them. He did, however, seem to have an interest in the youngest witch. He shifted from one foot to the other on his perch and watched them with curiosity as they moved closer to him. The three sisters whispered among themselves. The oldest sister wanted to capture the bird and kill him to drain his magical essence. The middle sister wanted to catch him and bring him home as a pet, so she could utilize his magic when necessary. The youngest sister wished she hadn’t pointed the poor creature out to her sisters at all and looked up at the bird with apologetic eyes as her sister witches put together a plan. The oldest witch had some leftover bread in her pocket. She had brought it with her in case she got hungry. She volunteered to use the bread to lure the bird out of his tree and down to the ground so they could capture the creature. The middle sister had brought a large dark green cloak with her, in case she got cold deep in the forest. She said she could use the cloak to throw over the bird when he came down to the ground to eat the bread. The two sisters agreed that they would decide what to do with the bird once he was captured. The youngest sister watched the bird closely and hoped that he didn’t like bread and that the crumbs that her oldest sister sprinkled on the ground would be of no interest to the bird. The two older sisters put their plan into action, and much to the youngest sister’s disappointment, the bird came down out of the tree and floated gracefully to the ground and started to eat the bits of bread that the oldest sister had scattered on the ground. The middle sister threw her cloak over the bird and it squawked in anger as it thrashed around under the heavy green cloak. The three sisters jumped towards the bird, with the older two sisters trying to grab the bird as he thrashed around under the cloak. The youngest sister, feeling for the bird, lunged forward and grabbed the corner of the cloak. She pretended to stumble backwards and pulled the cloak hard, releasing the bird from her sisters’ attempts to capture him. The bird’s head appeared out the far end of the cloak from where the youngest sister still held on to it, and as the bird spread his wings, he knocked over the older two sisters, through the cloak, and forced them to stumble backwards. All three sisters scrambled on the ground to try to regain their footing, but it was too late. The firebird took off in a burst of flames that forced the older two sisters to cover their faces in order to protect themselves from the power of the bird. He soared high into the air and off into the evening sunset. The youngest sister looked at her hand and found that she had accidentally pulled two tail feathers from the bird when she tried to rescue him. She hid the feathers in her skirt pocket quickly, before her sisters could see. She handed her middle sister back her cloak and stared at the ground. The middle sister snatched the cloak away from the youngest sister and the oldest sister swore curses at the youngest for her clumsiness and stupidity, and for costing them the chance at obtaining a firebird for another year. The three sisters went back to their homes, the older two in anger and disappointment. The youngest went home in relief and was glad that the firebird had gotten away safely. Late that night, under the light of the full moon, there was a knock at the youngest sister’s door. She climbed out of bed and looked out the window to see a tall man dressed as a knight standing at her front door. She went to her door and opened it just slightly. “Hello?” she said. She felt like her voice was stuck in her throat. “I am here on behalf of Magnus the Magnificent,” the knight said. “He has sent me to bring you back to the royal castle. You were chosen to be his apprentice, should you accept this honor.” “I’m sorry,” the youngest sister opened the door wider. “You must be looking for one of my sisters.” “No,” the knight shook his head. “I was sent by Magnus himself and his directions to your humble home were very specific.” “You must really have the wrong sister,” she said again. “For you see, I have no magical powers like my sisters do.” “And that is the secret that you have been hiding for all these years,” a voice said from behind the knight. The youngest sister squinted into the pale light that the moon cast down on the man that was standing behind the knight. “Yes,” she nodded. “It is.” The knight moved aside to let the other man pass. He was an old man with a long white beard and a full head of white hair. He had bushy white eyebrows and he wore a long red cloak that seemed to flicker like firelight in the light of the full moon. “You’re Magnus?” the youngest sister said. “The warlock who serves the king?” “Yes, I am,” the old man said. “And what is your name?” “My name is Nix,” she said. “You obtained something today, Nix,” the old man said. “Did you not?” The youngest sister nodded. “May I see them?” Magnus asked. Nix went inside and retrieved the two firebird feathers from the pocket of her skirt that was laying on a chair by the fire. “Firebird feathers,” Magnus