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Editor’s note: It’s not often that EC gets a submission that includes the work of a professional artist and writer like Lauren Mills. That’s right. The adorable image, “Berry Harvest,” that goes with this delightful and unexpected poem is also by Lauren. You’re going to love this! A fever led the witch to bed, Too weak to find a cure. Her ragged breath, her aching head, No more could she endure. A healer she had been to all Who dared to seek the crone; But none would heed a witch’s call She’d face her end alone. At dusk she spied a little light Float by her garden wall. She fancied that a fairy might Be tucked inside, quite small. She rose and stumbled out her door To see what might be there, Then crawled across the leafy floor With no one there to care. Then, one by one, she watched them come From out of mist and dew. Her heart like rapid wings did hum To glimpse them as they flew. Their hair like tufts of milkweed down Was lifted by the breeze. Each gossamer and silky gown As sheer as wings of bees. They sang and played a lively reel. Those dainty feet did dance Upon the tufted chamomile, A golden-fairy prance. With fragrance as a sweet caress Into a dream serene, Her eyes half closed in drowsy bliss; She saw the strangest scene. A tiny, wounded mouse was laid Across the blossomed-bed. A mossy pillow, fairy-made, Was set beneath his head. One wrapped him in a petal shawl. One kissed his tiny cheek. With thorn removed, he stood up tall, And thanked them with a squeak. The next to come was old brown toad. They set his broken toe. His gratitude he shyly showed By croaking rather low. At last there came a chickadee, Her feathers not quite right. The fairies worked so carefully To sew them back, snug tight. And just when she began to think Of taking slumber there The fairies turned and with a wink Wove flowers in her hair. What happened next, she could not say; The tunes began to fade. By dawn’s first light they flew away. She hobbled from the glade. When she awoke upon her bed, The dew upon the lawn, With fragrant herbs around her head- Her fever? It was gone! *** Bio: Lauren A. Mills has been a visiting art professor at the University of Hartford in Connecticut and Hollins University in Virginia. She is the author and illustrator of several books for children including, The Rag Coat, The Dog Prince, Tatterhood and the Hobgoblins, and Fairy Wings which she co-illustrated with her husband, Dennis Nolan, and which won the SCBWI (Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators) Golden Kite Award. She and her husband have a grown daughter. They live with their Italian Greyhound, Ollie, in Western Massachusetts at their homestead called Faun Hollow. Lauren, a self-proclaimed Hedge Witch, grows herbs that go into her Faerie Botanica of healing teas and body care products that she makes for her family and friends.

The wind and the waves echoed her heart- constant and pure. The storm was her soul- wild and untamed... ~ A. Bergloff There is a music to storms. They are compositions that sweep over us and surprise us with their uncontrolled beauty. The wild unpredictability of storms teach us to respect the fury of nature while understanding that we are not always in control of our fates, yet we can face the storm and defy it. In this issue, we have collected four stories and four poems that explore some element of weather, from rain to wind to snow and beyond. So, please enjoy this first in our series of "weather-works" for 2022, and as always, dear readers... Stay enchanted! - Kate, Amanda and Kelly Heavy rain is dragon rain... The Water Dragons Lorraine Schein "Remember, your wits are your true magic.." The Wolf & The Wind James Dodds Wings of spun sugar, wrapped up in paper: a gift from the god.. Wings Jordan Hirsch Once a girl was born with a heart made of diamond - her skin was frosted glass.. A Heart of Diamond Rachel Nussbaum Impressive clouds race toward me sweeping up my senses... The Wizard & The Wiser Ryan E. Holman "If you wish to heal your maiden's heart, you must prove yourself its match in devotion..." The Bird From Faraway Megan Baffoe You flew beyond the borders of the World, guided only by the compass of your Heart... Too Late or Never Stephanie Parent The old tale told that the first 8 drops of water of the New Year, captured in a vial, could save them .. That Rains May Come Helen Liptak MUSIC Sharing an enchanting and atmospheric rain-inspired favorite to accompany this issue ALL COPYRIGHT to the written works in this issue belong to the individual authors. The Fairy Tale Magazine Editor-in-Chief ~ Kate Wolford Art Director ~ Amanda Bergloff Special Projects Writer ~ Kelly Jarvis Cover Illustration ~ Arthur Rackham Graphics ~ Amanda Bergloff

