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When we fell apart Snow took us in - She muffled our sorrow, Forged our tears into Jewels and Knives. The taste of snowflakes and The smell of cold winds - These we devoured together, like Candy, like love. What is ice but a Mirror Dark enough to Hide sorrow, Sadness, Memories? We want none of them. We want: Avalanches, Blizzards, storms, Shards strong enough to Rip through who we Should, would, were. 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, Star*Line, and others. Story Graphics: Amanda Bergloff

Wings of spun sugar, wrapped up in paper: a gift from the god who lived down the river. His increasing favor had grown even greater, intentions made known with sprawling curled letters: “It’s true, you are sweeter than all other creatures. My bird, won’t you sail through my sky on these feathers? But when there is thunder or the sky’s clouded over, go home right away where you’ll be warm and safer.” So when skies were clear, I’d don crystal feathers, eyes on the horizon for clouds taking over. I’d soar, and I’d hover over meadows of clover leaves of forest below like waves of the water. But when I’d stray farther than I had ever, I’d hurry back home as blue skies turned grayer. It never did matter just how nice the weather was before leaving; it always turned sour. One day I discovered with my candy feathers, a place more beautiful than my mind could muster. Landing with a bluster, I entered the cavern and there in the dark found the nest of some creature. Off over my shoulder I heard distant thunder, but there was plenty of time to fly home, I figured. Her wings were of ochre; they spread from her shoulders. She guarded her eggs with the strength of a mother. Her eyes burned with fervor at my wings made of sugar, and I saw in her gaze questions I couldn’t answer. The thunder boomed closer, calling for my departure, so I took to the sky as the wind became quicker. I flew with on vigor and just a few prayers to bring me home safely as the storm quickly gathered. But soon came the downpour, and I landed in terror as my wings began melting into puddles of sugar. I walked home in slippers then my cheeks grew redder embarrassed to find in my cabin, a visitor. “You can’t fly in this weather-- did you not remember?” His words rang out harshly as his eyes shaded darker. “I’ll make you a new pair,” he said through his temper. “But you have to stay grounded during inclement weather.” So I smiled sweeter than any smile prior, and I promised obedience while crossing my fingers. Then alone by the fire, my soul burned with anger, for he is the god who sends rain on the farmers. Six rainy days later, new wings wrapped in paper arrived at my door, fragile feathers of sugar. Veiled gifts from a lover-- no, gaslighting imprisoner. Sugar wings are a cage, just a gold-gilded tether. I waited till after his eyes seemed to wander And then I flew off in the sun to revisit the creature. She bid me come closer letting me study her: grown her eggs and her wings both apart from another. Maybe that was the answer to my gold-gilded tether. Cut it myself-- then it started to thunder. Lifting up in the air, candy wings beating faster, I now knew what to do all thanks to my teacher. Feet landing on clover it started to downpour, and I doffed candy wings throwing them in the river. Reaching for my interior, I felt waiting, a flutter --something bold and alive that’d been with me forever. I gasped out in labor, but the pain was an anchor as they sprout from my back-- something harder than sugar. They were longer and stronger than any god’s favor. The wings of my flesh shook and flung off the water. With my own wings unhindered, my feet left the clover lifting me in the air without even a stutter. That god up the river called me his bird, only sweeter. What he didn’t realize is I’m some other creature. I have grown my own savior from deep in my shoulders. Now I fly untethered in sun or in rain. Jordan Hirsch writes speculative fiction and poetry in Saint Paul, MN, where she lives with her husband. Her work has appeared with Apparition Literary Magazine, Octavos, and other venues. Find her on Twitter: @jordanrhirsch. Cover Design: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