nodded. “You do know that only one with the most powerful magic can touch a firebird.” “I didn’t really touch him,” Nyx said. “I was just trying to rescue him from my sisters.” “Yes,” the old man nodded. “And I appreciate that greatly.” “You’re—” Nix started. “Yes,” Magnus said. “I was that firebird. And the fact that you hold two of my feathers in your hand proves that you touched me while we were out in the forest today.” “But I have no magical powers,” Nyx said. “Not like my sisters.” “That is where you are wrong,” Magnus said. “You have more magic than both of your sisters combined, you just need to learn how to use it. And I have chosen you to become my apprentice because of your vast powers and your mercy.” Nyx looked at the two feathers in her hand. Magnus smiled at the young girl and said, “Come with me and I will show you the power you have. I will train you to become the most powerful witch in the land. Be my apprentice and you can take my place as advisor to the king and become the head sorceress of the kingdom.” “Are you sure I have magic?” Nyx asked. Magnus nodded. “I will teach you how to release the magic that is inside of you. You will become greater than your sisters, and they will no longer drain you of your power.” Nyx looked up at him in shock. “Yes,” he nodded. “Your secret isn’t that you have no magic, it is that your sisters use you for your power.” “And I can escape them if I go with you?” she asked. “Yes,” Magnus said. “But my middle sister, she does good with the magic,” Nyx said. “She heals people.” “With stolen magic,” Magnus said. “The people can come to you instead.” “What will happen to my sisters?” Nyx asked. “Whatever you decide for their fate,” Magnus said. “They have both committed a great crime in draining you of your power. Stealing magic from another is punishable by death.” Nyx stared at the feathers in her hands. “Can I have them spared?” Nyx asked. “For they are my sisters.” “Only if you come with me,” Magnus said. “Only if you work for the king can you have the authority to ask that your sisters be spared.” Nyx looked at the feathers in her hands. “So, you were the firebird?” she asked. “Yes,” Magnus nodded. “The most powerful magical creature in existence. And you will be the next firebird, with my training.” Nyx ran her fingers along the soft, hot barbs of the feathers. “We must hurry. It is almost midnight, and the apprentice ceremony can only be done in the moonlight on All Hallows’ Eve,” Magnus said. She smiled up at Magnus and said, “I accept your offer.” Born and raised in California, Judy Lunsford now lives in Arizona with her husband and Giant Schnoodle, Amos. She writes with dyslexia and a chronic illness (Meniere’s Disease), is hard of hearing, & is a breast cancer survivor. She writes mostly fantasy, but occasionally delves into suspense, women’s lit, and YA fiction. She has written books and short stories for all ages. She likes playing RPG’s and drinking lots of coffee. Cover Graphic: Amanda Bergloff @AMANDABERGLOFF Cover Painting: "The Firebird," Yelena Polenova, 1898

Welcome to EC's October Witch Issue! Wild and perfect, they belonged to the night with their hair flowing around them and their song of moonlight and magic that turned the midnight hour into something new and strange. ~ A. Bergloff They are shadow and light. Dust and fire. Earth mothers and formidable foes. Reflections of the past and mysterious visions of the future. They are the ones who live at the edge of our vision and beckon us to follow them into their arcane world of earth and bone. They are witches, and EC is featuring them with some enchanting tales for the month of October. So please enjoy our Halloween contest winning story, the honorable mention tale and a poem, along with some other witchy treats from EC's archives below, and as always, dear readers... Stay enchanted! - Kate, Amanda, Molly, and Kelly First Place Mike Neis Honorable Mention Judy Lunsford A Wishing Spell Kelly Jarvis MUSIC Sharing one of our magical favorites 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 Graphics ~ Amanda Bergloff

Editor’s note: I’m a granny, so I’m a sucker for a grandmother story. And what a grandmother! And what daughters! Such powers they have! The story hits all the right notes for a Halloween fairy tale. Update, 12-26-21: Mike’s daughter, Karen Neis, was inspired by her father’s delightful tale, and created the gorgeous watercolor image below, “The Wind Sisters.” What a talented family! A long time ago at the edge of a village in a remote valley there lived twin sisters who were still babies when their parents died. Although the girls were orphans, fortune had smiled upon them in three ways. The first was the wind, which kissed them on the day of their birth. This kiss showed itself in their wavy, windswept hair and in how they could run like the wind. Likewise, their temperament was usually as placid as a summer breeze, but at times could turn as turbulent as a winter blizzard. The second way that fortune smiled upon them was their grandmother, who was known in the village as Grandmother