Search Results

It’s apple season! My family always gets very excited for local apples, so I naturally grabbed the first bag I could find. It was a new variety to us, Zestar. And while they are very flavorful, they are too tart for eating. No worries, I said. We’ll just bake them! This is my mom’s Apple Crumble recipe, though I added some sugar to the apples since they are so tart. You can top it with cream, ice cream, or nothing. But I say every hot, fruity desert is better with custard! Apples: 4 or 5 cups of apples, peeled (if you like), and cut into bite sized pieces (about 6 apples) Cinnamon ¼ c. sugar (if apples are tart) ½ c. water Crumble: ¾ c. flour ½ c. butter (1 stick) 1 c. sugar   Preheat oven to 350°. Mix apples with sugar (if using), then add to a greased baking dish. Add water, and sprinkle on cinnamon to cover. To make the crumble, work together sugar, flour, and butter until crumbly. (Slightly softened butter will make this easier to do.) Distribute over apples and bake one hour until topping is browned. I get Bird’s Custard Powder at World Market and find it’s best made up with whole milk and a little more custard powder than they recommend. Enjoy! Lissa Sloan is the author of Glass and Feathers, a transformational continuation of the traditional Cinderella tale. Her fairy tale poems and short stories have appeared in The Fairy Tale Magazine, Niteblade Magazine, Corvid Queen,   Three Ravens Podcast, and anthologies from World Weaver Press. Visit Lissa online at lissasloan.com , or connect on Facebook, Instagram, @lissa_sloan, or Twitter, @LissaSloan.

Storytelling is a human act. Since the beginning of recorded history, people have shared stories around the fire, spinning new tales from the threads of oral tradition, transforming traditional narratives into imaginative yarns that flicker and dance across the landscapes of our imaginations. The writers and poets featured in Tellers of Tales  have all spun something beautiful from the folklore and fairy tales we love. The Fairy Tale Magazine  invites you to warm yourself by the golden glow of their tales and to join us on Zoom on Monday, November 11th at 7pm EST for a celebration of the writers and their work. Family and friends are welcome! Congratulations to the winners of our Annual Poetry and Prose Contest, and thank you to all who participated. Prose Winner "A Wishing Star" by Katie Jordan Poetry Winner "Find Your Voice" by Lauren Reynolds Prose Honorable Mentions "Little Trembling" by Lynden Wade "When Rumpy Met Sally" by Steve Aultman Poetry Honorable Mentions "A Price Far Above Rubies" by Marcia A. Sherman "Ladies of the Dance" by Deborah Sage Image: Joan Brull, “Interior of a Peasant Home,” 1891.

Martha stood, shoulders hunched, back arched, her body resembling an accordion. Her stained shoes, in need of a cobbler’s attention, sloshed through a puddle outside the general store. The town boys jeered in their singsong voices, “Martha McLoud. Thin as a reed. Ugly as stinkweed.” Martha’s chin dipped, sending a curtain of brunette hair cascading across her face. She inspected her calloused knuckles and the accumulated dirt wedged deep under her fingernails — evidence of her constant gardening. Her tears streamed down.   One of the boys yelled after her. “Why don’t you talk?”   Her jade eyes remained downcast until she crossed the threshold into her parents’ home. Aromas of freshly baked bread, stewed tomatoes, and a hint of basil hit her nostrils. She lowered herself, resting on the stool next to the hearth. A ladle clanged against the soup pot as her mother worked. Outside, dusk fell.   “You’re of marrying age, y’know.” Momma frowned, adding a pinch of herbs to the pot. “You should be fussin’ about a cottage of your own.”   Martha whispered, “Men loathe me.”   She paused, then added, “And the women are too busy worrying about men. Friendship is an impossibility.”   Her mother’s eyes glistened. The clanging stopped. “Life isn’t always fair. Now quit frettin’ and set the table.”   Martha obeyed, then went outside and forced her chin up, staring at the sliver of moon. Its light gave her a glimmer of hope. “Help.” She wrung her hands in the stained folds of her dress. “What will become of me?”   A ball of fire streaked across the sky. “A wishing star,” Martha murmured. She pressed her eyelids closed, her breath catching. “Please, dear star, bring friendship and love.”   The star landed at her feet, extinguishing then vanishing. She ran her fingers through the warm dust — unaware if her plea was heard.    After supper, she scrubbed the muck from beneath her nails. A smile pulled at the corners of her lips, then fell as her older brother shoved one of the barn kittens into her hands. “This one cut its leg.”   “Oh,” she muttered, pulling the kitten closer and inspecting the gash.    Her brother turned to go, then paused, rubbing the scruff on his chin. “I overheard you talking to Momma earlier. You don’t worry about becoming an old maid, y’hear?”    She started to nod. Then he added, “There’s always widowers needing someone to look after their wee ones.”   Her throat tightened. She retrieved a strip of cloth, tending to the cat’s wound. “Yes. I suppose there’s always that.”   Spring gave way to summer, and summer to fall. By mid-October, all the women of Martha's age were married, and the kitten had grown into a large tom.   