There once was a time when birds talked as well as sang, wells granted wishes, and rainbows spied out pots of elven gold. In that time, magic, both great and small, was commonplace among mortals adept enough to believe, understand and use it. One such person, a woman named Phaedra, dwelt at the edge of the woods, just past the tilled fields of the village, in a cozy cottage nestled under a grove of ancient trees. The villagers sought Phaedra out for cures, love potions, warding charms and her mastery of “the sight.” Phaedra’s mother was ailing. Phaedra packed a basket of food and remedies, some magical, some simple herbs. Turning to her child, she said, “Daughter, take this to your grandmother as quick as ever you can.” Her daughter, Morgan, wise beyond her ten years, snatched her scarlet cloak and hood from the hook. “Yes, mama.” As she turned to go, Phaedra pressed a small whistle into her hand. “In case of trouble, use this,” she commanded. “But remember, your wits are your true magic.” Her daughter nodded. She stepped out onto the stoop, surveyed the woods surrounding the path and set out at a trot. Her mother watched the forest shadows reach after the girl, dark forms that melted back into the woods as the girl hastened past. Morgan paused for breath where the path forked three ways. As she pondered her choice, a big wolf sauntered up. “Lost, are you?” he asked. Grinning, he padded around the girl in an ever-shrinking circle. Morgan fumbled about in her basket. The wolf stopped directly in front of her, his hungry yellow eyes all a-glow. The girl held up a morsel of meat long enough for the wolf to get a sniff, then tossed it into the air. The wolf leapt up and snap! went his jaws. Morgan pulled another tidbit out of the basket, flinging it even higher. The wolf eagerly devoured this one too. But the clever girl had fed him one of her mother’s poultice ingredients: a bundle of shredded horseradish root! The bad wolf’s eyes and nose gushed rivers. He howled in pain and dashed away, desperately seeking water. Morgan raced up the middle path. As she scampered, her hood flew back, revealing golden curls that sparkled in the sunlight. Presently she came across a little house with a thatched roof. The door stood wide open. Morgan slipped inside, quickly bolting the door after her. She whirled around to find… an empty room. No one was home. Three chairs huddled around the fireplace. Three beds stood under the back window. And three bowls of warm porridge rested on the table, issuing steam that shimmered in the air. As Morgan leaned over to sniff the porridge, the door rattled violently against the bolt. Outside, the wolf snarled, “Little girl, little girl, let me in, let me in!” Morgan’s sudden fright turned to anger. She marched to the door and firmly said, “No! You are a bad wolf! Not a tooth, not a whisker, not even a hair of yours shall enter this house.” The wolf gnashed his large teeth in rage. “Little girl,” he growled. “I can blow the leaves off the trees. I can blow the tufts off dandelions from a mile away. I will blow this door down and then gobble you up in three big bites!” He marched ten paces back from the door and began to huff and to puff. As the wolf raged outside, Morgan put her mother’s whistle to her lips. She waited until a high, keening wind buffeted the door. It shook against its hinges and the bolt quivered sharply in the bolt-hole. Taking a deep breath, Morgan blew gently on the whistle. Out of nowhere, a counter-wind smothered the wolf’s effort. She heard him grunt with surprise. Here’s a surprise, she thought. She tooted on the whistle and a sharp gust knocked the wolf head over heels. He yelped as his head struck a rock. Twice more the wolf attacked and twice more the girl beat him back. The third time, she spun in a circle, blowing the whistle as hard as she could. A whirlwind descended on the wolf, picking him up and flinging him against a tree. Morgan opened the door and peered out. The big wolf lay face down, groaning and gasping for breath. “Oh, Mr. Wolf!” she called. “You won’t be dining on me today, but there is some nice porridge here you might enjoy.” She skipped on up the path until she was out of sight. Wanting to see what the wolf did next, she ducked into the forest and crept back to the little house. Not feeling at all big or bad, the wolf crawled into the cabin. Famished, he gulped down the porridge, licking the bowls clean. Exhausted, with a full stomach, he curled up on the biggest bed and fell fast asleep. The girl was about to continue on to Grandmother’s house when three enormous shadows loomed across the path. She