There once was a time when birds talked as well as sang, wells granted wishes, and rainbows spied out pots of elven gold. In that time, magic, both great and small, was commonplace among mortals adept enough to believe, understand and use it. One such person, a woman named Phaedra, dwelt at the edge of the woods, just past the tilled fields of the village, in a cozy cottage nestled under a grove of ancient trees. The villagers sought Phaedra out for cures, love potions, warding charms and her mastery of “the sight.” Phaedra’s mother was ailing. Phaedra packed a basket of food and remedies, some magical, some simple herbs. Turning to her child, she said, “Daughter, take this to your grandmother as quick as ever you can.” Her daughter, Morgan, wise beyond her ten years, snatched her scarlet cloak and hood from the hook. “Yes, mama.” As she turned to go, Phaedra pressed a small whistle into her hand. “In case of trouble, use this,” she commanded. “But remember, your wits are your true magic.” Her daughter nodded. She stepped out onto the stoop, surveyed the woods surrounding the path and set out at a trot. Her mother watched the forest shadows reach after the girl, dark forms that melted back into the woods as the girl hastened past. Morgan paused for breath where the path forked three ways. As she pondered her choice, a big wolf sauntered up. “Lost, are you?” he asked. Grinning, he padded around the girl in an ever-shrinking circle. Morgan fumbled about in her basket. The wolf stopped directly in front of her, his hungry yellow eyes all a-glow. The girl held up a morsel of meat long enough for the wolf to get a sniff, then tossed it into the air. The wolf leapt up and snap! went his jaws. Morgan pulled another tidbit out of the basket, flinging it even higher. The wolf eagerly devoured this one too. But the clever girl had fed him one of her mother’s poultice ingredients: a bundle of shredded horseradish root! The bad wolf’s eyes and nose gushed rivers. He howled in pain and dashed away, desperately seeking water. Morgan raced up the middle path. As she scampered, her hood flew back, revealing golden curls that sparkled in the sunlight. Presently she came across a little house with a thatched roof. The door stood wide open. Morgan slipped inside, quickly bolting the door after her. She whirled around to find… an empty room. No one was home. Three chairs huddled around the fireplace. Three beds stood under the back window. And three bowls of warm porridge rested on the table, issuing steam that shimmered in the air. As Morgan leaned over to sniff the porridge, the door rattled violently against the bolt. Outside, the wolf snarled, “Little girl, little girl, let me in, let me in!” Morgan’s sudden fright turned to anger. She marched to the door and firmly said, “No! You are a bad wolf! Not a tooth, not a whisker, not even a hair of yours shall enter this house.” The wolf gnashed his large teeth in rage. “Little girl,” he growled. “I can blow the leaves off the trees. I can blow the tufts off dandelions from a mile away. I will blow this door down and then gobble you up in three big bites!” He marched ten paces back from the door and began to huff and to puff. As the wolf raged outside, Morgan put her mother’s whistle to her lips. She waited until a high, keening wind buffeted the door. It shook against its hinges and the bolt quivered sharply in the bolt-hole. Taking a deep breath, Morgan blew gently on the whistle. Out of nowhere, a counter-wind smothered the wolf’s effort. She heard him grunt with surprise. Here’s a surprise, she thought. She tooted on the whistle and a sharp gust knocked the wolf head over heels. He yelped as his head struck a rock. Twice more the wolf attacked and twice more the girl beat him back. The third time, she spun in a circle, blowing the whistle as hard as she could. A whirlwind descended on the wolf, picking him up and flinging him against a tree. Morgan opened the door and peered out. The big wolf lay face down, groaning and gasping for breath. “Oh, Mr. Wolf!” she called. “You won’t be dining on me today, but there is some nice porridge here you might enjoy.” She skipped on up the path until she was out of sight. Wanting to see what the wolf did next, she ducked into the forest and crept back to the little house. Not feeling at all big or bad, the wolf crawled into the cabin. Famished, he gulped down the porridge, licking the bowls clean. Exhausted, with a full stomach, he curled up on the biggest bed and fell fast asleep. The girl was about to continue on to Grandmother’s house when three enormous shadows loomed across the path. She shrank back and fearfully watched a family of grouchy bears lumber past. Papa Bear grumbled about how hungry he was. Baby Bear couldn’t stop whining. Mama Bear cuffed Baby Bear and gritted her teeth at Papa Bear. Snarling at each other, the bears shoved through the door. Silence fell as they gazed around their home. Crouched outside the window, Morgan felt their anger spiral up until Mama Bear saw the muddy wolf on her clean bedsheets and shrieked, “You filthy beast!” The hungry bears fell on the wolf and gobbled him up. Shortly thereafter, Morgan let herself into her grandmother’s house. There, on the loom, was a half-finished love blanket, with the letters M O R already woven in. Grandmother sat up in bed and grinned at her daughter’s daughter. “Oh Grandmother, what a big smile you have!” said Morgan. James Dodds has been published in 2100: A Health Odyssey and The Avenue magazine. He bides his time on a quiet plot of land just west of Spokane, Washington. He collects original Oz books and never wavers in his search for the perfect fried chicken recipe. Cover Image: John Everett Millais Cover Design: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