Martha sat, stroking the cat’s fur as Momma burst through the door, red-faced. “Martha McCloud! Is it true? Did you refuse the Jacobsen widower?”   “Momma,” Martha squirmed. “He’s fifty-six years old.”   “Well, well,” Momma huffed. “And you think you’re too good for him? That was your one chance! We’ll be stuck feeding you and that blasted cat until we die. And then what will become of you?” Martha shrugged. “What’s the point of getting married if you don’t love the man?”   At that, Momma shook her by the shoulders. “Are you daft? You think the other girls married for love? Wake up!”   The cat jumped from Martha’s lap and darted outside. Martha followed. She nearly collided with a gentleman struggling down the lane, favoring his left hip as he limped. He was dressed very fine in a crisp brown suit with a matching top hat. Martha stammered, hiding her dirty fingernails behind her back.   He removed his hat, revealing a mop of blond curls and a lopsided grin. “Afternoon. I’m Sean. I’m looking for Hathshire Lane. The townspeople were of little help.”   “Kindness isn’t abundant here.” She gently took his arm. “I’ll take you.”   Sean’s limp worsened. Martha pretended to trip. “I’m a bit clumsy. Do you mind if we walk slower?”   “You’re a gentle soul,” he whispered.   Martha stood a hair taller.  Sean stole a glance at Martha. She reminded him of a seedling, ready to flourish; bent and drawn inward, ready to straighten and blossom. He stole a second glance. Underneath the dirt and grime, there was an exquisite young woman.   Martha looked up. “You have a peculiar look.”   “Thinking of my mum, God rest her soul. Dad met her while she was working on his grandfather’s estate; he said she was like a diamond, covered in dust and discarded.”   Martha straightened a bit more. “Oh?”   “She was a gem, my mum. One of the finest treasures ever to be found.” His eyes twinkled. “Since you have been so kind as to walk with me, perhaps we could get a bite to eat. There’s a gentleness about you. I believe that today I, too, have found a treasure.” Newlywed Sean linked arms with his wife as townsfolk gawked at her — tall and thin, chin held high, with an ear-to-ear smile illuminating her porcelain face. Her dress was made of the finest poplin, her hat woven from straw with a wide silk ribbon across the front. A fat cat followed at her heels.    Sean limped toward the entrance to the store. “Wait here, will you love? I won’t be but a moment.” One of the shopmen tipped his hat as Sean entered. “Welcome. Did you and your wife move here recently?”   Sean blinked, slowly shaking his head. “My wife is a local. Martha McCloud.”   “McCloud?” The man laughed, then studied Sean’s face. “Wait. You can’t be serious?”   He looked from Sean to the woman outside. “Is it really the McCloud girl? But, how did you do that? How did you make her pretty?”   “I didn’t make her anything,” Sean replied sternly, resting his hand on the counter between them. “She is wonderful all of her own accord.”   The man’s mouth fell agape. “But she was hideous. What did you do?”   “I told you before and I’ll tell you again. I didn’t do anything.” Sean slapped the counter. “I was simply lucky enough to meet a beautiful woman.”   The man stammered. “Martha didn’t look like that before! She was awkward and uncomfortable and didn’t speak!”   Sean snapped. “And why do you think that is?”   The man stood, emitting a string of unintelligible sounds. Sean shook his head, tossed down a handful of coins, and took his wares.   Outside, Martha cocked an eyebrow. “Riveting conversation?”   Sean offered her his arm and chuckled. “It seems the idea of getting to know someone and trying to build them up, as you have done for me, is a notion lost on the feeble-minded, dear.”   She turned, her lips brushing his cheek. “You are good to me.”   “And you to me, as I limp along.”   She sighed and squeezed his hand. “I hardly care about a limp.”   He squeezed her hand back. “And I hardly care about a little dirt underneath your nails.” When Katie isn’t reading or writing thrillers, she’s devouring crab puffs, hunting for the lobster truck, or snuggling in for family movie night. Her work has been featured in The No Sleep Podcast, Enchanted Conversation, and Marrow Magazine, among others. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her outdoor enthusiast husband, Brad, and two daughters. Find her online at authorkatiejordan.com . Image: "Undine at the Window" by Arthur Rackham