Brua, respected for her knowledge of plants, and feared for her power. Few ever dared to approach her. Grandmother Brua always sang melodies that were haunted with aches and longing, and the twins would ask her why she sang such sad songs. “Because life changes and people lose things,” she would say. “Your day of change will come, and you too will have to give something up.” The twins would laugh and say, “Oh Grandmother, things will never change. We will always play here in our hut, and you will always be there to care for us.” And Grandmother Brua would listen to her granddaughters’ innocence and laugh with them. The third thing the twins had in their favor was each other. Since the day of their birth, the twins woke together, ate from the same bowl, and played the same games which always ended in a draw. At night, they slept in the same tiny bed, in which they would sing each other lullabies until they both drifted off to sleep. Although Grandmother Brua thought it strange that the twins could be so close, she knew that she too, was a bit strange. But not even Grandmother Brua knew the strangest thing of all about her granddaughters. From the time they were still small, the wind would call them on nights of the full moon, and the two would slip out of their hut and plunge into the forest. There, the twins would sing into the sky. The wind would mix its voice with theirs, and the three would sing together. On such nights, a gentle breeze would caress the dwellings of the valley, and villagers would drift into a contented sleep. The old people would smile at each other by the fire and say, “how blessed we are to live in our remote valley, so far from the troubles of the world.” Such blessings were too good to last, and, sure enough, a blight struck, so that the crops of the valley began to wither. A young farmer, who had not yet learned to fear Grandmother Brua, approached her hut and called out, “Grandmother Brua, our crops are beset with a blight. If they fail, we will starve this winter. Is there nothing you can do to help us?” Grandmother Brua emerged from her hut. “I will help you,” she said, and gave the farmer a large bottle of yellow powder. “Mix this powder with dirt and spread the dirt over your crops and they will be saved.” The young man went to the other farmers and showed them the powder. Although they were suspicious of Grandmother Brua, they did as the old woman had instructed, and their crops were saved. Not long afterwards, the twins were old enough to venture forth from the hut. They sought out other children to play with but were rejected. Terrible rumors had always swirled about Grandmother Brua and her household. The old woman ached for her granddaughters when they came back home crying, for she knew the pain of rejection. She also knew of the vicious gossip in the village, and she knew of three women who fed those rumors. These women were so widely feared that all simply called them “The Three.” From this moment, when the twins sang with the wind on nights of the full moon, the dwellings of the village moaned with fierce gusts. The villagers would sleep fitfully and suffer from troubling dreams, and the old people would gather by the fire and say, “how alone we are in this remote valley, where no one can help us.” A spirit of unease settled into the land. Whether it was caused by the unease, none can say, but a terrible plague struck. The children of the village grew sick and weak. The sound of coughing and wheezing filled the streets, along with the wailing of their mothers. The young farmer had a son, who became quite ill. Again he went to Grandmother Brua and begged for her help. But this time Grandmother Brua refused. “Let The Three come to me and ask for help,” she said. “For I have a complaint against them.” The Three were terrified upon hearing Grandmother Brua’s words, for they also had children who were ill. That afternoon the villagers saw the three women, with shawls pulled around their heads, walking west to Grandmother Brua’s hut. The news flew like the wind. Grandmother Brua heard a mournful noise outside her hut. She opened her door and was astonished to see all the mothers of the village bowed down and wailing, “Please help us! Our children are dying! Please help us!” Grandmother Brua emerged from her hut and broke down in tears before them, for she herself knew the agony of losing a daughter and felt ashamed for withholding her help. She gave the women a powerful mushroom potion. “All must drink,” she said. “Everyone, with no exceptions.” The villagers did as she had instructed, and the village was saved. Although Grandmother Brua accepted the remorse of The Three, she did not believe the village would change. She was wrong, and the village children welcomed her granddaughters into their games. Once again, the wind brought a spirit of well-being into the village, and at night, the old people would gather around their fires and say, “how fortunate we are in this valley, and we have Grandmother Brua to protect us.” The village prospered and the children grew. The good fortune of the village