Search Results

Wendy Darling clung to Neverland through it all. Her memories were the only things that allowed her to cope with her brothers forgetting, their parents not believing her, even the years in Saint Bernadette’s asylum, where Michael and John sent her when she refused to deny what happened. When she finally learned to hide the truth, Wendy kept her secret close. She didn’t confide in her husband. She didn’t warn her daughter about boys like Peter. She didn’t protect her. Unlike her mother, Jane does not choose to follow the boy who flies in her window. Instead, she is taken without her consent, flown to Neverland, and kept compliant with a drink that makes her forget who she is, her parents, even her name. But Wendy’s logical, curious daughter resists coercion and confusion, knowing that if there was a way in to this alien place, there must be a way out. Back in London, Wendy steps out her open window, heading for the second star to the right. For seeing her own daughter in her place, she must admit that in all the years of clinging to her memories, there was something she had forgotten. Neverland had a horrible truth she had denied. And now, to save her daughter, Wendy must face it at last. Wendy, Darling is author A.C. Wise’s dark continuation of J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan. Through the eyes of its girls and women, Neverland is a very different place, one of shadowy secrets and threats too harmful to remember. Wendy is a complex character, struggling to understand her experience and the damage she’s caused by denying the pain of knowing what she knew. But she is determined to make amends and expose the whole truth, no matter the cost. In devastating, intensely personal prose, Wise stitches an accurate portrayal of trauma and its aftermath into a story of healing and found family. Tender, visceral, and fierce, Wendy, Darling is breathtaking. You can find it here. *Lissa loved Wendy, Darling so much she is giving away a FREE copy! Just join her mailing list at lissasloan.com to enter! 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. Print and ebook release from The Enchanted Press will be March 26, 2024. Visit Lissa online at lissasloan.com, or connect on Facebook, Instagram, @lissa_sloan, or Twitter, @LissaSloan.

I love homegrown food. And I really love being the one doing the growing. Or the idea of it anyway. If you ask me which TV show I’d like to model my life after, I would tell you about a charming 70s sitcom from the UK. In Good Neighbors, or The Good Life, as it’s called in the UK, Tom and Barbara Good (played by Richard Briers and Felicity Kendal) have had it with the rat race of modern life, but love their suburban house and neighbors. So they go all in for self sufficiency. They grow their own food, keep a goat, pigs, and chickens, and ingeniously use methane to power their home. Tom and Barbara may have green thumbs, but their tiny farm runs on good humor and sheer determination. In my Cinderella continuation novel, however, I gave my girl in the glass slippers a unique gift. The narrator of Glass and Feathers works magic with her hands in the earth, bringing plants to life with her touch. And though her stepmother forbids her to use her gift, she takes a savage pride in doing it anyway. I would like to say I am magically powerful like my narrator, or hard-working like the Goods, but sadly, I am neither. I love to plan my garden, and even plant it. But it’s all about the weather, really. I’ll even weed when it’s cool. Unfortunately, though, I struggle to get outside when it’s the littlest bit hot. I like going to farmer’s markets, too, but these days I’m even more of a homebody than I used to be. So now local farmer’s markets come to me. Market Wagon is an online farmer’s market bringing local providers together and delivering to customers. Every week I check the website to see what’s available from the farms in my area. I usually buy produce and sometimes dairy products, but there is also meat, prepared food, spices, tea, even candles and soap. I make my order by the end of the day on Tuesday and set out the reusable tote from the week before on Wednesday night. On Thursday, the delivery driver exchanges my empty tote for a full one containing my order. I can subscribe to items I want every week, like my favorite spinach or apples, but there’s no obligation to order every week. This time of year, there’s less in the way of produce, but there are always lots of things to choose from. So have a look and see if Market Wagon operates in your area. If you can’t be delivered to the ball in a pumpkin carriage, maybe the pumpkin can at least be delivered to you! Lissa Sloan is the author of Glass and Feathers, a Cinderella continuation novel that is already getting praise on Goodreads! Check it out.

