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The Ghosts of Beatrice Bird is a riveting new novel from Louisa Morgan, the acclaimed author of A Secret History of Witches. Beatrice Bird, a woman born with special empathetic abilities, flees her psychology practice to seek solace on a sparsely populated island in the Pacific Northwest. Since trying acid at the suggestion of a patient, Beatrice’s empathy has begun to manifest in the form of “ghosts” that trail behind the people she sees, and she hopes to escape the pain and turmoil of feeling other people’s trauma. When a young woman named Anne Iredale arrives on the island hoping to escape her own traumatic past, Beatrice and Anne become partners in solving a mystery which helps to bring both of the women peace. The novel unfolds with alternating focuses on Beatrice, Anne, and Anne’s five-year-old son Benjamin. The plot bounces between the present day on the island and the women’s past experiences. Readers learn how Beatrice’s gifts develop from her childhood, and they understand Anne’s trauma through the lens of her own early experiences. Although some of the shades that Beatrice sees are ghosts, others are simply manifestations of fears and feelings that hang upon the living who have not yet processed their emotional pain. The novel is both a haunting story about two women’s lives and a commentary on the way we all carry pain with us even after we believe we have recovered. I loved The Ghosts of Beatrice Bird. I found the characters engaging and the ideas insightful. Although Beatrice has been blessed with the fairy gift of “second sight”, the book has a real-world and true crime feel that grounds the fantasy elements in reality. The book’s message about overcoming trauma is admirable, and the relationship between the women who help each other to process the past and look toward the future is inspiring. If you like novels that delve into human psychology while offering a touch of mystery and Gothic detail, The Ghosts of Beatrice Bird is the book for you! You can find it here. Thank you to NetGalley for a free copy of the book in exchange for a fair review. Kelly Jarvis is the Special Projects Writer and Contributing Editor for The Fairy Tale Magazine. Her work has appeared in Eternal Haunted Summer, Blue Heron Review, Forget-Me-Not Press, Mermaids Monthly, The Chamber Magazine, and Mothers of Enchantment: New Tales of Fairy Godmothers. She teaches at Central Connecticut State University.

Can we talk about “Hansel and Gretel”? These two kids survive abandonment, kidnapping, and a horrifying escape to make it back home, hooray! But…it’s to the very family who abandoned them in the first place. That’s a complicated happy ever after at best. What would this experience do to anyone, especially a child? Kell Woods’ debut novel digs deeply into this question and is striking a major chord with readers in Australia, the UK, and the US. Fairy Tale Magazine’s Fairy Godparents Club was fortunate to have Kell Woods as our guest for our October meeting. We had a lovely visit chatting about writing and fairy tales, and Kell was kind enough to return for a bonus interview. Lissa Sloan for Fairy Tale Magazine: What was your inspiration for a novel about Hansel and Gretel as adults? At what point did examining your characters through the lens of trauma enter the story? Kell Woods: I really wanted to write a book that took a well-known fairy tale and set it in a real place and a real time, with all the grit and brutality that comes with that. 'Hansel and Gretel' quickly became the obvious choice for several reasons: it’s always been one of my favourite fairy tales; it takes place in the deep, dark woods (who doesn’t love a story set in the forest?); it was unchartered territory - as far as I was aware, no one else had written a re-telling of 'Hansel & Gretel' for adults; and the story itself is so dark and compelling. You have loss, abandonment, betrayal, fear, cannibalism, love, witchcraft, bravery.... so much to work with! It didn’t take long at all for me to realise that childhood trauma was going to play a major part in the story. I mean, these two characters have lost their mother, their father has re-married (depending on the version of the fairy tale) and they’re abandoned in the forest by the person who is meant to protect them and love them most. They wander for three days in the forest, lost and alone, until a cannibalistic witch kidnaps them, locking Hans in a cage and threatening to eat him. Gretel’s cleverness and bravery saves both children, but at what cost? How would she have felt after pushing that witch into her oven? Could the children have ever forgiven their father for abandoning them? Could he have forgiven himself? These questions, and more, cropped up the deeper I went into the book. When you change your angle and imagine this happening to a real family, and real children, it gets very dark and disturbing. LS: I understand Kate Forsyth was your mentor for After the Forest. What was that process like? How did working with her change your writing and your book? KW: She was! I was lucky enough to win a mentorship with Kate through the Australian Society of Authors. It consisted of a series of structural edits – Kate would read the manuscript, mark it up, and send it back to me with an editorial letter. We would usually discuss her thoughts on the book as well and throw