They say long ago when this land was still barren and dry, there was a girl who was born with a heart made of diamond. Her skin was like that of frosted glass, and as her mother gazed down at her daughter, she could see it clear as day. A diamond heart, shimmering as it pumped liquid gem blood throughout the newborn's body. The midwives and the clerics who assisted with the birth were awed by the sight, and word quickly spread. Soon, people all across the land knew about the little baby girl with a diamond heart. But word travels across all circles, good and bad. When bad men heard the stories, many of them spoke of finding the girl and cutting out her valuable heart. Whispers carried back to the child’s mother and father, who were very worried for their daughter. They prayed to the Gods in the Sun and the Moon to protect their baby girl. The gods heard the parent’s prayers, but gods have a reputation for being merciless and absolute, and the Gods in the Sun and the Moon were no exception. Gods are powerful, and although they could not take away or change the girl's heart because it was a part of her, they could give her the power to defend herself. They came down to the baby girl one night and they filled her with poison. “Her diamond heart is far too pure for her to ever willingly use this, even against those who wish to harm her.” The God in the Sun said. “Then we will give her sharp nails and teeth that will excrete the poison, and we will turn her skin into poison as well. And anyone who will touch her will die a horrible, painful death,” the God in the Moon nodded. So the little girl grew up, but as she grew, she changed. Her fingers split open into poisonous barbs, and her teeth grew into long fangs that dripped venom. Her skin became like sandpaper, coarse and sharp, every inch of it poison to the touch. The tears that poured from the girl's eyes when her mother could no longer hold her were poison. And the cold sweat that dripped from her pores as she rocked herself to sleep alone at night were poison. And she looked up at the sky at night and begged the God in the Moon to take the poison away, and she’d look up during the day and beg the God in the Sun the same, but the Gods couldn’t take away or change her poison because it was a part of her now. They turned their backs on the girl, content that if nothing else, she was now safe from the bad men who wanted to steal her heart. The bad men who came for her died, but so did her friends that reached out to comfort her, and her lovers who were desperate to hold her. She lived a life of sadness and longing, and she cursed the gods for afflicting her with a poison that took everything from her. One day when the loneliness was too much, the girl threw herself down into a stony creek, and she broke her neck on the rocks. And all that poison she was filled with trickled out of her eyes along with her tears. Yet even after death, even after rot, her tears still trickled out. And when they evaporated in the light of day and weighed heavy in the clouds above, those same tears rained back down to the lands, harder than any storm we’d ever seen. Finally free of the poison that plagued her tears in life, in death, the girl’s tears hit the earth far too pure to cause any harm. Instead they quenched the barren soil and breathed life into it. Soon grass grew, and then trees. Then forests, stretching for hundreds of miles, tall and full of life. They say it’s the girl's spirit in her tears that makes the towering trees of this land twist to block out the Sun and the Moon, the Gods that cursed her and turned their backs on her. And they say that somewhere at the bottom of the swamp, her poisonless body still cries, cradling a heart of diamond no one ever knew. Cover Design: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