They plucked my crane feathers They stole my seal skin They clipped my angel’s wings And burned my mermaid’s tail   Forced me to sit in a cubicle Wear pencil skirts  With my hands folded on my lap And mask my rage with a smile.   To still my dancing feet, to silence my sirens song the baby in my lap chains me in place.   Pin up your wildling hair Cover your bare feet Wear a suit, they tell me: Shackle me with handbags, schedules, and high heel shoes.   Until I can no longer hear The song of the sea The voice of the trees The whisper of sacred fire   Stripped of my weirdness  Reshaped into their box Of perfection and normalcy And still they say I am not good enough   When did you lose your enchantment? When did you cut out your tongue?  And bind your feet? And stop telling stories to your children?   When did your boldness become conformity? When did love become a cage? Who decided that all your stories  Had already been told?   Voiceless,  Dreamless, Hopeless, Alone.   Until a butterfly lands on your nose, A whale swims in the sky A dragon appears sleeping in the flowers  And your child sings the ocean’s song    Your dry lips quiver with notes Your scarred feet tap Your weary fingers itch to hold Your hair’s tight coils sway loose   A dance,  A story,  a spell,  a song:   Art explodes out of you A whisper then a roaring shout Your hair loose and wild as a storm Your voice no longer silenced    Until they are the ones forced to listen  And take off their shoes Strip their constraining ties and stockings  And let their hair grow   Reveal their own voices: The tears and regrets  The silence and the shame And the dreams that were taken    Now find your Selkie skin, Your Angel’s wings, Your cloak of magic feathers, Your mermaid’s tail   Create a new one From paint, From yarn, From words   Your weapons and your tools: Needle,  brush  and pen    Your loyal comrades and friends: Who’ve never left your side  Merely waited for your sacred voice To return  Lauren Reynolds spends her days exploring old woods and spinning outrageous tales of faeries, pirates and evil queens and has published many poems and short stories. She lives in Maryland with her best friend and a Hellhound whom is in a long standing hostage negotiation for control of her lap due to a jealous rivalry with her laptop. She is a self-proclaimed mythology nut, anime junky and monster lover. Image: "Dissolving Into Foam" by Edmund Dulac

Harsh and cruel was the Prince of the South. The Earl of the East, Lord of the West and the Count of the North ruled fairly and justly, but he declared them weak. The only solution, he sneered, was for him to take control.   Men whispered that he was a sorcerer, able to make himself invisible. That way, he could walk the byways of the North, the West and the East, sit at their feasts unseen, and listen in on their councils undetected. The sorcerer himself had started these rumors so he could sow uncertainty and fear before moving in to conquer.   The Earl of the East and the Lord of the West and the Count of the North exhorted their subjects to take up arms and fight the Prince of the South. But the subjects were now all on edge, distrusting their lords, ready to flee, not fight. How could they fight when they didn’t know where the enemy was?   Along the border of the East ran a mountain range. On the other side ruled an Elven Queen whose power was as great as that of the Sorcerer. Her enchantment lay over the mountains like a mist. Through the heart of this barrier ran a tunnel carved out with magic. Once at sunset and once at dawn these gates opened, and for the rest of the hours the gate locked fast. At sunset each day a large crowd of refugees pressed against it, their carts piled high with belongings.   As more and more subjects fled, the land lay untended. Fruit dropped from the trees and rotted in the grass. Church bells hung silent.    One family, however, clung to their cottage. Strongheart, the mother, said she would not be forced from her home by rumors and fears. Kindheart, the father, did not want to abandon their sow and her new litter of piglets.   Their daughter, Treasure, had not inherited her mother’s brave heart. When they still had neighbors, they called her Little Trembling. Each night, she dreamed of the Sorcerer who rode a wildcat, his face twisted with rage that one family of peasants should defy him by refusing to leave. On his head he wore a diadem of adders. On his arm he bore a hawk with furious eyes.   Every evening, Little Trembling would take the sow and piglets their vegetable peelings, and murmur her fears to the pigs. But one cold, damp night the sow suddenly bared her teeth, kicked down her sty and charged. Trembling screamed and dived behind the woodshed. Strongheart and Kindheart came running out in time to see the Sorcerer appear in the air above the sty, laughing exultantly at the carnage. With a cry of triumph he mounted his steed, the huge wildcat, and flew away.   The sow and her piglets were nowhere to be found. Strongheart and Kindheart were forced to agree that it was time for them, too, to leave the country. They packed their few belongings into a handcart and set off west. But the bridge that crossed the river into the West had been burned down by fighting knights, and so they had to travel on to the ford many miles downriver. It would add nearly a day to their journey before they would arrive at the mountain gates. Worse than that, it meant traveling through the South, the land of the Sorcerer.   Trembling began to weep.   “There is no use crying,” said Strongheart. “We must just keep going.”   Either side of the road, the wheat heads in the fields hung heavy and unharvested. The only sound was the scuff of their shoes. And yet Trembling felt eyes watching them in an invisible face ugly with hatred.   Soon they ran out of food. Trembling cried even more.   “Maybe we can catch our dinner,” said the mother.  When they lived in their cottage, she had been known to return from market with not just a basket of butter and beans but also a wild hare, which she’d shot herself with her bow and arrow.   