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Her sorcery-cloaked sisters come seeking her spells. The Sea Witch asking for An ocean tempest for a prince’s doom and A mermaid’s voice. The Ice Queen willing To pay for a shard to pierce an eye and Freeze a heart. The Enchantress in need of Gloom and rain to seal a merchant’s fate and A daughter’s loss. Stirring storms of fire and ice, Water and wind, Shadow and light, The Weather Witch obliges. Chanting Meteorological incantations, she conjures Cold nights for lost children and Dry wastelands for sightless lovers, Sea squalls to drown sailors and Blizzards to blind travelers. Her cauldron brimming with Gale and flood, she speaks the spells Her sisters seek. Brewing Air and atmosphere, The Weather Witch obliges. Deborah W. Sage is a native of Kentucky, USA. She has been published in Enchanted Conversation, Eternal Haunted Summer and Literary LEO. A former business executive who after years of being committed to the bottom line is gaining equilibrium in her psyche through her endeavors in folklore. Cover: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

They always talk about the shoes, not the electric slick slide of soles on glass, or the ice that shook me on the stairs— what use are slippers against tempests? Those things I couldn’t reuse, I left scattered like lentils on a dress of ash. Hurricane in a pumpkin, we dressed my carriage with my skirts as a sail. Mice are better than rats, nimble rescuers, enough fairy magic left to bless passing squash, disemboweled into a fleet of floating gourds escaping on the tide as the moat rose, waves crashed. As the clock struck midnight I looked up in fear, not of losing wishes or princely kisses, but at clouds leaving blood in their tracks. I ran, prince with one shoe went for help, but now we float tethered to branches of hazel and willow. When the waters subsided, we cleaned together, hands clasped, my limping, blind sisters grateful to learn to survive. I wept in the muck and turtle doves carried us seeds. My love first kissed me in that field, sparkling shoe embracing life as a trowel. The story doesn’t mention that the former prince sold a marvelous slipper to feed our people through winter. Or that our wedding happened amidst the rubble, my dress of sailcloth, his suit of rags, attended by survivors, busy rebuilding a city and not a castle. Dyani Sabin is an author of speculative fiction, poetry, and science journalism. Her work has been published in Strange Horizons, as well as National Geographic, The Washington Post, and Popular Science. You can find her haunting a cornfield, chasing ghosts on the endangered species list. Cover: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