continued until some young men found what seemed like a blessing, but was, in fact, a curse. A strange yellow metal lay bare by the foundation of the new village hall. Gold! News of the discovery quickly spread across the land. The two neighboring kingdoms heard the news, and before the villagers could decide what to do, they found themselves surrounded by two opposing armies. The men of these armies were wild with gold fever and would think nothing of destroying whatever stood in their way. As the sun set, these men made ready for battle on the following day. The elders of the village went to Grandmother Brua. They begged her for anything she might be able to do. The old woman could only stammer. “I—don’t—know!” Grandmother Brua closed her door and wept. The blight was easy to address with her plants. The plague, though more difficult to cure, was still within her abilities. But what could an old woman with a few herbs do against an invading army, let alone two? That night the twins did not wait for the wind to call them, and they plunged into the black of a moonless forest. In a small glen they held out their arms, tipped their heads to the sky and sang. Their voices spoke of helplessness and frustration. The wind heard, mixed its voice with theirs, and the three sang together. As they sang, frustration rose to anger, which erupted into unrestrained fury. Clouds formed in the sky, which coiled high into the heavens like huge snakes, tense, hissing, and ready to strike. Lightning flashed and frozen rain pelted. Thunder shook the earth and the whole valley trembled as a mighty gale bore down upon it. The wind howled with voices so discordant that people clamped their hands to their ears and cried out for fear of going mad. Gusts struck without mercy, and so the storm raged into the night. At first light, Grandmother Brua cast a sleepy eye at the twins as they slipped back into the hut and collapsed into bed. She noticed how their return coincided with the easing of the storm and saw the frozen world outside her window. Then she understood the bond the twins had with the wind and knew what her granddaughters had done. She began to craft her own plans for the day. Like the men of their armies, the kings arose from a dismal night with no rest. They surveyed their camps and found their great machines of war stuck in the frozen mud, their armaments brittle with cold and coated with a thick blanket of ice. The soldiers were stricken by rumors that the village was cursed, and any further action would lead to certain death. The kings held councils with their generals who advised parley instead of open battle. So they called for their personal retinues and headed to the village square. There they found a crone with two mysterious hooded figures at her side. The villagers huddled around the square’s periphery. The kings approached with their generals. “I know what has stopped you,” said the crone. “If you wish to leave the valley alive, you must do as I say. Sit down.” The kings and their retinues sat down. “We are listening,” they said. “I know of your hunger for gold,” said the old woman, and she set down a parchment before them. “This contract outlines how you are to share it between yourselves and leave the village in peace.” The kings and their retinues reviewed the parchment and found it to be fair. “You will sign it in blood,” said the crone. The cleverer of the two kings stood. “We will sign,” he said, “but your companions must show themselves first. We think it fair that we know who we are dealing with.” Grandmother Brua heaved a long sigh, turned to her beloved granddaughters, and nodded. The twins pulled their hoods back for all to see. Flushed with the power wielded from the previous night, their glory shone like the blinding sun. All were astonished at the sight of the young women, but none more so than the two kings, who had a driving thirst to possess beauty. The bolder of the two kings stood. “We will sign the contract in blood, but only if we have these two women as our wives. That is our condition.” The surrounding generals set their faces like stone and placed their hands on their swords. Then the twins knew their day of change had come, and they knew what they would have to give up. They embraced, wept bitter tears, and said affectionate words with such lamentation that all in the square wept with them. Then they took their places at the sides of their new husbands. The kings drew their knives, cut themselves, and signed the contract in their own blood. The crone rolled up the parchment and placed it in her satchel. “Do not break your promise,” she said. “For the contract makes clear your fates if you do.” The kings shuddered as they recalled the previous night and nodded. The sisters each accompanied their husbands to their new homes. They both became mighty queens over vast countries, and loving mothers of virtuous children. And, sometimes, on full moon nights, the wind would call to each of them, and they would slip out of their castle gates, and plunge deep into the forest. There, they would sing of their joys, their sorrows, and their longings. And the wind would mix its voice with theirs, and the three would sing together. Mike Neis lives in Orange County, California and works as a technical writer for a commercial laboratory. His work has appeared previously in Enchanted Conversations and elsewhere. Besides writing, his outside activities include church music, walking for health, and teaching English as a second language. Cover Graphic: Amanda Bergloff @AMANDABERGLOFF Cover Painting: "The Artist's Daughters," Thomas Gainsborough, 1760