There once lived a maiden who wanted for almost nothing. She was kind and clever and beautiful, with thick curling hair and lashes like the wings of a bird. She slept every night beneath silk sheets on a feather-stuffed mattress, and in her tower-room there was all manner of books, an array of wonderful instruments, and a wardrobe full of gowns sewn so beautifully that you would gasp to look at them. But despite all this, her heart was very heavy; for her father, who provided all these things, had ensured that it was all she knew in the world. The room was inside a great tower of emerald, which lay behind thick walls of granite, and several iron doors. She never had a visitor, for fear they would take her away, so spent her days entrapped and mostly alone. As the young maiden grew older, she grew more and more depressed. She stopped her reading, her playing, and her embroidery, instead spending all her time staring out of her solitary window. Her father had ordered gardens to be grown, thinking that the views would bring her pleasure, but they were more of a torment; she wanted desperately to be amongst the flowers, but could only make do with bouquets that her handmaidens gathered for her. Some of them dared to plead with their master, suggesting that his daughter was growing dangerously unhappy, but he was a hard-hearted man and ignored them all. Winter that year was crueler than ever, and all the garden was soon buried beneath ice and snow; still, the maiden liked to look upon it, and think about being free. One day, as she was watching as she always did, she noticed a bird lying amongst the snow; it was brightly colored, and looked to be from a warmer place. It was lying quite still. When she saw the animal, the maiden entreated one of her servants to bring it into the tower-room, and they abided by her request. She was enchanted with the creature, and nursed and spoke to it all through the Winter. But once the crocuses began to break through the white again, and the Sun began to shine, the maiden had it released. The loss of her confidant made her weep, but she would never inflict entrapment upon another. Little did she know, her affections were returned; the bird was not just a bird, but a Prince of a faraway country, and he felt equally devoted to the maiden that had saved his life. Knowing of her desire to be free and amongst others, he returned often to the tower, bringing her flowers and fruits from foreign gardens, or trinkets from bustling market-places; but he could not take the maiden with him, although the two of them wanted it dearly. Seeing her sadness, and feeling his own, the Prince finally decided to consult a witch— a clever and formidable woman, that he had learnt of during his travels. “If you wish to heal your maiden’s heart,” she instructed him, “you must prove yourself its match in devotion. The warm months have nearly left us; you must spend the colder ones with me. When the Snow falls, you will gather up all the flowers in my garden, and send them to your maiden with instructions to spin them into a gown for her to wear. When the garment is complete, she should put it on, and then you will have your wish.” The Prince’s men said that she was mad, and that flowers would barely grow in the Snow; but the Prince agreed to spend the Winter with her. Her garden was larger than he had ever seen, with all manner of strange herbs and plants in it. She told him to ignore all those, however, and simply wait for the Snow. So, he did – and, you can imagine his surprise, that every time a drop touched the ground, from it sprung a cloud-like flower, with a silver stem all covered in thorns! They made a wondrous sight, but the Prince did not let his amazement deter him. Their thorns pricked him until he bled, and the weather turned his fingers first red and then purple with the cold; but every day, he gathered so many that he had to call upon many common birds, doves and crows and sparrows, to help deliver the flowers to the maiden. She was amazed at the sight of so many birds, and more still by the strange flowers, and the instructions; but, desperate for her freedom, and suspecting now that her bird was much more than that, she matched her Prince in diligence. She and her hand-maidens began work at once, spinning a beautiful dress that was soft and sparkling as snow. When it was finished, she sent word back to the Prince with a dove. When he received the letter, the Prince hastened to the tower, stopping only to thank the witch, leaving her presents of gold and jewels. The maiden was waiting for him, and when she saw him in the distance, she asked that she be helped into her dress. Once on, the Snow-gown melted, and she with it; flesh became feathers, and she a silver bird, with wings that stretched as widely as the Prince's. And so, the tower could not hold her— the two of them soared out the window, free birds at last. They descended to his homeland under the light of the Sun, where they were pronounced King and Queen; and, still, the people say, sometimes you will see them flying together as birds, away to beautiful and faraway lands. Megan Baffoe is an emerging freelance writer currently pursuing English Language and Literature at Oxford University. She is keeping track of her published work http://meganspublished.tumblr.com. Cover Design: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

