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Weekly Tips for an Enchanted Lifestyle! Editor's note: Lissa Sloan's post would be perfect for the holidays, but given the deep freeze many of us are experiencing in the US, it's a great post for right now! Also, the truth is, I also lost track of it over the holidays. 😔 (KW) Holiday meals in my house these days are a mix of tradition and experimentation. We often like to try new side or main dishes—last year we had vegetarian shepherd’s pie for Christmas, and the year before that we tried roasted sprouts with grapes. But some parts of the menu are a given, like the strawberry jello, cream cheese, pineapple, and pecan salad we call simply Pink Jello, and of course, hot spiced apple cider. I try to put it on early in the day, and before long, the whole house smells like the holidays, no matter what else is on the menu. It’s ridiculously easy, delicious, and adaptable. Alter the spices and orange juice amounts to suit your taste. ½ gallon apple cider 1 cup orange juice (You could vary this according to your taste, add lemon juice if you like your cider tart or pineapple if you’d like it sweeter.) 1 teaspoon whole cloves 1 teaspoon allspice berries 2 cinnamon sticks 1/8 teaspoon ground nutmeg Combine cider and juice in a medium-sized saucepan. Place cloves and allspice in a tea infuser and add to the pot along with the cinnamon and nutmeg. Simmer while you prepare your meal, or at least half an hour or so. Enjoy with dinner or dessert, or anytime, really! *** 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 last spring. The print and ebook release from The Enchanted Press will be on March 26. Visit Lissa online at lissasloan.com, or connect on Instagram, @lissa_sloan, or Twitter, @LissaSloan.

Hello Enchanted Friends: The most constant characteristic of The Fairy Tale Magazine is that it always changes. Today, I have one more change to announce: Amanda Bergloff, Art Director and Managing Editor at FTM, is leaving. She has been the greatest partner I could wish for as a publisher, and we’ll miss her prodigious talent and work ethic. I will always be happy and grateful that we worked together, and will continue to enjoy her friendship. Amanda’s departure has led us to changes, and the most important one is that we will not be able to do the two issues this year in PDF form--but we are doing them. The design and artistic vision for FTM, especially in PDF form, was entirely thanks to Amanda. It is not possible for me to recreate that, so we are not looking for a new art director. Fortunately, and many of you know this, FTM was a blogazine for almost all of its life. We’re just returning to FTM classic. We will still do the two issues and the writing contest this year. It all will be published on this site only. However, we will be suspending the regular newsletter. My staff and I will be too busy to do both the newsletter and a monthly email for Fairy Godparents Club members. So we’ll do a general newsletter, sporadically, but only for very major announcements. The Fairy Godparents Club will be where we convey information, as we wish to build our core community. Members will receive a monthly email with useful information for writers and poets and general news about The Enchanted Press and FTM. (You can join the club by sending $20 to katewolford1@gmail.com at PayPal. That is our official business/money email.) Starting with our next Fairy Godparents Club email, our mailing list will consist only of people who are up to date members. I’m very excited about 2024! Not only are we returning to FTM classic, but Lissa Sloan’s amazing novel, Glass and Feathers, will be another huge focus of mine. The book debuts in print and ebook form on March 26, only on Amazon. We will be promoting that gem of a story quite a lot! Finally, Kelly Jarvis has agreed to become assistant editor. I’m so excited! 🤩 She’s a friend, a very talented writer, and a teacher, and I’m so lucky to have her at FTM in this new capacity. She is moving up from her position as contributing editor to assistant editor. Kim Malinowski will now be poetry editor and continue as tech coordinator. Madeline Mertz will continue as editorial intern. I’m lucky to have such a great team! That’s all for now. Stay Enchanted, Kate Wolford Publisher Image is "The Reply," by Auguste Toulmouche.