Timing: The moon need not be waxing. It need not be the second Sunday of Spring, Or quarter-past midnight on the Dark Sabbat, But the magick will be most powerful On the anniversary of your first breath, That day when the sharp intake of cold and painful air Set your mortal cries in motion. Materials: A frosted cake (at least two layers), a candle, and a match. Instructions: Gather those you love around you. Place the candle deep into the soft soil of the cake. Strike the match. Light the wick. Chant a familiar tune. Watch the flame flicker; watch shadows spill like liquid night. Inhale--and in the pause Between one breath and the next, Summon your wish from the secret spaces of your soul. Do not speak. Do not share your wish. Words bring great danger and may result in ruin (Like an unsightly sausage stuck to the tip of your nose). Exhale—let your breath extinguish the flame. Your silent wish will rise upward with the candle’s smoke, An offering and a prayer. i 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 projects writer. Cover Graphic: Amanda Bergloff @AMANDABERGLOFF Cover Painting: "Scattering Stars" by Edwin Blashfield

Editor’s note: The presence of nature spirits and of a natural cure in this tale grabbed my attention, as did the ending that left me pondering the protagonist’s future. Living on the edge of a bustling village, made so by a crossroad for travelers, lived a wise woman. She always offered her services for a fair fee, and it was because of this transient population that few bothered to give a thought to the life story of an old woman, let alone specifics such as her age or occupation. Until one day, when a boy of around 11 or 13 did notice, in the way that children do. He asked around about her in an innocent manner, but none could give an answer. He thought to ask the wise woman directly, but when he mentioned it to his ma, he felt his ear being clipped by the back of her hand, and so he thought better of it. Instead, he began to follow the wise old woman around like a shadow as she went about her business—in the village at first, and then, growing bolder, he began to follow her on gatherings within the woods. On this particular day the village was full of activity as preparations unfolded, revealing the scene that would burgeon into the Summer Solstice Festival that evening. Seeing the hustle and bustle, Ash gave a good-natured grin, his spirits high as he made his way towards the home of Hylde. He almost missed her leaving and quickened his step, as the old woman set a good pace. Into the mountains she went, a bird on her shoulder and her gathering bag swinging against her thigh. He followed along until midmorning, when the old woman disappeared behind a boulder. Ash searched for a way to find her while the sun rose; then, discovering a crevice hidden behind a large rock, he edged his way through, emerging into a sparsely covered area with a lake at its centre. The lake itself was a wonder, with luminescent lime green shining from its surface. Ash spotted Hylde making her way to the other side of the lake, gathering peach blooms as she went. Judging the distance and the light cover, Ash moved towards the lake. Kneeling at the water’s edge he skimmed his hand across the surface, able to see now how algae made the lake glisten. He turned his hand this way and that, examining it before having his attention was diverted to the sound of a violin playing. Ash looked up. A shadow had begun to fall across him, and the sun was obscured from its path. But Ash no longer noticed, nor did he hear the pleas from Hylde, who had stopped gathering blooms and had begun hurrying to reach the boy, stumbling on the smooth rocks in her haste, skirts giving hindrance in the bustling motion. Flying ahead, the small feathered companion of Hylde darted quickly to the dreaded water spirit Nokken, who, intent on the boy, continued to play his tune. Hylde’s bird dashed and darted in front of the water monster, but to no avail, as he was sent sprawling through the air by a gust of wind escaping from the Nokken, who was annoyed by the interference. Hylde’s screams penetrated the air. Meanwhile, Ash had risen from his place beside the lake, walking slowly, entranced by the violin into the luminescent water. From Hylde’s vantage point, she saw the two, boy and monster, moving ever closer to one another, and she searched frantically about herself for something to use against the Nokken; there was nothing. In desperation she called out: “Nykr! Nykr!” she bellowed. “Leave the boy alone. He knew not to enter the