around ideas. Then I would work through the book again and send it back to her. We did this until Kate felt that it was ready to start submitting to agents. Having her feedback and guidance was invaluable – she is an incredibly generous and wonderful human. LS: What inspired you to choose the historical setting you did? How did your research trip to Germany help to flesh out the story? Did you make discoveries there to add in? KW: I was interested in making the fairy tale as real as possible, and because Hansel and Gretel is a German fairy tale, it made sense to set it in Germany. It is generally believed that the story we now know as 'Hansel & Gretel' had its beginnings during the fourteenth century, during the Great Famine. It was tempting to set the book there, however, I ended up going with the seventeenth century because so much was happening at that time – the Thirty Years’ War was raging, and some of Germany’s most infamous witch trials (such as those at Bamberg and Würzburg) were taking place. As far as research goes, travelling to Germany was invaluable in helping me flesh out the story. I’m Australian, so walking through old growth forest in the Schwarzwald was such a gift – you can’t really get the scent and texture and feel of a place from a book. I also had ideas for some key scenes after visiting particular places – for example, the waterfall scene (when Greta’s stays float over the falls and Mathias returns them to her) was inspired by Triberg Falls, and the Sturmfels came from a hike I did that passed by a ruined castle. I also went to a bear and wolf sanctuary in Oberwolfach, which was extremely helpful. LS: Though Hansel and Gretel is the primary tale in After the Forest, you do weave in other tales. How did you choose what other folklore and fairy tales to include? KW: I was fairly practical about it. I chose tales that were German in origin, so that there would be that natural connection. I also chose tales that are set in the forest. I looked for similarities and connections – symbols or motifs or character tropes. I was interested in weaving something new out of strands that remained instantly recognisable. I wanted readers to be able to feel the bones of the original tales just beneath the surface... After the Forest is a delicious concoction of fairy tale magic, adventure, and romance. Click here for my review. Kell Woods writes books that blend fairy tales, fantasy, history and folklore. Her debut novel After the Forest is out now! Find Kell at her website here, or on Instagram, Facebook, or Twitter. Lissa Sloan is the author of Glass and Feathers, a dark continuation of the traditional Cinderella tale. Her fairy tale poems and short stories appear in The Fairy Tale Magazine, Niteblade Magazine, Corvid Queen, and anthologies from World Weaver Press. Glass and Feathers appeared as a serial in The Fairy Tale Magazine this spring. Print and ebook release from The Enchanted Press will be in 2024. Visit Lissa online at lissasloan.com, or connect on Instagram, Facebook, or Twitter.

FTM will be taking a brief winter break, but we'll be back on January 8th. We want to thank you all for reading, supporting and being part of The Fairy Tale Magazine community this past year. We have some exciting things coming up in 2024 for FTM, so stay tuned...and we'll see you in January! Image by Edmund Dulac

WINTER IS HERE and The Fairy Tale Magazine is celebrating with some quotes, art, and folklore! Winter is the time of year when we're inspired to read more, enjoy meals with family and friends on a cold night, walk in the snow, and dream by the fire. To inspire you, we've collected some of EC's favorite things about winter...so please enjoy the quotes, art, tales, music, and folklore below that highlight this magical season! The Winter Solstice is the time of ending and beginning, a powerful time - a time to contemplate your immortality. A time to forgive, to be forgiven, and to make a fresh start. A time to awaken. -- Frederick Lenz "Brew me a cup for a winter's night. For the wind howls loud and the furies fight: Spice it with love and stir it with care, And I'll toast our bright eyes, my sweetheart fair." ~ Minna Thomas Antrim "There is no winter without snow, no spring without sunshine, and no happiness without companions." ~ Korean Proverb WINTER FOLKLORE & ANIMALS 10 Strange Signs Predicting a Hard Winter Woodpeckers sharing a tree Pigs gathering sticks Ants marching in a line rather than meandering "See how high the hornets nest, 'twill tell how high the snow will rest" Early arrival of crickets on the hearth Thick hair on the back of a cow's neck Raccoons with thick tails and bright bands Muskrats burrowing holes high on the river bank Spiders spinning larger than usual webs and entering the house in great numbers 3 snowy owls flying overhead together during daylight hours "The twelve months... Snowy, Flowy, Blowy, Showery, Flowery, Bowery, Hoppy, Croppy, Droppy, Breezy, Sneezy, Freezy." ~ George Ellis "I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says, 'Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.'" ~ Lewis Carroll STORY INSPIRATION: Neuschwanstein Castle in Winter This 19th-century palace, locatedin southwest Bavaria, Germany, has inspired many authors and artists with its fairy tale-style appearance. It has appeared prominently in several films through the years, as well as serving as the visual inspiration for Disneyland's Sleeping Beauty Castle. 