But her bow was nowhere to be found. It seemed it had fallen out of the handcart many miles back. Trembling shivered at the thought of the danger they were now in, with neither food nor defense. But she no longer felt watched. She thought the Sorcerer had grown bored of them and left, to gloat over his conquests.   Some miles on they heard screeching and yowling. Strongheart and Kindheart hurried over and discovered a wildcat, caught in a wicker trap. Trembling ran and hid while the mother and father argued about what to do. Strongheart wanted to kill it and cook it for them all, but Kindheart said the cat was as desperate as they were, and so they released it. They scolded Trembling for running off, then kissed away her tears. “You must learn to be brave,” they said.   They’d traveled on for another hour, feeling very hungry indeed, when they heard something thrashing in the undergrowth. They hurried closer but when Trembling saw it was a fox gripping a writhing adder in its teeth, she ran away. But then, ashamed of herself, she crept back to see what was happening. The fox dropped the adder and fled into the bushes, but Strongheart trapped the snake with a forked branch. She wanted to cook it for a meal for them all but Kindheart said that the snake was as exhausted as they all were, and so they released it. Then they kissed Trembling. “You must be braver,” they said.   They’d traveled on for another hour, weak and tired, when a mighty shriek startled them. From a branch above, a huge hawk glared down with furious eyes, its claws caught in a tangle of jesses. It was pecking at the leather, but when they stopped it made a stab at them with its wicked beak. Trembling whimpered but she whispered to herself, “I must be brave.”   Strongheart argued that this was their last chance of a meal. Kindheart looked worried, but he was about to relent when Trembling said, “It’s as frightened as we are, Mother. We should let it go.” So Strongheart put on her leather gloves and Kindheart put on his leather apron and together they held the bird while the girl unravelled the tangle of jesses. With a scream, the bird flew away.   They traveled on for another hour, hungry and thirsty and exhausted. The sun sank in the sky and they saw they would not make it to the border by night.   “We have to find somewhere to stay,” said Kindheart.   But everywhere the land was desolate, laid waste by the wars between the lords of the East and the West and the South and the North. Cottages stood with burned roofs open to the sky. Ravens pecked at corpses in a battlefield littered with broken pikes.    At last they came to a lone castle. The gates hung off their hinges, but inside they found a storeroom with a door that closed. From the halls they dragged in tapestries and cushions to sleep on. Now it was too dark for them to be able to see anything.    In the shadows things scurried and squeaked. Trembling whispered to herself, “I must be brave,” but she couldn’t sleep.    They say it’s darkest just before dawn. And that was the favorite time of the Sorcerer.    A faint jingling made the girl open her eyes in alarm. In the space between the makeshift beds and the door a figure glowed. His nose was haughty and his magnificent cloak swirled with crescent moons. His crown was made of live adders and on his wrist he carried a hawk with furious eyes, and he rode a huge wildcat. Trembling knew him from her nightmares. She was so frightened she couldn’t move.   The Sorcerer did not seem to have seen she was awake. His eyes drifted across the room and focussed on Strongheart and Kindheart as they slept.   “What is this, my hawk?” he hissed to his bird. “People in the castle? I thought I killed all my rebellious subjects who lived here.”   “They are trespassers, my lord,” said the hawk.   “And thieves, too,” the Sorcerer snarled. “Sleeping in tapestries that should now belong to me. What do we do with trespassers and thieves, my wildcat?”   “We sink our fangs into them,” cried the wildcat.   “What say you, my adders?” asked the Sorcerer.   The snakes all hissed that the trespassers should be poisoned. At once they unraveled themselves from the crown and slid down the Sorcerer’s arms. Before the girl could blink, they’d wrapped themselves around Kindheart and Strongheart. As the last four slithered towards Trembling she sprang away and shouted, “No!”   The Sorcerer laughed. “What a brave midget. But tell me why I should spare you? It will be amusing to hear you plead for your pathetic family.”   Trembling trembled so much she thought she would fall down. But she whispered to herself, “I must be brave.” Then she locked eyes with the nearest adder. “We saved your brother when we found him caught by a fox.” She looked at the wildcat next. “We let your brother out of the trap on our journey.” Finally she looked at the hawk’s bright, furious eye. “We untied the jesses that tangled your brother. If it were not for us, he’d still be trapped in them now.”   “Is this true, my hawk, my wildcat, my adders?” said the Sorcerer.   “It is true, my lord,” said the wildcat.   “It is true, my lord,” said the adders.   The hawk ruffled its feathers, then let out a cry. “It is true, my lord.”   