shrank back and fearfully watched a family of grouchy bears lumber past. Papa Bear grumbled about how hungry he was. Baby Bear couldn’t stop whining. Mama Bear cuffed Baby Bear and gritted her teeth at Papa Bear. Snarling at each other, the bears shoved through the door. Silence fell as they gazed around their home. Crouched outside the window, Morgan felt their anger spiral up until Mama Bear saw the muddy wolf on her clean bedsheets and shrieked, “You filthy beast!” The hungry bears fell on the wolf and gobbled him up. Shortly thereafter, Morgan let herself into her grandmother’s house. There, on the loom, was a half-finished love blanket, with the letters M O R already woven in. Grandmother sat up in bed and grinned at her daughter’s daughter. “Oh Grandmother, what a big smile you have!” said Morgan. James Dodds has been published in 2100: A Health Odyssey and The Avenue magazine. He bides his time on a quiet plot of land just west of Spokane, Washington. He collects original Oz books and never wavers in his search for the perfect fried chicken recipe. Cover Image: John Everett Millais Cover Design: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

(I-Ching, Hexagram 1, Yang--Immersed Dragon) "Heavy rain is dragon rain," the Chinese say. It’s not pouring cats and dogs—it’s pouring dragons today. Gripping the clouds with their black claws, their tails lash and rumble against the gray sky, releasing silver-scaled streams. When I click open my umbrella, their fiery breath pours lightning down, burning a ragged hole where the glistening rain pours through. My hair streams with rivulets like the dragons’ manes as they race above me, a fleet of pelting beasts. O to be a rain dragon, exultant in my power! Under the cleansing torrents of this wild maelstrom, I forget being human and its sorrows, I forget everything but my dragon power-- the power to heal, burst and flood away rigid paradigms. Heaven is my ocean. I growl, beat my wings, swerve up past the moon and join my clan snaking through the heavens. An aerial flotilla immersed in waves of lizard-green, glint-gold sunlight, polyp-red coral, lagoon-turquoise, all glorious in the aquatic sky, my thunder of dragons! Lorraine Schein is a New York writer. Her work has appeared in VICE Terraform, Strange Horizons, and Mermaids Monthly, and in the anthology, Tragedy Queens: Stories Inspired by Lana del Rey & Sylvia Plath.The Futurist’s Mistress, her poetry book, is available from Mayapple Press:www.mayapplepress.com Cover Image: Hokusai Cover Design: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff - Instagram: amandabergloff

Check out Kate's fabulous fairy tale finds that you can enjoy, too! This week's pick: THE BLACK FORAGER Here’s the first of what I hope will be many of “Kate’s Picks.” I was raised to shop and to consume with care and intuition (thanks Mom!), and I greatly enjoy sharing my finds. In fact, picking stories and poems and publishing them is a lot like shopping for an important meal. All of the ingredients must be chosen to work both individually and as a whole. As for food, my first official pick is the “Black Forager,” a.k.a., Alexis Nikole. This 2022 James Beard Award winner for social media influence has TikTok, Instagram and Twitter accounts—and are they ever fun and informative. Inspired by her African and indigenous roots, the Black Forager, using incredibly peppy and charmingly informative videos, teaches fans how to forage for edible foods wherever they find themselves. I’ve seen her forage, cook and eat something improbable in a one minute video. And I’ve laughed while watching her do it. For instance, look up her “daylily pickles.” She teaches you how to find the “ditch lily” buds, and how to pickle them, and of course, eat them. As a pickle fiend, they look scrumptious to me. But there are other little videos on issues like the various zoning laws that might affect the forager. As NPR reports, “For those not familiar with the term, Nelson says foraging is essentially ‘a very fun way to say, I eat plants that do not belong to me and I teach other people how to do the same thing.’” Even with all the fun, the serious issues get addressed. If you’re wondering what foraging has to do with a fairy tale site, I’ll tell you: Just how do you think all of those fairy tale protagonists sustain themselves over the long, long journeys they often have to take? Do you think they never forage for blackberries like my sisters and I did back in the ‘60s and ‘70s? Or scarfed up onion grass like my grandson does? Even Hansel and Gretel were able to find a few berries. “Foraging,” “folklore,” and “fairy tales” all start with “F” and that’s just one connection. As for Black