I came across Poisoned Apples: Poems for You, My Pretty when I was looking for a poetry collection to add to my Young Adult Literature syllabus. Marketed as poems for young adult readers, Poisoned Apples delves into the liminal space of fairy tales as a metaphor for adolescence. The collection is beautifully constructed with visual images to accompany the poems. Heppermann’s poetry is accessible to readers, but also insightful and haunting. There is much to be gleaned beneath the surface of the poems, and the students in my class spent a great deal of time offering readings of the text and illustrations. The collection is prefaced by a poem titled “The Woods” which asks “Where are the fairy tales about gym class / or the doctor’s office or the back of the bus / where bad things also happen?” With this, readers are immediately thrust into the world of contemporary adolescence while continuing to wander through fairy tale traditions. The collection features several retellings of popular fairy tales and explores ideas about beauty, body image, and gender. Heppermann also engages with legends, plays with different forms of poetry, and focuses on the power of language itself. Many of the poems are humorous, but each carries a scintillating commentary on the pressures of young adult life. Poems that seem simple on the surface provide a sharp bite to those who let the words simmer in their minds. Although marketed toward a Young Adult audience, the poetry is nuanced enough to provide insight and convey wisdom. If I had an adolescent daughter, I would buy this book for her, but I think the book also has value to those who enjoy contemporary poetry and fairy tale imagery. Some of the poems are printed in white typeface on black pages (to accommodate the accompanying images and illustrations) which can make the small volume difficult to read, and my students recommend a trigger warning for the poems about eating disorders which are heartbreaking, but overall, this is a thought-provoking collection that ends on a hopeful note. In an author’s note at the end of the book, Heppermann advises her readers to “Retell your own stories. Keep pushing your way through the trees, and I promise that, eventually, you will come to a clearing. And then you can dance.” I love this collection of fairy tale poems and I think you will too! You can purchase the book here. Kelly Jarvis is the the Assistant Editor for The Fairy Tale Magazine. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Blue Heron Review, Mermaids Monthly, Eternal Haunted Summer, Forget Me Not Press, A Moon of One’s Own, The Magic of Us, Corvid Queen, The Chamber Magazine, and the World Weaver Press Anthology Mothers of Enchantment: New Tales of Fairy Godmothers. She can be found at https://kellyjarviswriter.com/

The blacksmith’s daughter stumbled through the woods like a blind woman. Her steps were small and careful as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, but the barren branches of the trees reached out to tear at her skirt, scratch her arms, and tangle in her fair hair all the same. Though the moonless night and the tight weave of the branches above her bathed the woods in blackness, she didn’t dare light her lantern; she was still too close to the village. Only when she was certain that she was far enough from the path that there was no chance of a late-night traveler spying the flickering of the flame from afar did she light her lantern. Still, her heart beat like the wings of a panicked bat. Every few steps, she looked back over her shoulder, half hoping and half fearing someone would step out from behind a tree to drag her back to her bed. It took the blacksmith’s daughter the better part of three hours to find the clearing in the woods where the earth had been trampled to dust and nothing grew save a gnarled tree that wept a thick black sap. The hooting of the owls and the rustling of the forest beasts in the underbrush ceased the moment the girl set foot in the clearing. Even the fox whose dying-woman cry had unnerved her more and more each time it screamed had gone silent. The girl approached the ancient tree and knelt at its trunk, setting her basket down beside her. She reached in and pulled out her fine green cloak, five white tapers, and a pair of sewing shears. She glanced around the clearing one last time. Though the blacksmith’s daughter knew she was alone, the fine hairs at the base of her neck stood on end. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something watched her just at the edge of the woods, sunken back in the shadows. She bent to lay her cloak out flat on the ground. A blood-beat pounded in her ears as she lit one candle with the flame of her lantern before setting the other four down in a line at the hem of her cloak. The fifth, she placed above the hood. The girl drew in a shuddering breath as she opened her sewing shears, bit her lip as she sliced into her palm with the blade. She held her hand out over each candle in turn and squeezed a drop of blood into each wavering flame. She closed her eyes, bowed her head, and waited. She had made charms and cast little spells before, trifles so small she had never been sure that they had done anything at all, except perhaps in her own mind. But that sort of witchery was something most of the village girls did, now and again, when they could do so without fear of the admonishments of their parents or the minister. Calling upon spirits was different than the childsplay that entertained the village girls in the dull winter months, when there was little else to do. It was deeper, older, darker, and it made her tremble as if stricken with fever. With every moment that passed, the drumming in her ears grew louder and louder until it was all she could hear. Then came a voice, sweet and sonorous and thick as honey. Fair girl, lift your eyes, it said. The blacksmith’s daughter did as she was told. Standing at the edge of her cloak was a spirit in the shape of a pale woman with black eyes that glinted like treasure at the bottom of a well and cloven hooves where it should have had feet. It wore nothing but the tumble of its dark, thick hair and an iron crown hanging from a cord around its waist. The crude points dug into the spirit’s hip and silvery-black blood dripped from the wounds. It should have been in agony—and perhaps, the blacksmith’s daughter thought, it was—but it wore a serene smile upon its lips. Dear girl, why