The Sorcerer was silent. The girl began to think he would let them go. Then he threw back his head and laughed. “A brave try, little girl. But what does that have to do with me? My hawk, my wildcat, my adders–kill them all!”   The hawk flew up, the wildcat sprang forward, the adders swarmed off Strongheart and Braveheart–and flung themselves on the sorcerer. The adders held his wrists and ankles, the hawk flew round and round his head and the wildcat ran round and round his legs. “Run!” shouted the hawk.   Trembling, Strongheart and Kindheart fled into the night. But a faint red smudge on the horizon told them dawn was on its way.   The Sorcerer howled with rage. They ran until the gates of the mountain tunnel stood before them. As the sun burst over the horizon the gates swung open. Kindheart, Strongheart, and Trembling staggered through them into the tunnel and ran into the darkness. Behind them the iron barrier clanged shut.    Gasping now for breath, they felt their way along the passageway. At last a pale circle appeared before them and grew. Exhausted and hungry but exultant, they staggered forward into the safety of the land of the Elven Queen. Lynden Wade neglects the housework to spend time in the worlds of folklore and magic. She’s had stories published in a range of publications, including BFS Horizons, the journal of the British Fantasy Society. She is still hoping for a house elf. Find her on Instagram @lwadewrites. Image: W. Heath Robinson, “I have scarcely closed my eyes the whole night through” from “The Real Princess”  for Hans Christian Andersen’s Fairy Tales, 1913

There are many variations on the tale of Rumpelstiltskin, but this is the one true and correct version, handed down to me by my grandmother’s, grandmother’s wetnurse, and she never told a lie in her life. One way you can tell it is authentic is that the characters all have names. And they are real  names, mostly, not just titles. Some nicknames, yes, and a few sobriquets, for good measure.   So, when I say “the king,” it will only be a shortcut, not an omission, and you will know that I am referring to King Avaricious, third of that name, whose reign was short but notorious, and, well, I am getting ahead of myself. In those bad old days of feudalism, the king owned all the land, and some of the people. Social mobility was not a thing, Cinderella notwithstanding. And Social Security wouldn’t come along for centuries. The king of this little kingdom was not poor, exactly, but his father’s coach had been inscribed with “I’m spending the prince’s inheritance” on the boot, and Avaricious II was true to his word. So, the new king was tight with his purse. Once, when Avaricious III was holding court, a miller, our Goodman Dusty, waited in the long, long queue to speak with him. It was Dusty’s duty, as the king’s tenant, to pay his lord his rents. Like most millers, Dusty was often accused by farmers of taking more than his fair share when grinding the grain. That was true everywhere. Wheat looks a bit smaller when it’s freed from the chaff. How much smaller it actually is seemed a legit subject for dispute. But he was a generally honest man. Most of the time. If he had one fault, it was the sin of pride. He was fond of his only daughter, and saw only the good in her, and he didn’t care who knew it. Goodman Dusty was tired by the time he was summoned into the throne room, and a little out of sorts. But he knew the king was looking for a wife, and he made the extraordinary leap that his only child’s charms could overcome any disadvantages of birth or fortune. He was a leveler, at heart, but generally went along to get along. So, when the king deigned to make a little small talk with him, he fell to boasting. Dusty waxed on about his lovely daughter, and how good a goodwife she would be, and how her book-keeping and spinning had made him prosperous. Now, Dusty was smartish, for a commoner, but he made a fateful error here. Do you see what I mean? He was exaggerating  his good fortune, to, of all people, the taxman . Not that he begrudged paying his fair share, mind you. But he made himself a target. The king’s curiosity was piqued. Dusty’s daughter, Mistress Sally Miller, was quite clever, and good with her hands. A kindly vicar saw to it that she could read and do her sums, though only a little. Calculus was right out. But she knew more than most folks in the village, so she got ahead. She had kept her father’s tally books and accounts ever since her mother had died. Mothers often die early, especially in fairy tales, so Sally was almost expecting it, as perhaps were you. She mourned her mamma, but she got on with life. Sally knew how to keep a cottage, too. She was orderly, and frugal. She could make a cheese round last a fortnight, and darn threadbare stockings. She had done for her father’s household what he could not. Each harvest, after the grain was threshed, Sally and the other villagers would take the straw to feed the cows, or muck out the stables, or to make corn dollies or hats bedecked with ribbons for the harvest festival. They would enjoy a bit of rest and abundance, if the crop was good. When Dusty returned home after his visit to the castle, he tried to relate all that transpired at the castle to Sally, but he was flummoxed. He couldn’t quite recount all the details. He told Sally that he might just have used a metaphor about turning everything she touched into gold, like King Midas.  