5 SOUPS to Warm the Winter Soul Watch the recipe below: "In January it's so nice while slipping on the sliding ice to sip hot chicken soup with rice. Sipping once Sipping twice." ~ Maurice Sendak, In January Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening - Robert Frost Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound’s the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. "Antisthenes says that in a certain faraway land the cold is so intense that words freeze as soon as they are uttered, and after some time then thaw and become audible, so that words spoken in winter go unheard until the next summer. ~ Plutarch, Moralia THE HOLLY KING In various folklore traditions, the Holly King and Oak King are personifications of winter and summer that engage endlessly in a battle that reflects the seasonal cycles of the year. The Winter Solstice is the day that the Holly King is at the height of his power, bringing winter to the land, but at the Spring Equinox, his brother, the Oak King, wins the battle and begins his summer reign. The Holly King then retires to nurse his wounds for the next six months until it is time for him to win the battle and once again reign over the land. Winter Reading Nook Goals because it's a valid excuse to stay home when it's snowing just to spend the day reading in a cozy nook.. "In the winter she curls up around a good book and dreams away the cold." ~ Ben Aaronovitch, Broken Homes "There’s just something beautiful about walking on snow that nobody else has walked on. It makes you believe you’re special." ~ Carol Rifka Brunt, Tell the Wolves I'm Home WINTER ART GALLERY Gerda and the Reindeer, Arthur Rackham Fairies Dancing in Snowy Starlight, Ida Rentoul Outhwaite The Dreamer of Dreams, Edmund Dulac Storal Park, Julian Onderdonk Winter Landscape,Iványi Grünwald Bél THE FULL MOONS OF WINTER THE COLD MOON December 26, 2023 This first full moon of winter is named the Cold Moon because of the frigid conditions in December, when cold weather starts to reign in the Northern Hemisphere. THE WOLF MOON January 25, 2024 It was Native Americans who named the second full moon of winter the Wolf Moon due to seeing packs of wolves in the wintertime howling at night. THE SNOW MOON February 24, 2024 The full moon for February is named the Snow Moon for the simple reason that it's cold and snowy at this time of year. WANT TO READ SOME NEW WINTER TALES? Check out FROZEN FAIRY TALES Edited by The Fairy Tale Magazine's Kate Wolford HERE HAPPY WINTER TO ALL! Share what you love about this season in the comments section below The Fairy Tale Magazine's contributing editor, Amanda Bergloff, writes modern fairy tales, folktales, and speculative fiction. Her work has appeared in various anthologies, including Frozen Fairy Tales, After the Happily Ever After, and Uncommon Pet Tales. Follow her on X @AMANDABERGLOFF Cover Art: Artus Scheiner Quotes/Various Graphic Design: Amanda Bergloff

Captain Hook is cursed. Banished to the dreaming place of the world’s children over 200 years before, he is doomed to play the villain to the infernal Pan and his lost boys. But this war is no game to Hook’s men, former lost boys themselves who grew up, at least until the real world failed them. Now the only way out is death at the grubby hands of the Pan and his boys—except for Hook, of course. Denied any true release, he dies over and over and over again, condemned to remain in this purgatory where the eternal boy always wins. For the Neverland is the refuge of children, a safe place for them to play out their dreams and fears, and the will of its child tyrant is law. But strange things are happening in the Neverland. A rosebush sprouts on the beach, though Pan forbids anything with thorns. Hook dreams of a flying ship and a friendly voice. And Stella Parrish—not another of the little Wendys, but a fully grown woman, battered by loss and war—appears in the Neverland. Why has she come, and how? Pan refuses to allow any “silly ladies” to enter his domain. And while it is a crime to be a man in the Neverland, it is also a crime to be a woman. It seems, impossibly, that Hook has one last chance. In Alias Hook, author Lisa Jensen leads the reader deep into the wonder and heartbreak of Peter Pan’s world, and into the souls of the adults unlucky enough to find themselves trapped there. Jensen’s Neverland is very like that of JM Barrie’s, only deeper, darker, more intricate and complex. She delves into the heartlessness of youth and the burden of masculinity, drawing back the veil on a life the innocents refuse to see. Through Hook and newcomer Stella, the loreleis of the Mermaid’s Lagoon, the people of the First Tribes, and Neverland’s guardians, the fairies, Jensen explores sexuality, nuance, and mature love. Hook, Stella, and even the maddening Pan are achingly relatable in their griefs and fears. Hook’s spot-on 18th century language feels at once perfectly period yet immediate and accessible. (And if you are an audiobook listener, Ralph Lister’s narration is superb.) Soaring and plunging by turns, Alias Hook is an exquisitely wrought tale of love, redemption, and the awfully big adventure of growing up. Lissa Sloan is the author of Glass and Feathers, a novel that tells the story of Cinderella after the “happily ever after.” The Enchanted Press will publish it next February.