Long ago in a far-off land Elizabeta Drominichka lived with her ailing mother on the edge of a starving village. For months rain passed them by as villagers sickened and died, picked off by famine, disease and thirst. Somehow Elizabeta kept herself and her mother alive by sheer force of will. With her mother failing, her crops wilting and their pigs afflicted with the wasting disease, Elizabeta grew desperate enough to believe the old tale that the first eight drops of water presented by the New Year and gathered in a vial would stave off drought, famine and pestilence. But which eight raindrops are the first? And how to gather them? Deciding she had nothing to lose by trying to harness the power of the stories, Elizabeta unearthed an old, cracked crystal vial. On the very first day in the new year, she left her small home to search the sky for any clouds that might bring rain. A week went by. Two weeks. Three weeks. The land remained as dry as her teacher’s heart while her mother coughed in her bed and the pigs dwindled to resemble paper cut outs, but Elizabeta persevered. Each night she returned home, exhausted and discouraged, but the following morning after her chores she set out again, receptacle in hand, scouring the skies for any small cloud that might contain eight drops of rain. Alas, it continued fruitless. The villagers mocked and scorned her pursuit but Elizabeta refused to care. What harm was she doing? What other hope did she have for her beloved mother? She swallowed her sorrow instead of bread so as not to alarm her mother when she fed her the last of their supplies. She kept vigil for the desperately needed raindrops, watching the heavens, staying up late and rising early in her quest for showers. But it was as if the weather, too, made game of her. One day as Elizibeta ventured outside seeking some sign of precipitation, a stranger rode up on an adorable gray-brown donkey. It was such a merry little beast Elizabeta forgot her trials to laugh with pure pleasure at its twitching ears and soft back. So caught up in admiring the donkey was she, that she hardly noticed the sharp faced lad on its back. “What do you mean, staring so rudely at me?” the visitor snapped. “Do you scorn me like the rude villagers do?” Elizabeta stammered her reply, “I-I did not mean to give offense. I was just admiring your steed.” “That’s alright, then,” he answered. “He is the best donkey in the kingdom.” “Certainly! The finest one I’ve ever seen.” Elizabeta did not explain that he was the only one she had ever seen. The young man leapt off his mount, peppering her with questions while the donkey nibbled at the sparse grass. After a bit the he asked about the vial with its stopper. Elizabeta hesitated to try to explain her hopes and fears but the stranger was so persistent and so interested she finally told him her plan to gather the first eight drops of the new year. “Must they be from here?” he asked. Elizabeta didn’t know. The prophecy was none too clear on the finer points of geography so when the youth offered to take her with him on the donkey’s back to chase clouds farther away, she dared hope the drops could be from anywhere. With no thought for her own safety, she agreed to go with him to pursue a particularly promising cluster of clouds blowing toward the western border. The little donkey obligingly carried the pair after the darkening skies. The miles passed and the day grew late as they talked and sought the rain, until at last Elizabeta knew she must go home to care for her mother and find something to feed her pigs. With no raindrops but a heart somewhat lightened by friendship, a sorrowful but determined Elizabeta returned to her house. When she thanked her companion and his donkey, he promised to fetch her again the next day. Each day they chased the promise of rain as the pigs grew thinner and her mother coughed and the crops wilted away to nothing, until one day the lad arrived to find Elizabeta slumped on the cottage step, trying very hard not to cry. “What is it?” he asked. “My mother will not last the night, my pigs are so thin, you can see through them and the crops are brown stubble. I have no strength to carry on.” Her companion gathered her in his arms as tears began to leak down her face. To her amazement, he pushed her away and grabbed her crystal vial, unstoppering it to catch the first eight teardrops that escaped her eyes. Immediately, a gentle benediction of rain began to drop on the