Long ago, in the coastal village of Soltriste, while dreaming, a woman named Dolores met Death. Santa Muerte was wandering the shore not far from Dolores’ home, her bare, skeletal feet sinking into the sand. The early morning sky grew overcast with dark gray clouds, and the wind blew tremendously, its howls causing Santa Muerte’s robes to flutter and her bones to clack. The diosa stopped where the waves could perfectly kiss her ankles and stared out at the open sea. Dolores turned to find what captured the skeletal woman’s attention only to discover a fishing boat: her beloved Rio’s boat, undoubtedly loaded with the village’s men at work. Her Rio, who had weathered her through her family’s fever-induced deaths, who had saved her from all her pain, sorrow, and grief. The water, wind, and sky morphed at alarming speeds, churning and blowing and darkening into a much different landscape. Rio’s boat shook violently, bobbing and weaving out of control. Santa Muerte raised her arms with palms turned upward, and realizing her intention, Dolores screamed, begged, dropped down to her knees. She tried, quite futilely, to grab at the diosa’s robe, but her hand simply passed through, her words failing to reach Santa Muerte’s nonexistent ears. Trapped in this helpless hell, Dolores could do nothing but watch as the clouds, at their stormy peak, unleashed a lightning bolt that struck Rio’s boat, splintering wood and setting the deck ablaze. After a brief second, which stretched into infinity, Dolores awoke following the boom of thunder, tears streaming down her cheeks, to a cold and empty bed, a terrible storm raging outside, and a bright pinprick of orange light sinking from the horizon into the sea. For days and weeks and months afterward, the remaining villagers of Soltriste found the sailors’ bodies washed up on shore, distorted into unrecognizable, bloated forms. A heavy melancholy dominated over lost fathers, sons, family, and friends. The air, already so salty, carried an even more distinct tang as tears were shed, their salt evaporating into the communal atmosphere. Dolores did nothing but sit on her porch day after day, legs tucked close to her chest, arms wrapped around, body facing the ocean, waiting for a return that would not come. One particularly foggy, rainy day, Dolores was curled into herself upon that porch once more, a dash of color amongst the gray in her yellow rebozo. As she kept her dull-eyed vigil, Santa Muerte suddenly materialized from the fog, condensing from airy mist into solid bone in a matter of seconds. The diosa approached, rain bouncing off her figure as it dared not to soak her, while Dolores looked down to hide her anger. Stepping onto the porch, silent as if she glided rather than walked, Santa Muerte knelt to Dolores’ level. Up close, she could smell the diosa’s compelling floral scent, Aztec marigolds and roses among her robes, which, mixed with the rain’s rich, earthy aroma, evoked the coming of spring. “Hello, mija,” Santa Muerte said with her ancient voice, reminding Dolores of her long passed abuela. “I sense you are quite angry with me, so I have come to listen.” “I-I am not angry with you,” she denied. “Now, we both know that’s not true.” The diosa spoke with such authority that Dolores couldn’t object. “Mi niña, I am here. Speak what you must.” A long moment hung in the air before Dolores said, her voice cracking around the edges, “Why did you kill them all? Why didn’t you spare them, spare him?” “Because I am death, mija. All living things must die; it is my duty to carry away the souls of those departed. I am not the arbiter of when or where or how.” Dolores’ rage and despair twisted into a messy knot inside her tattered heart. “But why him?! Why Rio?! He was a good man—I loved him—he didn’t deserve this!” “It was his time, mi niña. Nothing can change that, not even I.” “Liar!” Dolores’ impudence poured freely from her mouth. “You didn’t need to do this! You didn’t need to take him from me, why couldn’t he have stayed?! Why have you done this-” “No one’s ever really gone, Dolores,” the diosa replied kindly, despite Dolores’ harsh words. “Everywhere and in everything, you can find those you’ve loved and lost. All you need to do is keep an eye out for the remaining traces of their time on this earth.” Santa Muerte raised her skeletal hand and cradled Dolores’ cheek, her bony grip smooth, warm, and gentle. Her skull’s eyeless stare bore into Dolores with a depthless wisdom. “Go on, mija. Hurry, and take that look.” Weary, Dolores obediently turned her gaze around, desperate for any hope. And there, astoundingly, she found it, him, in the rain. Rio didn’t look the same as before, constructed now with water, translucent and nearly featureless. But she could see his outline, his figure, tall and slender and strong—she would have recognized him anywhere. She jumped up from the porch, Santa Muerte already vanished before her, and rushed into the street, her rebozo dropped into a puddle in her haste. She threw herself into Rio’s arms and found him surprisingly solid, droplets from the downpour hitting his aquatic skin and incorporating into his being. Dolores clutched him close, and he embraced her back, running his wet fingers through her hair as she sobbed and professed her love, his only means of comfort without a voice. The two lovers swayed together in the street, locked in a simple, affectionate dance. And as she calmed, Dolores finally noticed her fellow villagers, greeting their own loved ones, all as ethereal and diaphanous as her Rio. Tears fell, smiles bloomed, and laughter abounded as everyone delighted in the company of the dead, who soon faded from sight with the storm’s passing. None despaired however, for they knew that no matter what new sorrows sprung up, they could always look forward to the next rainfall. Sarah Garcia is an MFA Creative Writing student at Mills College. A self-described Chicana bisexual disaster, she loves fairytales and writing the weird, horrific, and fantastical. Her writing has been featured in UCLA's FEM Newsmagazine and Westwind, and she received honorable mention for Mills College's Marion Hood Boess Haworth Prize. Cover: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

Mushrooms emerging From saturated ground Mist bearing shoots Scatter faintly Among tree roots Chirping echoes above As other nests Are feathered Crocus peaks out Through remaining Scattered icy traces Chrysalis spinning On softly greening limbs Cloudy dreams forming May soon come true Chartreuse froglets Multiply high and low Curious young things Explore bright colors Lured by scents Returning from deep Within the Earth But straying far Extracts a high price Beware destroying angels Bewitching mimics Fool the untrained eye Sampling newly emerged Saprophytes which Seem like treats Yield a death cap Toxic though tempting Such smell and taste Transports its victim To another realm Never to return Maria DePaul is a Washington, DC-based writer whose poetry, prose and reviews have been pushed extensively in print and online, most recently in Haikuniverse, Haiku Journal, Poetry Quarterly and Three Line Poetry. Cover: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