and indigenous Americans, of course they would have supplemented their regular diet with foraging. So did white people. Foraging is a thing humans do, period. All over the world. We always have and we always will, and it’s especially beautiful to see Alexis Nikole tapping into her own roots. Nowadays, fancy restaurants take city people on foraging tours, and it’s a hot food trend. But I can’t imagine anyone delivering foraging lessons with more zeal and humor than Alexis Nikole. With her fabulous glasses, hair accessories and perfect lip color, she’s a bright spirit, delivering what you need to know with laughs, bouncy filming, and many closeups. There’s also a whole lot of wisdom and science and safety warnings delivered painlessly. Indeed, the Black Forager’s frequent video signoff is perhaps the funniest, most folkloric thing she could say: “Happy snacking. Don’t die!” I’ve linked a YouTube video on dandelions HERE, but the Black Forager is easiest to find on: TikTok @alexisnikole And Instagram @blackforager You can also find her on Twitter @blackforager Join the millions of fans who already love the Black Forager. Some bandwagons are worth jumping on and this is one of them. See you next week!

Editor's Note: Today's essay, by Priya Sridhar, takes Hans Christian Andersen's tale of "The Little Match Girl," and looks at it through a modern literary interpretation. Enjoy! Modern takes on classic fairy tales can prove fascinating when they subvert the original narrative. Whether it's differing values, updated understanding of gender and economics, and plain wanting to add a new message, you can always find a new spin on older tales. Hans Christian-Andersen (HCA) earned fame in Denmark for his fairy tales. While a few had happy endings, the more infamous ones went to the downer conclusions. HCA believed that true love was hard to find and that sometimes death is the only happiness someone can find in their quest for dignity, or for a warm bed at night. Then modern writers like Terry Pratchett would lovingly mock this, and affirm that everyone may live, getting some comfort. Matches In The Snow "The Little Match Girl" is one of the most depressing HCA tales, and that is saying something. Even the first line warns us about the depression to come: "It was so freezing." We see the title character attempt to sell matches during a cold wintry night. She has a few coverings, and while she left the house with oversized slippers, a boy stole one of them and a horse carriage accidentally knocked off the other. If she doesn't sell any matches, then her father will beat her for bringing no coins home. Rather than go home after no customer comes to help, the girl crouches between two sumptuous houses and starts lighting matches to keep warm. They show her visions of loveliness to help her cope with the cold. People ignore her while going about their commute to work, or doing the shopping. As the night gets cold, the matches show different scenes: warmth from a stove, a good Christmas meal, and a shooting star. When she sees her grandmother in heaven, the girl asks for her grandmother to take her there. HCA was not in a happy state of mind when he wrote this. You can tell that he knew how to get into the mindset of someone facing a bitter cold in winter. Hogfather Says No To This Ending In Discworld, the fantasy parody series by the late Terry Pratchett, the little match girl story plays out during a segment in both the novel and television special Hogfather. Albert and Death encounter her still body in the snow, while Death is filling in for the world's Santa Claus, the Hogfather. Death says that a little girl should not freeze in the night. He says that it is not fair, and this is a chance to right a wrong. Albert, a retired wizard, and overall cynic, tells Death that it's how the winter stories go. Going against the status quo should find disruption. Everyone romanticizes a girl freezing to death in the snow while thanking their stars that it wasn't them. Normal folks have enough food and coal to get through the night and if they don't, then at least they aren't a child freezing in the snow. They can tell stories to make up for the drafty holes in the wall. If Death weren't the Hogfather, and if not for events in previous books, he would have accepted this state of affairs. Death is not fair, and he comes for everyone. An earlier book had him chide an apprentice for saving a princess from a pre-appointed assassination, complete with smacking him on the face for insubordination. But here, Death says no. He gives life, rather than reaps it. The match girl is not a fictional character, but an actual child that he can carry in the snow. You may not see