waters. It was a mistake,” she screamed, desperate. “You know the price, Huldra. You should not have bought him here. How long have you been sneaking here? Too long, but still the same as when I saw you last. Your husband remains uncured, I see. Annoying choice, a bird really. Huldra, couldn’t you have transformed him into something a little grander to keep his life unspent?” “Nykr. The boy wandered here by accident, a shadow he has been to me. I thought I had lost him today,” she said. “I am hungry, Huldra. I may have spared your husband’s life when last we met, but this boy is nothing, he is not one of us.” Hylde remembered back to a time when she was known as Huldra the forest spirit. Her marriage to a human was to have been the start of a new life, but it had been short lived when they had happened upon the Nokken, Nykr. Hylde’s now-recovered bird swooped again and again at the Nokken who fended the bird off, swinging bow and instrument about. The pause in music broke the trance Ash had been under long enough for him to run to shore. Falling to the ground with exhaustion, he lost consciousness. In an instant, Nokken submerged, his prey lost to the Huldra. Hylde quickly went about stripping the wet clothes from the boy and laid the blooms she had gathered at several points along his limp body. As the color drained from the flowers, the blue tinge that had spread across Ash’s skin abated, and his natural color returned. When his eyes opened, they looked directly into the blue eyes of Hylde, which were bordered by the creases of age. “It's your lucky day Ash, for on any other day, before or after Summer Solstice, these blooms would be near useless for gathering—one of the shortest windows for gathering I know of, and I know many.” “The blooms have many uses,” she continued, “but most especially, they draw the poison of the lake's algae from the blood streams of unsuspecting adventurers, such as yourself. Mind you, most will not know this, even if they make it back to shore.” She shook her head sadly. “Unlike you, of course, most will spend time being digested in the belly of the Nokken, but those that do find the shore again will usually be drawn into a deep sleep and be eaten slowly alive by the creepy crawlies.” Hylde had said her piece, and before Ash could reply, she motioned for him to follow her. And he did, as all shadows do. Ellie A. lives and works nestled between the Tarkine Forest and Cradle Mt National Park. She is published in books, ezines, magazines and anthologies across genres. She likes forests and old buildings and strangely trains. The image of a nokken is by Theodor Kittelsen

Editor’s note: The sweet simplicity of this story is a delight. It really could be a fable from thousands of years ago. Very satisfying If you could live at any time in any place, I would strongly urge you not to choose eleventh century Japan. It was a time of terror and turmoil; a place ravaged by wars, plagues, and disasters. In a tiny village in the foothills of Mount Fuji, a youth anxiously tended his sick mother. His name was Yosoji, but we’ll call him Yoshi as that sits more comfortably on the Western tongue. The scourge of smallpox was the latest and worst plague to visit Japan. There was hardly a household in the land that had escaped the deadly grip of this disease. More tears were shed, more incense burned, more desperate offerings made at shrines and temples throughout the land than ever before. As his mother slid closer to death, Yoshi decided to consult a fortune-teller, since all other options had been exhausted. The fortune-teller was firm and clear in his advice. “You must muster all your strength and courage, but there is a cure for your mother if you are brave enough to fetch it. In a dangerous place, half a day’s journey from here, a stream flows down from Mount Fuji whose water is said to cure all ills. “You will need to take care as the forested areas you will pass through are full of dangers; of wild animals and demons, as well as men who would kill you for the robe you have on your back.” Bowing in thanks, Yoshi returned home to make his mother comfortable before setting out on the journey described to him by the fortune-teller. The uphill way was rough and rocky, but Yoshi strode out, brimming with a joy born of hope. Eventually, he came to a point where the path divided into three. Uncertain which path to take, he looked each way, straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of the healing stream. Out of a white mist, a young woman appeared before him. Dressed all in white, with shimmering crystals in her hair, she was the most beautiful woman Yoshi had ever seen. She greeted him in a voice that rang out with the silvery sound of birdsong. Yoshi was surprised to learn she knew why he was there. Indeed, she seemed to know everything about him, and she offered to be his guide. “You are a good son, she told him. Your filial piety will earn you the reward you seek, so I will take you to the stream. Its healing waters will certainly cure your mother.” Gratefully, Yoshi followed her lead. Before long, they