The house appeared in the middle of the forest one mid-winter night. Sleepily sensing a strangeness, the spirit of the forest brushed the frost out of her eyelashes, stretched her cold-stiffened body, and realized she couldn’t feel any roots to the house. All homes had roots, be they shallow or deep, for homes were where creatures and humans planted themselves. A house could last for a mere few days, like the shelters of migrating creatures, or for seasons, like the squirrel nests that warmed multiple generations, but they were all places where the inhabitants could find comfort and safety. How could a house have no roots? That question was enough to draw Forest out of her winter slumber. The spirit stepped into one tree…. …and stepped out of another in the very spot she wished, before the house. The house was clearly magical, crafted of food items Forest recognized from various human picnics: gingerbread for the walls with candy sticks and candy circles creating delicate swirling patterns. No practical human would ever create such a house. Hungry winter birds would peck holes in that gingerbread for a fatty treat, and before you knew it, you’d have a house more like a woodpecker’s rampage than a warm retreat. Forest placed her hand upon the side of the house and felt its magic. This was a house that was meant to jump from place to place, its inhabitant seeking lost souls to consume. This house, indeed, had no roots, and no one would ever find sanctuary within those sweet walls. At once, Forest foresaw the future seasons, with humans walking into that house and never walking out. Other humans, angry and worried, searching for lost loved ones, would stomp through her trees, cutting through underbrush, swinging torches into shadowed corners. The spirit shuddered at what was to come. Her forest would change. Instead of being a place of tall trees and brambly corners, of picnics and hidden meetings between lovers, it would become a place of fear and darkness. Not my forest, the spirit thought, and marched up to the door for a swift knock. A graying woman whose plumpness was barely contained beneath a white apron opened the door. “Hello dearie, have you lost your way?” Her tone was sweet as sap. Then her gaze fell on Forest’s winter dress of woven brown pine needles covering skin that was the mottled hue of decaying leaves. “Oh,” the woman said in surprise, “You’re the spirit of the forest. I thought you’d be sleeping.” “I was,” Forest replied dryly. “Oh, I’m so sorry, dearie, I didn’t mean to disturb your winter nap. I was just looking for someplace to settle my old bones, and your forest was so welcoming.” She smiled, warm as a mother bear welcoming her cub back to the burrow. Forest resisted the urge to roll her eyes up to the pale winter sky. “We both know you’re not here to put down roots. That house of yours is meant to lure human prey. That’ll not happen here. You’re not welcome in my forest. Please leave.” The image of the sweet old woman hardened into a dark amber. “I think I’d prefer to stay, dearie. The dark woods never have quite as much prey. This forest is perfect for my needs.” “You’ll not change my forest into a tool for evil. Leave. Now.” “And what power are you going to use to drive me out? Winter is my time, when the bare branches become gnarly fingers that rip at the skin. When the worms eat the last of the dead leaves, and the past life that once hung on the trees decays into black dirt. When the few animals that venture out chew bark and their bellies echo with hunger calls. This is my time, the time of death, of curses, of darkness. You’re a forest in winter; you have no power. “But,” the witch continued, “I’ll be gone in the spring, after I’ve had my fill. Why don’t you just return to your nap, little spirit.” She grinned like a rotting crack in a tree. Forest sighed. “You’re right, witch, that it does seem like the forest is dead and diminished in the winter. But you forget why the forest endures.” Forest reached down, her fingers slipping through the dirt and emerging with an acorn. “Every small seed has within it the hope for new life.” “A little bit of hope is nothing.” Now Forest smiled. “Do you know how many seeds lie beneath your house?” The witch looked at the barren ground, then back at Forest. Her mouth drew into a tight crack. “No, you’ll not trick me. You’ll not sacrifice any tree seeds.” Forest kept her face as blank and smooth as fresh snow, but inwardly, she was melting into tears. If only the witch hadn’t called her bluff. Yes, she could draw power from the seeds, but those seeds would die, and her heart mourned the trees that would never be. For she knew she now had to act. A deep breath, and she pulled the hope from the seeds. The spirit’s skin brightened, the mottled browns shifting to a pale green. The brown pine needle dress wrinkled, then shifted to green spring leaves. She seemed to grow several inches, back straight as an oak, and she spread her hands. Green grew where she pointed, branches and roots began whipping the air as leaves spouted. In a circle around the gingerbread house, spring had come in the heart of winter. Forest’s hands were raised, and with the slightest motion, the branches and roots would spear the house and witch. “Do not think that the forest in winter is powerless. Hope is every bit as powerful as the change that results from it. If you wish to challenge me, witch, you will lose. You were ignorant of your peril when you came here, so I’ll give you one more chance. Leave my forest.” The witch eyed the green around her, then quietly stepped back through the door. Forest watched as the gingerbread house faded slowly away, off to another location. Hopefully a dark forest, where creatures thirsted for souls and evil roamed. Hopefully somewhere far, far away. Forest lowered her hands, and the green shriveled into brown and fell to the ground. Her dress rippled back into brown, and icy tears fell from her frost-covered eyes as she felt the dead acorns beneath her feet. There would be another season to replace those lost, the spirit told herself. And their loss was not in vain. She felt the quiet of the woods returning to its tranquility, holding its breath until the seasons changed, and Forest stepped through the trees, back to her slumber. All was normal again in the forest in winter. Carol Scheina writes and edits as a freelancer. In her spare moments, she dreams up strange stories while trying to keep the cat from jumping on the keyboard and messing everything up. Cover: Amanda Bergloff @AMANDABERGLOFF

The protagonist of The Witches of Bone Hill, Cordelia Bone, is suffering from a string of bad luck when this novel opens. She has been left by her cheating husband and is in debt due to his nefarious business dealings when a call from her sister Eustace, who she has not seen for five years, informs her that the siblings have inherited a Victorian estate in the hills of Connecticut known as Bone Hill. To claim their inheritance, they must travel to the estate and live in the house, a Gothic mansion filled with ghosts, secrets, dangers, and mysteries. Although Cordelia and Eustace were brought up by their mother and know little about their relatives, their lives have been anything but normal. Since childhood, Cordelia has heard songs and whispers, predicted things before they happened, seen ghosts, and suffered from migraines. Once they arrive at Bone Hill the sisters discover more about their lineage and learn about the suspicious circumstances of their own mother’s death. Their family has long been suspected of witchcraft, and an investigation into the past will reveal the truth of the Bone Hill family and leave Cordelia seeking revenge on those who have wronged her. This book is full of generational curses that the sisters must battle to heal their relationship and restore their health. The twists and turns will keep readers on the edge of their seat, but at its heart, this book is about the strength of family. This is an entertaining contemporary read with a cozy and mysterious feel. Fans of witch lit and Gothic novels will find much to enjoy! You can find it here. Thank you to NetGalley for a free copy of the book in exchange for a fair review. Kelly Jarvis is the Special Projects Writer and Contributing Editor for The Fairy Tale Magazine. Her work has appeared in Eternal Haunted Summer, Blue Heron Review, Forget-Me-Not Press, Mermaids Monthly, The Chamber Magazine, and Mothers of Enchantment: New Tales of Fairy Godmothers. She teaches at Central Connecticut State University.