Her eyes went wide. Then he said that he might have misspoken a bit, or said something to the effect that “she takes straw, and turns it into gold.” It was a metaphor, like in that song where the candy man takes rainbows, and, you know… But was he in his cups? You tell me. He certainly confused straw with flax.  Mistress Sally Miller mainly spun flax  into linen .  The next village over, just beyond the woods, was just a day’s ride from another small kingdom, one that had seaports. They were on a trade route, and that led to merchants, and banking, and currency, oh, my! And in that village, there was a certain kind of wizard, an alchemist, who had discovered how to transmute base materials into gold. Seriously. I’ll spare you the details, but it was magical. Our alchemist was a little person named Rumpelstiltskin. There, I told you. You see, that part about the name being some kind of big secret is all wrong. He came from a long line of Rumpelstiltskins, was proud of it, and didn’t care who knew about it. Rumors that Rumpelstiltskin was a dwarf or an imp are greatly exaggerated. The term his community preferred was “little person.” And he wasn’t all that small—just a tad shy of four feet, if you must know. He had a kind face and a ready wit. Little people are much like other people. They can fall in love. Most of them can make their own babies. More on that later.  Due to some vagaries in the trade winds, Rumpelstiltskin looked inland, for the first time, for supplies. That’s when he encountered Sally. She was combing her hair at a small mirror, across from her cottage window. He was immediately smitten. She was, well, startled at first, when she saw him reflected in the mirror, but then a little intrigued. She went outside and they fell to talking. He told her of lands abroad, of ships and sealing wax, and of courts with mighty kings, so unlike the only king she knew. He spoke of a rising merchant class, and trade, and factories, where cottage industries, like spinning, mushroomed in size, until the Luddites started smashing the engines of mischief that ensued. But that’s another story. For her part, Sally spoke of longing for more freedom and independence. It would be jumping the gun to say anything about her desire to smash the patriarchy, though she would eventually go there. But that’s another story, too. The two of them met many times over the next few days, and before long, they were in love. But, his business concluded, Rumpelstiltskin needed to return to his hometown, promising to come back again as soon as he could. Now Sally had not shared any of this with her father. As far as Goodman Dusty was concerned, Sally was single, and could be married for advantage. So, when the miller shared his news about the king’s interest in meeting her, she was taken aback. Things were getting awkward. Without saying anything to her father, Sally and Goodman Miller prepared to meet the king. When Goodman Dusty returned to court, Sally was at his side. Harold, the herald, announced them to the king. “Show them right in,” the king commanded, gleefully. It would be wrong to say that he was licking his chops, but his eagerness knew few bounds. The king spared no time on niceties. He led Sally to the first chamber, filled with a nice Ashford wheel and a lot of straw. “Sally, if you would like someday to be my queen, you must prove yourself. Spin away!” This is where the “true love” part comes in. Sally wished, with all her heart, to let Rumpy know of her predicament. She sang a spell of yearning. She sang it loud, she sang it strong, and she knew it was good enough. She must have had a bit of magic in herself, too, because it worked. Rumpelstiltskin heard the call, consented to the magic, and it brought him to her in an instant. There was a bit of smoke, and a faint reek of sulfur, and there he was.  Quick as Mercury, Rumpy took the wheel and began to chant an incantation of transmutation. Sally was a quick study, and soon was adding her voice to the song. The wheel kept time, with the rhythm of the treadle and the whirring of the flywheel and bobbin. Just before daybreak, they took in their success. There were bobbins and bobbins beyond number, all filled with 24 karat gold. It was magic. It may be said that Mars had some influence on this outcome, too, not just Mercury. I’ll spare you the metaphysical details, though. In anticipation of daybreak, Rumpy hid in a corner, covered by Sally’s great cloak. So, the king never knew the part Rumpelstiltskin played in the great task. The next part is much like the stories you have already heard. The king was pleased, and ordered another night of spinning, but he wanted to “increase productivity,” and insisted that Sally work even faster the next night. He did the ol’ carrot and stick number, too. “If you work hard, and meet your quota, I will marry you, someday. If you don’t, you’ll be fired.” Tied to a stake and fired, that was. So, ‘round and ‘round Sally and Rumpy went again. Rather than advancing the story here, let me just ask you to read that previous paragraph, one more time. Bigger room, more straw, tighter deadline. Brutal boss holds out a threat or promise of marriage. Yuck.  