have you called upon me? After a moment’s hesitation, the blacksmith’s daughter answered, “The man I loved has wronged me terribly.” And you want him to suffer for it, don’t you, sweet girl? The girl’s response caught like hooks in her throat. Unable to voice her reply, she nodded. The spirit smiled, and the girl cringed away; behind its rosy lips, it had far too many teeth, all sharp and glinting. Crooning like a mother to a child, it said, Darling girl, do not be afraid. I can give you the means to the retribution you crave, if you are willing to strike a bargain. The girl had expected this. In the village, children whispered of witches dealing with spirits, trading things they held dear in exchange for riches, or love, or forbidden knowledge. “I’ll give you my first child,” she offered. She had heard stories of people trading their firstborn children with spirits in exchange for that which they desired. The spirit shook its head. Lovely girl, that is not a fair trade. Its lips curled back in a wolfish snarl. You aren’t certain to have a child. I will not make a trade for something that may never exist. I won’t be cheated, precious girl. “I’ll give you all of my memories of my mother, whose soul is in heaven.” What need have I for your memories? The girl’s heart hammered in her chest, battering at her ribs like a frantic bird trying to escape its cage of bone. She knew one thing the stories said spirits were always willing to trade for. She swallowed hard and steeled herself before looking the spirit in its drowning-dark eyes. The sun had not yet risen when the blacksmith’s daughter returned home from the woods with the spirit’s resonant parting words repeating over and over in the back of her head. When you return home, beloved girl, it had said, look under your blankets and quilts. You will find the skin of a wolf. When you are ready, go into the woods where nobody will see you, and wrap it around your shoulders. Then, you will have the means to take revenge upon the man who cast you aside. The girl crept into the house she shared with her father, walked on her toes past him where he lay snoring in bed, and clambered up the ladder to the loft where she slept.  Sure enough, the spirit had spoken true. When she peeled her blankets and quilts back off of her bed, there was a timber wolf pelt spread out over her straw mattress. The blacksmith’s daughter reached out to run her slim fingers through the fur, smiling to herself. Every afternoon, the weaver’s pretty black-haired daughter went out into the woods to gather plants for her mother’s dyes. Though she had been told time and time again to be wary when she walked the forest paths, she never was. She knew the woods too well and loved them too much to be afraid of them.  She knew every bird, every beast, every tree, every flower, and it seemed as if they all knew her, too—and loved her. In the village, they whispered that the weaver’s daughter had a touch of witchery in her blood, for who but a witch could walk the wolf-haunted woods without a care or fear? One day, they said, her luck would run out. With her basket at her hip, the girl stepped lightly, nearly skipping, down the path, humming a cheerful tune to herself. That evening, she had arranged to meet with the handsome hunter who often brought her flowers when he returned from the woods. So lost in her daydreams was she that the weaver’s daughter did not hear the padding of the wolf’s paws as it stalked her. She did not hear the twigs snap when it stepped upon them, and she did not hear how it whined after her. Only when it stepped out from the underbrush and onto the path, snarling, did she whirl around, dropping her basket in fright. Before she could turn to run, before she could even let out a scream, the wolf was upon her, pinning her to the ground and tearing at her throat. Weakly, she tried to push the beast away, but what little strength she had left her with each spurt of blood upon the dusty path. Gore-spattered and panting, the wolf gazed down into the eyes of the weaver’s daughter, once such a pretty grey, now clouding over. The blacksmith’s daughter had taken her revenge, rending the flesh and tasting the blood of the girl who had stolen the man she had loved away with shy smiles and winsome glances. He would grieve for a time, she knew, but she could be there to comfort him, to remind him how he had loved her. He would never know it was she who had murdered the weaver’s daughter; everyone in town would agree that the girl had gotten what had always been coming to her for being so careless, for wandering heedless of their wise counsel to be wary of beasts when she went into the woods to gather plants for her mother’s dyes. Gloating, the girl in the shape of a wolf drew back from the pretty corpse of her rival and began to pad down the path. When she felt she was far enough away that none would think to connect her to the savage killing of the weaver’s daughter, she closed her eyes and entreated the spirit, Take this beast’s hide from me and make me a girl again. Nothing happened. When she had donned the wolf pelt earlier that day, just as the spirit had instructed her, the change had been immediate. For a brief moment, she had felt the agony of her bones popping and flesh reshaping itself, and then she had become a wolf. This time, she felt nothing. Again, she begged, Make me a girl again. It was harder to think those words the second time. Her mind grew slow and foggy. She tried to speak, but all that left her throat was a panicked whimper. I want— The spirit had fulfilled its end of the bargain. It was time for the blacksmith’s daughter to fulfill hers.  The soul she had once had was gone, lost in the sinew and blood, bones and fur of the wolf she had become. The hunter pulled the arrow from the she-wolf’s throat. Her blood stained the tips of his fingers red, though he paid it no mind. Beside him, his brother stood with his bow lowered, looking quite pleased with himself; he’d never shot so lovely a beast before. Turning to his brother, the hunter said, “She’ll make someone a fine cloak, don’t you think?” When not writing, Matilda Lewis can be found loitering in cafes and bookstores like a complete stereotype, watching horror films, and getting a little too excited about glasses and eye care.  She can be bothered on Twitter @GREMLIN_MATTIE Cover: Amanda Bergloff @AMANDABERGLOFF

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