Have you ever wondered where the colors of the world come from? Who makes grass so green, the sky so blue? Who paints the subtle, bold designs on a butterfly’s wings? Who captures the glitter of sunlight on water? Where does all that color come from? Summer and Winter are married. Summer is a woman of surpassing beauty, her skin the black of rich earth, her eyes the green of oak leaves, her hair as golden as grain and sunlight. She makes the sun come out, causes the trees to put out leaves, entices the flowers to bloom, but she doesn’t make the colors. Her husband, Winter, is a tall, craggy man. His hair is a wild snowstorm. His eyes are chips of ice. His skin is bluer than a glacier. Wherever he goes, cold follows. His footsteps leave traceries of frost on the ground. His laughter is snowstorms. His breath fells forests. But he doesn’t make the colors either, not even the smallest glint of sunlight on ice. That’s Painter’s job. Painter is the son of Summer and Winter. A laughing, happy, thoughtless boy, he lives only for his paintbrush and the billion shades and colors he creates with it. He paints in all the world. The golden-green stain of sunlight through grass stems? That’s Painter’s work. The blushing pink of a hibiscus? That’s Painter. The dappled hide of a fawn? Painter again. All throughout the season of his mother, Painter travels the whole world. He paints in the shining blue of a barn swallow’s wing, he colors every flower petal. He rejoices in sunrises and sunsets, the million shades of green that he traces throughout the forests. The sky he paints bright blue in vast strokes of his brush. He delights in every bird, every rabbit. And his mother, Summer, rejoices in the colors too, the warmth, while his father sleeps deep beneath a holly tree. Almost, almost, they forget about Painter’s other colors. The other colors lurk in a shed at the back of the world. Winter locked them up there last year, and Painter promised, as he promises every year, never to touch them again. But they’re still there: gallons of red, orange, yellow, brown. Waiting. At first, it’s easy for Painter to keep his promise. There’s such an abundance of other colors: blue, pink, yellow, purple, white, black and green, green, green. And then there are the million combinations and shades he can make as he travels the world, creating color. But, as always, Painter gets tired of the same colors. Really, he thinks, painting in yet another green leaf, isn’t all this green a little…boring? Would it hurt his mother to grow a few trees with different color needs? A few are purple, it’s true, but still… And all these flowers! Yes, they come in every color imaginable, but there just aren’t enough bright colors, really. And yet, not enough subtlety. How about a brown rose? That would be elegant. But what Painter yearns most for, as the summer wears on, is red. Yes, he has some red in his summer paints, but not enough. He paints in sunsets, but the colors, however bold, always fade away. He colors in more roses. It’s not satisfying. He remembers his locked-up paints. He remembers his promise. But the temptation is growing. More flowers—but Painter is sick of flowers. He’s sick of sunsets. And he’s sick of the green, green, green. He sneaks away from his mother’s sight. He slinks to the shed at the back of the world, where his father locked up his paints. He fiddles with the lock. Far away, his father rolls over in his sleep and sighs. The cold breath of Winter washes over Painter, and away goes his hesitation. He breaks into the shed. Just a little, he tells himself as he dips his brush into the first bottle of forbidden red paint. He’ll dab just a little red on a few leaves…But the color is so bright, so beautiful, against the green, that he can’t stop himself throwing around more, and more. Paint in some orange and yellow, why not! It looks glorious! Before long, Painter is charging through the world, repainting every tree in sight. That rustle of leaves you hear in autumn, when it seems every tree raises its head in a breeze you can’t feel? That’s Painter, laughing as he runs, streaking the trees with brown, red, orange and yellow: streaks that grow brighter and wider, until all the forests are aflame. Summer sees what her son has done, and she mourns, for green is her best-beloved color. She wanders, calling for Painter, but he doesn’t even hear her. He is in love with the fiery colors, intoxicated with them, heeding nothing else. Summer misses her son. She misses the green. She begins to fail. Summer walks, more and more slowly, drooping, hair shriveling. The trees mourn with her, dropping their offending leaves in shame, and the flowers wither. Even the sun, tied inextricably to Summer, visits less and less. Winter senses the change, even in his deepest sleep. He stirs more and more, sending blasts of cold into the sky, which only weakens Summer further. He frowns, muttering angrily, as the changes prompt him ever closer to wakening. He already knows what must have happened, even unconscious, and he is far from pleased. Summer weakens still more. At last she lies down, drawing the earth over her like a blanket, at the roots of an oak tree. Its painted leaves rain down over her, leaving the branches bare. At this, Winter leaps from his holly tree. He’s furious, for he loves his wife and hates to see her distress. His angry shout lets loose the first storm of his season. The storm winds shake free the final leaves, the forests heaving around Painter, who finally looks up. He shakes, realizing at