You get the idea. But wait, this is where things get interesting again. On the fourth day, the king commanded another night of spinning, unwittingly breaking the sacred “third time's the charm” rule. He kept pressuring Sally to produce more and more golden thread. And with that transgression, all bets were off. Months went by. The king wasn’t playing by the rules, so Sally and Rumpy weren’t going to, any longer, either. They secretly recruited other helpers, with extra wheels, to keep producing more golden thread. Soon, it was more than a cottage industry. It was a nightmare. And that’s not to mention the potential inflationary impact were the king to start spending any of that hoarded gold. I mean, the serfs and villagers went to the market cross of a day, to buy a cock or a hen, a goose or a duck, if it would very well please them. It wasn’t all barter in those days, even for the common folk. Can you see where all this was heading? The king became hooked on all that wealth, but instead of spending it on the general welfare, he hoarded it like a dragon. The people became disenchanted with his rule. Sally and Rumpy organized the spinners into a guild, called for a general strike, and began demanding fair pay for their honest labor. And speaking of labor, their demands included something new, something called “maternity leave.” Rumpelstiltskin did get what he’d always wished for, Sally’s first-born child. He got it the honest way, by fatherhood. The general strike drew support from all kinds, even the king’s household. The king had been so coddled his whole life that he could barely make his own breakfast. He had little choice. He conceded to the worker’s demands. The next day, he went mad. He danced a dance so awkward that some claimed he pulled his own leg off.   Those levelers that Goodman Dusty knew? They came out of the woods and formed a new, representative government, with popular support.  And they all lived happily ever after.  Steve "Aelfcyning" Aultman spins yarns in an ever-evolving storybook cottage, and lives with his wife, Lori, and his familiar, Finley, at the end of a trail of breadcrumbs near Berkeley, California. Acknowledgement: My thanks to the community at the Carterhaugh School of Folklore and the Fantastic for its encouragement, and particularly to Carole Wallencheck, for their suggestions and support. Image: "Rumpelstiltskin and The Miller's Daughter" by Henry J. Ford

Two glasses of wine, please. Sorry, that happens all the time. These gems will pay for the wine and the meal, and the beds, yes? Oops, glad you caught that one. Rarely get a pearl so large. How did this happen to me? Out of a kindness shown. A cup of water shared. A crust of bread halved. And the next morning - these riches, with every sentence. There is no stopping it. My sister? My  half  sister. No, she is not so happily afflicted. It always draws a crowd. That is why we chose this little inn, with no patrons. You may think of this as a gift. But it can be a burden, a danger even. Some have thought to keep us, to hurt us. We have learned to recognize greed. Wow, that sure is a splendid emerald. Yes, yes, take what you want. There is always more. Well, that was a fine meal. The wine was excellent, although rather spicy. I am uncommonly weary. If you could just show us to our room? No need to... I said... What I want to say... Stop! Sister! Thank the man for his hospitality. Oh indeed it is a huge snake, and deadly. There now quick and painless. Sister, do not look so squeamish. Haven't you got used to this by now? Go get the gems on the bar, leave the pearl and the emerald for his wife. Off to bed and say your prayers. We may need the protection. Marcia A. Sherman specializes in faerie tales, folklore, and fables. Her most recent published work of fiction, September Harvest, can be found in The Monsters We Forgot, Volume 3, by Soteira Press. Ms. Sherman also contributes essays and short works to The Fairy Tale Magazine, and Llewellyn Worldwide, under the pen name Emyme. Image: "Diamonds and Toads" by Margaret Evans Price

At the silver borders of night, when Stars are scattered coins across a velvet Sky and the moon glows sovereign and sublime, They come, twelve sisters in their satin shoes.   Noiseless as ghosts, they glide through glittering groves, Bound for boats to ferry them across the rippling Lake into the land of Faerie. They come to dance unfettered, Until their shoes are shreds and Starlight dissolves into dawn.   They come in emerald silk and silvered cloaks, Fingers flashing ruby rings and sapphire stones, Pearls threaded through unbound hair. The sisters come without a thought toward Peril, buoyed by risk and Arrayed in enchantment.   Inside flame-lit halls, ethereal music plays. No stray thought disturbs; no desire intrudes. And though they spin with princes across Cool stone floors, They dance only for themselves. Deborah Sage is a native of Kentucky, USA. She has most recently been published in  Eternal Haunted Summer, Literary LEO, Fairy Tale Magazine, From the Farther Trees, the 2022 Dwarf Stars Anthology ,  Amethyst Press  All Shall Be Well  anthology for Julian of Norwich and  Eye to the Telescope. Image: "The Shoes that were Danced to Pieces" by Elenore Abbott