Editor's Note: Fairy tales and flowers - the perfect way to celebrate spring - is today's enchanting essay by EC's very own, Kelly Jarvis. Enjoy! In the early spring months of my New England childhood, when snow still spilled from the sky to embrace an awakening earth, my grandmother and I circled our backyard searching for the first signs of flowers. She told me the story of the crocus, bruised purple from its daring ascent through the frosty ground, and the tale of the fragrant hyacinths, collapsing under the weight of their own riotous beauty. She taught me the names of all the flowers, and I delighted in her words as much as I delighted in the blossoms. As the weeks unfolded, forsythia, azalea, magnolia, and hydrangea rose as if at her call, sprinkling the still barren landscape with spots of color. Wild bunches of Queen Anne’s lace, silver swords, bluebells, and fairy slippers ignited my imagination and made me feel like we were walking through a storybook, gathering magical bouquets to usher in the season of new life. Now, as I wander through volumes of fairy tales, my memories of my grandmother help me notice the flowers that scatter themselves across the page. The Brothers Grimm have several tales that feature flowers. In Little Red Riding Hood, the wolf distracts the girl from her journey by pointing out a field of beautiful flowers, and in Jorinda and Joringel, a blood-red flower disenchants everything it touches, turning hundreds of nightingales back into girls and stripping an old witch of her evil powers. In the lesser known A Riddling Tale, three women are transformed into flowers and in The Pink, a Prince who is gifted the power of wishing turns a maiden into a bloom to transport her through the forest. Snow White’s sister, Rose Red, is named after a red rose tree that grows just outside their lonely cottage, and the Grimms’ Sleeping Beauty is called Briar Rose after the climbing hedge of thorns and petals that will knit themselves together to protect her enchanted sleep. The Brothers Grimm have even leant their name to a variety of Fairy Tale Roses that grow in clusters of orange blossoms. No fairy tale rose is more famous than the one featured in Beauty and the Beast. In Jeanne-Marie LePrince de Beaumont’s version, it is Beauty’s request for a rose which prompts her father to pluck a flower from the Beast’s garden, setting the plot into motion. Walt Disney uses the rose as an icon for its treatment of the tale. An old beggar woman offers the flower as payment for shelter in a castle. When the Prince of the castle rudely turns the poor woman away, he is transformed into a hideous beast who must find true love before the last petal of the enchanted rose falls. Oscar Wilde explores the red color of this most romantic flower in his heartbreaking fairy tale The Nightingale and the Rose. When a student complains that his professor’s daughter will not dance with him unless he gifts her a rare red rose, a nightingale offers her sweetest song to stain the white petals scarlet. Upon learning that “only a Nightingale’s heart’s-blood can crimson the heart of a rose”, she concludes that love is greater than life, and allows the rose-thorn to pierce her heart. Wilde wrote during the late Victorian Era when the language of flowers was used to convey complex messages about love and affection, but even contemporary floriography recognizes the red rose as a symbol of passionate love and the dark crimson rose as a symbol of grief. Hans Christian Anderson fills the gardens of his fairy tales with roses as well. In Little Ida’s Flowers, a little girl dreams about flowers attending a ball, seeing “two roses who wore gold crowns” and in The World’s Fairest Rose, the title flower is the only thing that can save the life of a dying queen. The air is filled with the scent of roses at the triumphant conclusion of The Wild Swans, but this story turns on another flowering plant known as the stinging nettle. Only after Elisa gathers nettles from a graveyard and blisters her hands by sewing the leaves into shirts for her swan brothers can she transform them back into human form. It is a tulip with red and yellow petals which gives birth to Anderson’s Thumbelina, a child so small she sleeps in a polished walnut shell with a “mattress made from the blue petals of violets and a rose petal coverlet”, and flower imagery can even be found in Anderson’s winter masterpiece The Snow Queen. Kai and Gerda play among the rosebushes growing on the rooftops of their houses, and when Gerda journeys north to rescue Kai, she enters the garden of an old woman where “every flower you could imagine from every season stood there in full bloom.” The beauty is so intoxicating that Gerda forgets her quest for some time, and it is only when a painted rose stirs her memory that she asks the tiger lily, morning glory, daisy, hyacinth, buttercup, and narcissus to share information that will help her find her lost friend, but the flowers are “standing in the sunlight dreaming up their own fairy tales and fables” and offer her only cryptic messages about love. Inspired by far-away fairy tales and long-ago garden walks, I like to think about the stories that flowers tell when they unfurl their leaves against the warm, damp air of the season. Trapped in darkness and nourished by melting snows, their roots must know of sorrow and grief. Yet, each year they send their tender shoots struggling to the surface to paint the chalky gray landscape with brilliant colors. As the forsythia, azalea, magnolia, and hydrangea bloom, I can still hear my grandmother’s voice whispering their names on the breeze, calling my attention to their beauty with her enchanted incantations. Each year, I gather her ghostly words like petals and tie the bouquets of her old stories together with silky ribbons of memory to celebrate the precious return of spring’s fairy tale magic. 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. Image: Pixabay

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

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

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

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

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 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

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