last what he’s done, and what has happened. Dropping his paint and brush, he runs. Painter runs and runs, dead leaves crunching under his feet, but there’s no escaping Winter. Painter’s father roars over him in a tide of frozen wind. He seizes Painter, smacking him, making him see what he’s done to his mother, to the world. For there are no leaves left, no flowers, and Painter’s colors are all withering away to gray. Winter marches his son to the shed at the back of the world. Painter stands by, miserably, while Winter locks up his paintbrush and all his colors, especially the colors of autumn, which Winter makes Painter promise never to touch again. Painter’s unhappiness touches Winter’s heart, a little. He gives Painter sticks of charcoal to draw with, and a little blue paint. But nothing else. Winter storms away, leaving his son standing by the shed, with his wretched new coloring set, alone in the cold. All winter, Painter makes do with what his father has allowed. He draws intricate snowflakes, traces ferns of frost on windows. The pale blue he uses as much as he can, to paint the sky and the ice. But it’s a pitiful palette for such an artist. Painter’s misery fills the world, dragging down what little color there is. And all the while, Winter rages, moving restlessly, lonely beyond belief for his wife, Summer. At last, Painter can stand it no longer. He goes to his father and apologizes. He promises he will never touch the autumn colors again, if Winter will just unlock the shed and let him retrieve his other paints. Winter pays no heed at first. He is slow to forgive. But at last he relents, for he loves his son, and he wants his wife back. Together, Winter and Painter go to the shed at the back of the world. Winter unlocks the door, and Painter retrieves the gold and green of springtime. Beneath her tree, Summer stirs in her sleep, letting forth the first warm breeze. Painter travels again, painting the grass back to life, adding luster to the sunbeams. The sun, delighted at the brightness of its new gold, comes to stay more frequently. Among the roots of the oak, Summer’s sleep grows restless as she senses the change, and the warmth builds. The first birds sing, and the trees put out hard new buds. Then, at last, Summer opens her lovely eyes. She emerges from the earth, blinking in wonder at what Painter has already done to color in the first flowers, the newborn buds of leaves. And her husband and son are there to greet her. Summer opens her arms, and Winter rushes in to embrace her. And with that embrace, Summer glows as brightly as a star, and all the leaf buds unfurl in sudden glory. For all of spring, the family travels together: Painter leaping ahead, painting as much green as he can for his mother’s delight; Summer calling forth the buds, the grains, the infant animals; and Winter, happy at last at his wife’s side, even as he fades away with every step and his power lessens. Behind them, the animals follow, the birds sing and the breezes blow ever warmer. At last, beneath a holly tree, Winter can go no further. He kisses Summer one last time and gives Painter another admonishment not to touch the autumn colors. Gravely, sincerely, Painter promises he never will, and his parents exchange amused, exasperated looks. Winter folds himself back into the earth, hoping that this time he will not have to come out again, but knowing that he will. Summer and Painter leave him to be guarded by the holly tree, knowing he is safe and they will see him again, as they progress into the light and warmth and colors of the turning year. Rose Strickman is a fantasy, sci-fi and horror writer living in Seattle, Washington. Her work has appeared in anthologies such as Sword and Sorceress 32 and Earth: Giants, Golems, & Gargoyles, as well as online e-zines such as Tell-Tale Press and Luna Station Quarterly. Cover: Amanda Bergloff @AMANDABERGLOFF

It begins with butterflies, colorful and delicate. Some flutter alive and free, while others are trapped in the killing jar and skewered with a pin. Then the fairy tales begin, fluid and surreal, moving from modern life with its bumper stickers, highways, and headlights into a world of witches and wolves, red hoods and moonlight. In her 2014 chapbook, Wolfskin, poet Mary McMyne beckons readers into the wood and the realm of the fairy tale. Through poems on “Little Red Riding Hood,” “Hansel and Gretel,” and “Rapunzel,” she gives voice to mothers and daughters, woodsman and princes, girls and grandmothers. With dreamlike imagery and sensuous language, McMyne delves into the subconscious to unpack love and loss, innocence and experience, violence and death. Fans of The Book of Gothel will see sparks of inspiration for McMyne’s debut novel in “Old Woman Gothel,” in which Rapunzel’s foster mother laments: Let she who is without sin/cast the first stone. But she is not satisfied with one character per tale, or one idea; McMyne feels into the corners, subverting and exploring the complexities of heroines and huntsmen, memories and good advice. Multiple interpretations of the same stories provide a satisfying depth that will hold fairy tale lovers spellbound. Shining a lantern into the shadows of the forest and illuminating the truths they hide, Wolfskin is a bewitching bite of fairy tale magic that will leave you hungry for more. You can find a copy of the book here. Lissa Sloan is the author of Glass and Feathers, a novel that tells the story of Cinderella after the “happily ever after.” The Enchanted Press will publish it next February.