Geek Witch and the Treacherous Tome of Deadly Danger by Rebecca Buchanan is a delightful new urban fantasy novelette. The story’s narrator, Ermentrude Wainwright, is the middle-aged proprietor of a games, comics, and sundry adventures shop, and the action opens in the middle of one of her role-play campaigns. As the players roll a twenty-sided opal die that will determine their in-game fate, readers begin to realize that the urban landscape the characters occupy is every bit as magical as the games they play. Outside of the games, Ermentrude lives in a world that has witnessed the destruction of cities by occult magic. She uses sigils and potions to ward her store and home from dangers, but when she is accused of practicing malefic magic (a type of occult magic that carries a negative intent) she finds herself in trouble. Ermentrude falls under suspicion because she is in possession of a rare Change Your Destiny book that contains dangerous spells once used to destroy Chicago. When intruders break into her home to steal the book, she must navigate a complicated world filled with secrets to keep the book out of the wrong hands. Geek Witch and the Treacherous Tome of Deadly Danger has a splendid cast of characters, but none is more inspirational than Ermentrude. It is not often that magical quests are completed by single, overweight, middle-aged protagonists, and Buchanan’s creation makes a wonderful addition to the fantasy genre! Although an endearing group of misfits helps out along the way, it is the narrator herself who manages to save the day, telling herself ”Okay, Ermentrude. Time to be the hero of the story.” I loved every word of this entertaining novelette! The plot offers the perfect blend of adventure and humor, and the twists and turns kept me smiling. I devoured the story in one sitting, but lingered over the insightful descriptions of what constitutes magic in both the fantasy and everyday worlds. If you love stories with enchantment, dragons, quests, old bookshops, clock towers, and lovable characters, then Geek Witch and the Treacherous Tome of Deadly Danger is for you! Although the tale wraps up with a satisfying ending, I hope there will be more Ermentrude adventures to come! You can find the book here. Kelly Jarvis works as the Assistant Editor for The Fairy Tale Magazine. Her poetry has been featured 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, and Corvid Queen. Her short fiction has appeared in 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/

Until recently, I’d never tried Rao’s pasta sauce, largely due to cost. But our daughter and family gave us a big variety basket of Rao’s pasta and sauces for Christmas, and we’re enjoying all of it. The vodka sauce, though—that was the winner. The marinara was lovely, but I wasn't sure I loved it enough to pay almost three times what I’d pay for Barilla. So we tried the Rao’s vodka sauce with penne pasta, and waited to see the results. The sauce is somehow spicier and creamier than the marinara. It has a more homemade taste, and it has bolder and subtler flavors that come through. There’s also a cheesiness to it that is delightful. Kudos also to the penne. Turns out Rao’s definitely makes good pasta, but since it’s nearly three times what I regularly pay, I’ll opt for the vodka sauce only. I’ve gotta save a buck somewhere. I think Rao’s vodka sauce would be delicious with meat sauce, but Todd and I eat meat only about once a month, so our pasta tends to be vegetarian. But it was fantastic with freshly grated Parmesan cheese. Costwise, the breakdown is that it cost about $4.50 per serving, as we didn’t use an entire bag of pasta for a bottle of vodka sauce—we like a very saucy pasta meal. That’s less than you’d pay in a restaurant, and honestly, Rao’s vodka sauce is better than a lot of what I’ve eaten in restaurants. So if you’re on the fence about trying Rao’s go for it! It makes a luxurious meal at home. Spoil yourself the next time you’re in the mood for pasta. If you’re looking for a great continuation of the “Cinderella” story, buy Lissa Sloan’s “Glass and Feathers,” which publishes on March 26. It’s a fantastic book, and preorder details are coming soon.