reached a stream that rushed down the side of the sacred mountain. It was as pure as it could be, with every pebble on the bed of the stream clearly visible. The woman urged him to fill his gourd and return quickly to his mother so that she could drink her fill. “Drink some yourself also,” she told him. “That way you will protect yourself from the illness. You will need to be in good health to look after your mother. Meet me here again after three days.” After she’d guided him back to the three paths, Yoshi asked to whom he was indebted. “I cannot tell, nor should you ask,” she replied firmly. He thanked her, bowed low and quickly took his leave. Arriving home that evening, Yoshi found his mother’s condition had worsened, but he helped her to drink the water from the mystic stream. The next day she was much better. Yoshi gave her some more water at intervals throughout the next two days. On the third day, he set off again to find his guide already waiting for him at the junction of the three paths. Again, Yoshi filled his gourd, taking enough of the magical water to share with all the stricken villagers at home. Five times Yoshi made the journey to and from the stream, aided each time by the mysterious, white-robed woman. By this time, not only had his mother made a full recovery, but all the people in his village were well again. Yoshi was hailed as a hero. The fortune-teller whom he’d consulted in the first instance also came in for lavish praise. People took him gifts of rice and steamed dumplings as an expression of their gratitude. Amidst all this adulation, Yoshi alone was uneasy. The person most deserving of their gratitude was the beautiful woman in white who had guided him to the healing stream. He felt he should visit her once more in order to thank her properly. He looked around for a suitable gift for her. His eyes lit on a wild bush whose pure white flowers were the closest in purity to the exquisite beauty of his guide. Snatching a branch, he determined to take it to her. As he made this final journey on his own, Yoshi was nervous. His youthful courage had deserted him. The pine forests were oppressive, closing in on him. The previously benign mass of Mount Fuji took on the shape of thunder, the color of war. Reaching the stream, Yoshi found it had dried up. The pebbles that had shone up from its depths were now covered with rotting weed that emitted an unpleasant odor. Kneeling, Yoshi willed his guide to reveal herself to him. Suddenly and silently, she appeared before him. Yoshi held out the floral gift he had brought her. Once again, he asked her to tell him who she was. But in a flash of intuition he knew – she was the White Goddess who served the sacred mountain. She accepted the branch graciously but told him gravely he must not return now the stream was dry and no longer needed. Raising the branch above her head, she threw it as far as she could. Where it landed, it immediately took root and grew into a beautiful, white-flowered tree even as Yoshi watched. A white cloud descended, enveloping the goddess. Yoshi’s yearning gaze followed her, but he never saw her again. It is said that dew from the leaves of Yoshi’s tree can cure all ailments. Even today, people travel from miles around to stand under the tree and test its healing powers. Most of these people have forgotten who Yoshi was, but I don’t think we should. You never know when we might need to seek the help of the healing waters. Mary Cook is a UK-based writer whose articles, short stories and poems have appeared in numerous publications, both in print and online. She has contributed to many anthologies, including the To Japan with Love series and has worked as an overseas correspondent for the Tokyo-based Hiragana Times.

Editor’s note: Food and spells. Food as spells. Completely irresistible and so we didn’t resist it! Brittany and Sara are scholar poets who are also terrific teachers of folklore and writing. Learn more about their latest writing course here. But before that, enjoy this delightful poem. There are spells of cast iron we know with lines that echo, soft and low, in our minds, in our hearts, that help us not to fall apart. The simplest one is easy to make, soothing to mix, cleansing to bake, a bit of milk, vanilla flower, cinnamon for spice and power. The brightest pumpkin from your path, a few quick tears and buried wrath, a circle of protective salt, the knowledge that it's not your fault. We sugar the spell a bit too sweet, get distracted, drag our feet, But it comes together, nonetheless, this easeful comfort we possess. And when the world is just too much, we let our lips this hearth spell touch - and in that act of letting go, our next right steps begin to glow. Dr. Sara Cleto and Dr. Brittany Warman are award-winning folklorists, teachers, and writers. Together, they founded The Carterhaugh School of Folklore and the Fantastic, teaching creative souls how to re-enchant their lives through folklore and fairy tales. Their fiction and poetry can be found in Enchanted Living, Uncanny Magazine, Apex Magazine, Liminality, and others.