Weekly Tips for an Enchanted Lifestyle! THIS WEEK - Magical Fruitcake How do you like your fruitcake? I like mine with a lump of crumbly cheese (a suggestion I got from the All Creatures Great and Small books by James Herriot). But maybe you like yours with butter or cream cheese, or maybe just plain or with a cup of tea. Or maybe, like a lot of people, you like it “not at all.” And I get it. I know the jokes about fruitcake. Dry, horrible tasting stuff that people endlessly gift and re-gift but no one really likes. And yet, if I don’t make a big batch once a year, there will be a great sadness in my family circle. You see, Sloan Applesauce Fruitcake has a dedicated following. We started with a recipe my late mother-in-law cut out of a newspaper. As years went by, we tinkered until we got it just right. We replaced the lard with vegetable oil, and the candied peel with dried fruit simmered in orange juice. I’ll admit fruitcake isn’t for everyone, but I’ve been surprised at the fans this recipe has earned. We even make an option for people who don’t like fruitcake. You see, when my kitchen helper/batter taster was little, she liked the batter so much (before the fruit went in), that we decided to make some without it. And our Apple Spice Muffins were created. Now we make some with each batch of fruitcake. So if you don’t like fruitcake but wish you did, or think you might like fruitcake if it…you know…tasted good, give this recipe a try. I might have another convert on my hands! Ingredients 2 cups sugar 1/2 cup plus 2 Tablespoons vegetable oil 2 1/2 cups unsweetened applesauce 1/2 cup hot water 4 t. baking soda (dissolved in the hot water) 4 cups flour 1 cup raisins ½ cup currants ½ packet of dried mixed berries or dried cranberries ½ cup dried apricots (chopped) 1/2 t. nutmeg 1/2 t. cinnamon 1/2 t. allspice 1/2 t. cloves 1/4 t. salt Orange juice Preparation: Put all dried fruit into saucepan and cover with orange juice. (The dried fruit type and amount is very flexible. Use what you like! But if you use dates, I don’t recommend simmering them in the orange juice. Just add them at the end.) Simmer on low while you mix the rest of the batter, cooking out a lot of the liquid. Mix flour, salt, and spices in one bowl. In another bowl, mix sugar and wet ingredients, then blend the wet and dry. At this stage, batter can be used for apple spice muffins. (Fill greased muffin tins with batter and bake for 20 minutes in 350 degree oven. I usually make 12 muffins and make fruitcake with the remaining batter.) Add fruit and orange juice to batter. Grease and flour loaf pans and add batter. This recipe makes 3 full sized loaves (1 full-sized loaf=2 mini loaves or 12 muffins). After filling pans with batter, line edges with foil. Bake 45 minutes for mini loaves, 60 or more minutes for full-sized loaves. Lissa Sloan is the author of Glass and Feathers, a dark continuation of the traditional Cinderella tale. Her fairy tale poems and short stories appear in The Fairy Tale Magazine, Niteblade Magazine, Corvid Queen, and anthologies from World Weaver Press. Glass and Feathers appeared as a serial in The Fairy Tale Magazine this spring. Print and ebook release from The Enchanted Press will be in 2024. Visit Lissa online at lissasloan.com, or connect on Instagram, @lissa_sloan, or Twitter, @LissaSloan.