We are so proud to announce that Kim Malinowski's poem, "Robin Hood's Larder's Torn Roots" has been nominated for the Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association’s Rhysling Award! It was originally published in FTM in March 2023. Kim, who is both our poetry editor and our tech coordinator, is a prodigiously talented poet and writer. The team counts itself lucky to have her and congratulates her on both the poem itself and the nomination. Congratulations, Kim! We are happy, but not surprised, that your work is being recognized. The poem is below. Robin Hood’s Larder’s Torn Roots I. 1961, mended Robyn of Loxeley, Robin Hood’s Larder bared secrets away. Hallow cavern sheltered legend, revealed blushed history only once in harsh storm. Edwinstowe holds fast Robyn’s love. Mayde Marian’s bower slumbers beneath sacred loam. Legend echoes story echoes legend. 1266 before 1510 before 1840. Love crooned centuries on tongue, carried on parchment and wind. II. Sly. He tucks pink rose behind ear. My eyes are his as he plucks petals dear to his forest. Repurposed magenta blossoms snow over me, find my collar, chest. Spill onto war torn rock, moss and lichen battling slate. My eyes mute his arrows. My winding hair combats Nottingham’s appeal. Robin Hood could plunder, could steal, could learn to love. Learn that he was magic now, lore more than man. He winks—tells me I’ve been deflowered with grin, boyish battle right. Words echoing against breast, belly, this is not who I am. He knows my mind. Whispers, “Marian, this is who you are to be.” Love me … love me not… sighs with each petal that falls. III. I lie beneath Craigleith sandstone, Maiden, not Maryin, love not loved. Still clover dances sunlight adventure. Yew in hand, evergreen wafts tickle nostrils. I could be shaft notched to bowstring, wet fingers fanning flax into fury, and my love is my love is my love if he would let me fly. IV. I pick Yew not too crooked or knobbed. Robin had done this. I can too. I am no outlaw. No outcast. Rub sinew on shaft, feathers to fletching, bind silver point. Right there, under that arch, Robin’s hand outstretched— ready to propel him to warm hand. We both fell laughing, muddied with branches and mirth. Forgetful moment of starving poor. Now muddied, I knew that there was life before this moment and life after this moment and in haze and muck, I found who was real, who was false. The Sherriff always foe. Now my King. Outlawed by love, I abandoned my station. But Robin helped me back onto bridge giggling ignoble, showing muscle and grace. I took oath. Double life. Fashioned arrows instead of embroidering handkerchiefs and wasting time. V. The Sheriff’s captive. Knowing my hands splintered, torn by love, not noble blood. Robin strode toward me fearing no danger— not the men that carried torches the armored ones with long swords the… Robin of Locklesey waltzed, stomped, veered into the direction of the Sheriff. The Sheriff leapt backwards to flee. Robin Hood was not here. No one would be giving to the poor. Lockesley was here for me. And I was here because of him. My arrows, my letters to the King, my wisdom not granted to me by Nottingham Palace. Love was the worst of all. One of Robin’s arrows had long ago pierced me. VI. The forest holds secrets. The silver arrow, disintegrated strings. Trees that watched men sing, dance, carry on freedom. The man that loved too much. The man that gave too much. The tree that gave away its secrets. The storm that carried away history, bound it to legend, whispered its sweet songs to me. *** Note: Crook, David. Robin Hood: Legend and Reality (p. 252). Boydell & Brewer Ltd. Kindle Edition. Robin_hoods_larder_1880.jpg (1113×739) (wikimedia.org) Edinburgh's Geological Sites - Edinburgh Geological Society (edinburghgeolsoc.org) *names change spelling as folktales are written down over the centuries. They purposely change here as time goes forward. The illustration is an advertisement for Douglas Fairbanks in Robin Hood, 1922.

Editor’s note: The idea that the saint in this poem is probably not that saintly intrigued me, as did the message that people want to believe that someone they revere is good, no matter the cost. It was and is a different kind of poem for FTM, and I think you’ll find it thought provoking. This originally ran in July 2021. (Kate) Patients thronged in long queues dreaming to defer their death one by one they took out their shoes and entered to buy some breath Some trepidation,some agitation, and the usual yells of pain and the wishes made in devotion maybe not to visit again “'Why do you need a doctor when prayers can heal every sore,” the saint would say like an actor, “I have with me every cure.” “Just close your eyes,” he'd tell, and splash some ash on the brow or ring his old rusted bell to draw milk from a cement cow He had some sleight of hand some tricks to gather belief to make an apple from sand or find a rose in a leaf That was enough for the crowd to travel miles and come to the saint and chant aloud his name like puppets dumb Even when a patient died it little affected their clan “Our saint had truly tried,” they said, “Twas God's plan.” *** Bio: Debasish Mishra has co-edited an international anthology of poetry entitled Timeless Love. His recent poems have been published in North Dakota Quarterly, Penumbra, Star*Line, and elsewhere. A former banker, as of July 2021, he was pursuing his PhD at NISER, India. Image by Ramez E. Nassif. ⭐️ Keep your reading calendar open for March 26, when Lissa Sloan's Glass and Feathers debuts on Amazon. The Enchanted Press is publishing it.⭐️

As a person who reads a truly ridiculous amount of books, it’s not often that I come across a book that really blows me away. And yet, out of the hundred and fifty books that I read in 2023, this was the best one, and I’m convinced that it would make a fantastic start to your 2024. Cackle by Rachel Harrison follows a young woman as she moves to a new town and learns to navigate her life with the help of her new friend Sophie whom the whole town seems to be afraid of. Strange things seem to always happen around Sophie, and her strange lonely lifestyle in her massive house makes Annie question who Sophie really is. Sophie is everything Annie has ever secretly dreamed of being, and Sophie is more than happy to show Annie how to live a different kind of life, one that is never caught up with what everyone else is thinking. This book is both heartbreaking and heartwarming and it speaks to every woman that's ever wondered whether she really needs to live within the bounds of the societal plan for her life. It invokes all of the heartbreak and utter joy that is womanhood itself, and I desperately wish I could read it again for the first time. Whether you’re looking for a wintry read, or something to remind you that spring is coming, this is the perfect book for you. You can find it here. Madeline Mertz is FTM's editorial intern and is a Truman State University student with literary journal experience.

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.