this in the film because it would have broken the budget, but the "affronted" angels show up to collect the match girl's soul and take her to heaven. Albert responds by tossing snowballs at them so they will go away. Even though Albert tells Death to let the story play out as is, he listens to his master. Unlike the original fairy tale, we see the angels attempt to complete the tale. Death asked why didn’t they come earlier, to give the child a hot drink and a blanket. He has a point and shows that he puts his money where his mouth is by picking up the child and asking several constables to give her a place to sleep for the night, and a meal. Angels are supposed to be protectors. Yet they did not protect an innocent kid. Why is it important that Albert toss snowballs at the angels? He shows them how humans feel about the cold, and how an object traditionally used for child's play can prove annoying and disruptive to a formal occasion. This is not a time to be civil, but to show anger. Add A Level Of Disruption Sometimes we cannot accept children freezing in the snow. We can't tell a crying kid, "There are starving children in Somalia, cheer up." You can't let the little match girl serve as your cautionary tale against parental abuse and thieves that steal slippers from the vulnerable. Pick up that child if you can, and change the story. Show that happiness is possible, even if difficult to reach. Instead of waiting for the angels, shoo them away, and use your powers for a new ending. Priya Sridhar has been writing fantasy and science fiction for fifteen years, and counting. Capstone published the Powered series, and Alban Lake published her works, Carousel and Neo-Mecha Mayhem. Priya lives in Miami, Florida with her family. Illustration: The Little Match Girl by Arthur Rackham

Hiking through a forest preserve, I tried to find myself hiding in dappled shadows. Hazy clouds veiled the sun, unleashed icy drizzle. A blue jay squawked, berating me for trespassing in his territory. The mist thickened. Raindrops beat a staccato patter. My teeth started to chatter, but I was too stubborn to turn back. Down the hill I trod, carefully stepping around a mound of Artomyces pyxidatus clinging to a downed log. I stroked the lacy fungi, so tasty when sautéed, but the coral crown was too perfect to pluck. An old pine tree bent and swayed, whispering, this way. Pinus strobus pointed at a creek. Her branches clacked, a swift jab in my back. The needles tickled, but I dared not laugh. All forest adventurers should respect nature, especially trees, so regal. I crept closer. Wet moss smelled like mysteries. Water gurgled over rocks, saying, come and play. I shed my boots, socks and inhibitions. Algae made the creek bed slick. Bracing cold swirled around my toes. Foam formed a face. The Nereid demanded that I dance. Dumbstruck, I swayed. Dance, she commanded. Geese flying overhead cocked their heads and honked while I pranced. I spun in a circle and fell on my ass. The Nereid vanished, but I heard her laughing with me. Alicia Hilton believes in angels and demons, magic, and monsters. Her work has appeared in Daily Science Fiction, Enchanted Conversation, Modern Haiku, Neon, Unnerving, Vastarien, Year’s Best Hardcore Horror Volumes 4, 5 & 6, and elsewhere. Her website is https://www.aliciahilton.com. Follow her on Twitter @aliciahilton01. Cover: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

There’s a scorpion in your mind, and vast fires in your eye. The sun went down ten thousand years ago, its light fell into a swallowing dark. Listen to the bell ringing over a mass grave, hear your heart stop in an ocean of silence. Hear an absolute absence, there where a frigid blue sinks into the forest. Hear the bell stop, watch the fox and the lamb fall into black shadows. Was it in this misty world where you first touched the face of grief? Do you remember those closed eyes, and that first wave of cold rain? One vision bled into the next— the first dream wove with a dark thread a death mask for the final dream . . . it was there that you were born into blind hungers and stark prayers, and it was there where you set out to find a hidden path up the mountain to the Queen of Birds in her ancient temple, where beauty’s word, one perfect word, lights the dusky chambers. Alexander Etheridge has been developing his poems and translations since 1998. His poems have been featured in Wilderness House Literary Review, Ink Sac, Cerasus Journal, The Cafe Review, The Madrigal, Abridged Magazine, Susurrus Magazine, The Journal, and many others. He was the winner of the Struck Match Poetry Prize in 1999. Cover: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff

A farmer had five sons and when he died his farm was divided into equal shares, one for each son. The sons worked hard, married, and had good harvests for several years. One year, the sons loaded their extra produce on their wagons, drove to town, and sold their crops at market. On their way home, they encountered an old woman covered in mud. She sat crying near a stream. Her wagon was turned over and most of her belongings were scattered along both sides of the stream. Her two horses were mired in the mud. The brothers, being of good heart, stopped and helped the old woman. They dug her horses from the muck and mire. They uprighted her wagon and pulled it from the steam. The oldest and youngest brother repaired two broken wheels and the other three gathered the woman’s belongings from the stream. The middle brother brought the woman water to drink and water to clean herself. They hitched the woman’s horses and then helped her into her wagon. The oldest brother said, “What a beautiful day. We fared well at market and were rewarded by helping you in your difficulties. Safe travels.” The old woman replied, “Don’t be so quick to leave. I thank you. I am not just an old woman. I am a weather witch and I would reward each of you with a boon, a wish if you will. What would you have from me?” The brothers laughed among themselves for they were ones who believed in hard work rather than witchcraft. The youngest brother said, “Let us make wishes. It will make her happy and will do us no harm.” The youngest spoke first to the witch. “I hate winter. I hate cold and I hate chopping wood. I would have no winters on my land.” The second son said, “Spring makes my eyes water and my nose run. I hate rain. I would have no spring on my land.” “Summers make me sweat. I hate heat. No summers for me.” The fourth brother complained about fall and hating the hard work that comes with the harvest. “As you will,” said the witch. The oldest brother thought carefully and asked if he might wait before requesting his favor. The witch agreed and said that he could have a year and a day to make his wish, but no more. They agreed to meet at the same spot in a year and a day. The brothers and the witch went their separate ways. A year later, the four younger brothers came to the oldest brother’s house. The youngest complained. “Without winter, the soil didn’t have time to rest and my crops were weak and died during the hot summer. We’re starving.” The second brother said, “With no spring rains, my crops wilted and died in the over-long summer.” “Without a summer, my crops were not ripened when the first killing frost came. I lost everything.” The fourth brother hung his head. “With no fall to make the harvest, my crops died when winter came.” The oldest brother had made a great harvest and had food in abundance. He welcomed his brothers and their families and promised to feed them. The youngest brother promised to work hard and even chop wood for the coming winter. The oldest brother said, “It is good that you are here for tomorrow is a year and a day since you made your wishes. Come with me. We will meet the weather witch and I will make my wish.” The next morning the five brothers met the old woman at the stream. She greeted them with great cheer. “Hast your wishes worked as you hoped.” “No, they haven’t,” said the oldest brother. “They didn’t choose well. For my boon, I ask that you restore the seasons and the weather to my brothers’ lands. Make things as they were before.” The weather witch looked at the brothers. “Would you have me cancel your wishes?” “Gratefully,” said the youngest. The witch agreed and rode away. The brothers never saw her again. The five brothers all grew good crops the next year and the year after that and for many more years. They worked hard. They rested in the winters, planted in the springs, weeded and watered in the summers, and made harvests in the fall. They never complained about the cold or the heat. They laughed in the rain, sweated in the hot sun, and marveled at the lightning and thunder. They taught their children to take the weather as it comes, for nature knows what it needs. There are reasons for the seasons. Robert Allen Lupton is retired and lives in New Mexico where he is a commercial hot air balloon pilot. Robert runs and writes every day, but not necessarily in that order. Over 180 of his short stories have been published in various anthologies. His novel, Foxborn, was published in April 2017 and the sequel, Dragonborn, in June 2018. His third novel, “Dejanna of the Double Star’ was published in the fall of 2019 as was his anthology, “Feral, It Takes a Forest”. He has four short story collections, “Running Into Trouble,” “Through A Wine Glass Darkly,” “Strong Spirits,” and the newest story collection, “Hello Darkness,” was released on February 14, 2022. All eight books are available from Amazon. Cover: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