The Foreign Exchange is the second book in a series (the first was titled The Quarter Storm ) which follows Reina Dumond, a Vodou priestess and healer who has a knack for solving mysteries in New Orleans. In this book, Reina investigates a friend’s husband and uncovers a conspiracy of people involved in dark ritual magic. The plot of the book moves quickly and the cast of characters, Reina’s friends and a love interest, are all engaging. What I loved most about the book was the atmosphere of New Orleans and the history of Vodou magic. The book takes place at Halloween, lending a city steeped in mystery an even more intriguing appeal. Halloween in New Orleans is celebrated with a large parade because it occurs close to the end of hurricane season. Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath haunts the book, and the vivid details transport the reader to the city. Although Vodou is sometimes popularly associated with dark magic, this book celebrates the traditions of Vodou, tracing them all the way back to Reina’s immigration from Haiti when she was young. Autumn in Haiti is described as a time that “cleared the path for change”, and each time Reina performs a ritual, the reader can feel her hope and desire for positive change. Reina creates spells and tinctures of protection with pink rose petals, white candles, and alligator teeth, and her shop is stocked with magic Vodou healing traditions. The book even includes a recipe for “Sweet Belly’s New Orleans Dirty Rice” which seems like a spell the readers create in their own kitchens. Fans of mystery series will enjoy the plot and characters, and armchair travelers will enjoy the details that make them feel like they have taken a trip to New Orleans. This was a fun, atmospheric read! You can find the book here . Thank you to NetGalley for a free copy of the book in exchange for a fair review. Kelly Jarvis works as the Assistant Editor for The Fairy Tale Magazine where she writes stories, poems, essays, book reviews, and interviews. Her poetry has also been featured or is forthcoming in Blue Heron Review , Mermaids Monthly , Eternal Haunted Summer,   Forget Me Not Press, The Magic of Us, A Moon of One’s Own,   Baseball Bard , 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 . You can connect with her on Facebook (Kelly Jarvis, Author) or Instagram (@kellyjarviswriter) or find her at https://kellyjarviswriter.com/

No Profit Made Unlisted Video Official Link: Blaze: Experience this Outdoor and Family-Friendly Halloween Spectacular | The Great Jack O'Lantern Blaze ( pumpkinblaze.org )

Night of the Living Queers , an anthology of young adult short stories dedicated to “anyone who’s had to pretend to be someone {they’re} not”, is an impressive collection of tales that seeks to represent the intersection of queerness and identity. The book features thirteen different stories told through the lenses of BIPOC teens, and each story takes place on a Halloween night beneath a Blue Moon. This book provides everything readers could want from a Halloween collection. There are costume parties in abandoned hotels, nights spent handing out candy to trick-or-treaters, pirate ghosts who haunt the mall food court, phantom animals who prowl the local drive-in theater, and haunted mansions where mysterious homicides take place. The stories feature ghosts, vampires, serial-killing clowns, Rougarou, poltergeists, and Ouija boards. References to Freddy Krueger and Camp Crystal Lake sit beside references to TikTok and cursed video links, giving the text both a contemporary and nostalgic feel. The stories provide a spooky atmosphere without frightening readers or subjecting them to gratuitous gore, and beneath the plot of each tale runs a commentary on the important pleasures of Halloween, with one character poignantly stating, “if only I could so easily slip out of my skin the other 364 days.” I enjoyed this collection and think it is a much-needed addition to the Young Adult genre. Although the stories feature queer and non-white characters, the narrative focus is on battling supernatural entities, and this allows the teen characters to represent their identities without being narrowly defined by them. Adolescent readers will find diverse stories that scare, delight, tease, and inspire. Adults will find a window into contemporary teen life and enjoy a nostalgic look at the Halloweens of their youth. Night of the Living Queers  presents thirteen different tales brought together beneath a Blue Moon, itself a sign of change and transformation. This is a fun Halloween read that has the potential to transform the landscape of teen fiction and identity. You can find the book here . Thank you to NetGalley for a free copy of this book in exchange for a fair review. Kelly Jarvis works as the Assistant Editor for The Fairy Tale Magazine where she writes stories, poems, essays, book reviews, and interviews. Her poetry has also been featured or is forthcoming in Blue Heron Review , Mermaids Monthly , Eternal Haunted Summer,   Forget Me Not Press, The Magic of Us, A Moon of One’s Own,   Baseball Bard , 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 . You can connect with her on Facebook (Kelly Jarvis, Author) or Instagram (@kellyjarviswriter) or find her at https://kellyjarviswriter.com/