Once there was a girl who lived in a humble home with her father and her stepmother, a pair weathered gray no matter the season. The father and stepmother were doing the best they could. They loved the girl, but distracted by the sadness that steeped between them, did not have much time for her. The father lived his life as an inadequate apology he struggled to articulate. He could not seem to think beyond a late fall day, so late it might already have slipped into winter with a quick, sharp intake of breath, the kind of fall day whose fallen leaves, brown and rotting at his feet, rebuked him for not having enough laid by, for not being enough; a crisp day whose first brittle snowflakes floated reminders of the death of his first wife. The best he could manage, even now, was to mutter that the wolf was always at the door. The girl knew about the wolf, for she had sometimes seen it lurking about, though when she looked for tracks there were none. But she was never troubled by the wolf and thrilled when it appeared. She did not tell her father and stepmother about her wolf sightings, just kept them to herself like a comforting recurring dream. The stepmother knew she was the insufficient patch on cloth that, though not quite ripped, was threadbare and worn thin. She had hoped to be more to both the girl and the father. But when she tried to think of spring she could only imagine what it must be like to sink through the thick slush of the melting ice on the lake; a numbing cold, a dragging weight, the sinking shock of realizing the surface will not hold. In silent desperation she clung to her frosty husband. And so these two, frail under their cloak of destitution and unspoken regrets, did not look up when the girl called out that she was going outside to play. They did not know that the girl had spied the white wolf through the window and had given in to her curiosity. But when the girl did not return by dusk, they were both deeply worried. The father bundled up and went out into the fading light, calling his daughter’s name. The wind had risen and fiercely pushed his desperate calls back at him. Sleety snow stung his cheeks like needles of grief. The snow thickened and fell faster, filling his tracks behind him. Searching was futile. He returned to the nervous stepmother while he still could. Snow and wind continued to conspire, entombing their small home. He picked at his latest failure while his second wife loyally tried to assuage his guilt. After three days the storm finally ceased and sunlight danced on the deeply drifted snow outside. Inside, the father and stepmother were buried in feelings of hopelessness and despair. Their few neighbors joined in the search of the surrounding forest but no sign of the girl was found. Winter settled in around the devastated couple. During fitful sleep, they heard the howls of wolves echoing across the frozen lake. The girl had gone out when she’d spied the wolf through the window. The storm had not yet begun and the white of the wolf’s fur stood in relief against the dark forest and gray sky. The wolf met her blue eyes with its own. Without hesitation the girl went with the wolf. They romped playfully until the wind and snow picked up. Then they sheltered in the wolf’s den, the girl feeling more at home than she’d ever felt before. When the storm stopped the girl awakened warm and comfortable, snuggled against the white wolf. She was not at all surprised to see that she herself was a smaller version of this wolf. Just as before, words were said without speaking, and together they dug out into the winter starlight, to stand atop the deeply drifted snow. The girl saw that there was much to learn and she eagerly followed the mother wolf. They came upon some deer trapped in the yard they had stomped out for themselves in the deep snow. She saw that satisfying her own hunger brought some relief to the deer. She ate gratefully. Night after night the girl wolf went hunting and exploring with the mother wolf. She marveled at just how bright a winter night could be, the night sky a pool she drank deeply from. Moonlight reflecting off the snow blinded her with joy, her delighted laughter coming out as a howl. The mother wolf joined her song with the girl wolf’s. They spent the winter together laughing and singing and enjoying one another’s company. But as the nights grew shorter and the days grew longer, as the snow became granular and soft underfoot, the mother wolf became serious. Just as the girl had not been surprised to become a wolf, she was not surprised when the wolf mother appeared as her own human mother. Still they spoke without words. Her mother told her how much she had enjoyed spending time with the daughter she missed so much. But their time was coming to a close. The girl thanked her mother for showing her winter’s beauty. She knew that now she would forever see the beauty of both light and dark that any season held. That night when the temperatures dropped they ran together once more across the crusted snow. At dawn the mother wolf trotted silently north, leaving no tracks. The thawing ice of the lake held the girl wolf’s easy weight as she crossed, headed east towards the home of her father and stepmother. Her stepmother was at the lakeshore testing the edge when she saw the little wolf coming across towards her. She hurried back to the house to tell her husband. He went outside to see the wolf but instead found his daughter, healthy and happy, her smile as bright as a spring day. The morning sun brushed the forested hills across the lake as the girl embraced her father and stepmother. Melting ice on the eaves dripped a steady beat. Don’t be sorry she told them. Don’t be sorry. We’ll keep doing the best we can. D. Avery blogs at SHIFTNSHAKE, where she pours flash fiction and shots of poetry for online sampling. D. Avery tweets ‪‪@DAVERYSHIFTN‪‪. Cover: Amanda Bergloff @AMANDABERGLOFF

Award winning author Premee Mohamed strikes again in The Butcher of the Forest, a new thrilling tale of magic, monsters, and survival. There is nothing Veris can do when the Tyrant’s men come to her door one morning, demanding she have an audience with the Tyrant. He demands that she enter the forest once more to find the Tyrant’s children, and allows her only one day to do so. Veris is the only one to have ever entered the forest and survived, and the Tyrant assures her that she must do so again, and emerge with his children, or he will see her dead. The forest is sinister and dangerous, a place where monsters lurk in the shadows, and traps lie around every corner. Veris had her own reasons for entering the forest the first time, and she has no desire to do so a second, but she refuses to jeopardize her family and must attempt the journey. This book had my nose about an inch from the page from start to finish, desperately hoping Veris would prevail. This is exactly the kind of late night read that will raise the hair on the back of your neck and keep you entertained. It’s fast paced and wild, and the lore of the Forest and the Tyrant’s land is fascinating in its originality. I hadn’t previously read any books from Premee Mohamed, but The Butcher of the Forest definitely made an excellent impression and I’ll be sure to read more of her work in the future. If you’re in the mood for a book that will keep you on the edge of your seat, this is definitely the one for you! You can find a copy HERE. Madeline Mertz is FTM's editorial intern and is a Truman State University student with literary journal experience.