crops. The pigs shook off their lethargy to snuffle for mushrooms springing up in the damp. Her mother’s voice, stronger than it had sounded in ages, called out in relief. With a shout of joy Elizabeta jumped up and hugged her friend. Imagine her amazement to find the beggarly fellow changed into a handsome prince and his donkey into a noble steed. She gasped in shock and stared, speechless. “I am brother to the storm and cousin to the earth. I have the power to help those who put others first. You have sacrificed and striven, never once asking a thing for yourself. When your mother is well and your pigs fat and your crops ripe, I will return and take you with me to meet my family. Together we will return peace and plenty to our land.” And they did. Helen Liptak has written over twenty young adult comedy/dramas and three books. After living in six states and three countries, immersed in middle school culture for more years than she would care to mention, she now weaves her stories in South Carolina. Cover Design: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

When you're traveling east of the sun And west of the moon You’re always late Racing against time The elements and Fate There is no map but your body And the marks upon it: The raw red stripe across your wrist Where the tallow seared you Along with the lover you Lost The knots in your hair Where the east and west and south Winds whipped it round your face Plastered it over your eyes Till you were blind to all but The storm whirring, stirring your Insides The blue burns where the north wind nearly Dropped you in the cold, roiling ocean And the water froze the tips of your Toes And still you clung to the back of the Wind; you flew beyond the borders of the World, guided only by the compass of your Heart Till you landed at the castle where your Selfless love, your selfish wishes, your Foolish errors all slept, together, waiting For you to free them Free him—your bear prince, brutal Animal and gentle lover, the one you Desired and the mirror image of Yourself You had slept with this tender monster Of your heart for so long Believing yourself blind in Darkness, not understanding You needed no candlelight to see You did not learn the truth Till you had journeyed east of the sun And west of the moon To the castle at the end of the world The truth— Only you possess the power To rescue him, to rescue you To wash clean the old stains, mistakes, selfish Foolish things you had to do, the trip You had to take— Only you And so you should never have worried. No Matter how long the journey, you Would never be too Late Stephanie Parent is a graduate of the Master of Professional Writing program at USC. Her poetry has been nominated for a Rhysling Award and Best of the Net. Cover Design: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

The wind and the waves echoed her heart- constant and pure. The storm was her soul- wild and untamed... ~ A. Bergloff There is a music to storms. They are compositions that sweep over us and surprise us with their uncontrolled beauty. The wild unpredictability of storms teach us to respect the fury of nature while understanding that we are not always in control of our fates, yet we can face the storm and defy it. In this issue, we have collected four stories and four poems that explore some element of weather, from rain to wind to snow and beyond. So, please enjoy this first in our series of "weather-works" for 2022, and as always, dear readers... Stay enchanted! - Kate, Amanda and Kelly Heavy rain is dragon rain... The Water Dragons Lorraine Schein "Remember, your wits are your true magic.." The Wolf & The Wind James Dodds Wings of spun sugar, wrapped up in paper: a gift from the god.. Wings Jordan Hirsch Once a girl was born with a heart made of diamond - her skin was frosted glass.. A Heart of Diamond Rachel Nussbaum Impressive clouds race toward me sweeping up my senses... The Wizard & The Wiser Ryan E. Holman "If you wish to heal your maiden's heart, you must prove yourself its match in devotion..." The Bird From Faraway Megan Baffoe You flew beyond the borders of the World, guided only by the compass of your Heart... Too Late or Never Stephanie Parent The old tale told that the first 8 drops of water of the New Year, captured in a vial, could save them .. That Rains May Come Helen Liptak MUSIC Sharing an enchanting and atmospheric rain-inspired favorite to accompany this issue ALL COPYRIGHT to the written works in this issue belong to the individual authors. The Fairy Tale Magazine Editor-in-Chief ~ Kate Wolford Art Director ~ Amanda Bergloff Special Projects Writer ~ Kelly Jarvis Cover Illustration ~ Arthur Rackham Graphics ~ Amanda Bergloff

(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).