The month of April passed without any showers elf tears do not suffice so May flowers struggle where shall bees and faeries flit and pirouette now Plastic iron radio waves proud symbols of mankind’s progress modern wards to keep the fae at bay letting us safely watch TikTok somewhere a puckish garden grows a refuge from technology and its child metamodern angst far from this dull castle and cage Please accept this offering my soul yearns for rain’s kind caress TS S. Fulk lives with his family in Örebro, Sweden as an English teacher and textbook author. TS S. Fulk also plays bass trombone, the mountain dulcimer and the Swedish dulcimer (hummel). His poetry has been (or will be) published by BeZine, The Button Eye Review, Perennial Press, and more. Cover: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

Sunny days are my favorite You’re always full of energy on sunny days. We fly together, up into the light; I can never keep up You fly higher, faster than me So fast I think I’ll lose you among the clouds Worry you might forget I’m following. But the worry is a piffling thing Outmatched by the joy. I love sunny days. Cloudy days are harder Especially when it’s cold and the nights are long Longer still, like shadows cast by the moon Gloom and doom whisper together through the deep, powdery snow. We don’t fly together on cloudy days. Sometimes you don’t fly at all. When I come to check on you, you’re in your nest. No flying, no singing on cloudy days. I bring you worms, try to shine like the sun myself. You’re glad of it, but there’s no substitute for the light. The clouds, the gray, drag at my soul Drag it back to earth, ground it Where I know yours is. But the cloudy days don’t bother me so much Even when I can’t help you sing or fly Because I know another sunny day will come And you’ll fly higher and faster than I ever can. The bliss you have, flying among golden rays Sunny days are my favorite. Jason P. Burnham is an infectious diseases physician and clinical researcher. He loves many things, among them sci-fi, his wife, sons, and dog, metal music, Rancho Gordo beans, and equality (not necessarily in that order). Cover: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

A very long time ago a huntsman and his young wife lived in a small cottage by the forest. The huntsman and his wife wanted to have a child, but though they tried for many years, they remained childless. One day news came to them from a nearby village of a woman found living in a small cottage in the forest. This witch, for so she was called by the people of the village, could speak with the spirits of the dead during heavy rains and would grant favors to those who came to her in the wet dark. The huntsman begged his wife not to visit the witch. It was said that beyond the black forest there was a land of dead spirits, and that those who traveled there would be filled with dark and dangerous magic, but the wife was so overcome with her desire for a child that one morning when he was out hunting, and a heavy rain welled up suddenly in the sky, she traveled into the forest alone. She came upon a small shamble of a cottage set around a willow tree so ancient and thick that the rain could not slip through its leaves. When the wife knocked at the door of the cottage, a gnarled woman answered, her body bent and twisted and her skin holding the pallor of death. The wife was nearly overcome with fear, but her desire was so great that she found herself being led into the cottage where the witch agreed to help the huntsman’s wife conceive a child. In return, the witch asked a promise of the young wife. She would have to give her word that when the witch came for her she would leave her family and travel to the land of the dead. The huntsman’s wife was grieved to make such a promise, but so great was her desire for a child that she agreed and left the witch’s cottage with a magical draught. She was surprised to find the heavy rain halted and sunshine slipping through the heavy canopy of leaves as she walked. That night, before her husband could ask what she had done, the wife drank the draught and took her husband to bed. That very night they conceived a daughter and, overjoyed, the young wife forgot the promise she had made to the witch in the forest, but on the very night their daughter was born the rain welled up heavy and hard against the thatch of their cottage. That night, the witch arrived and forced the huntsman’s wife to keep their bargain. Leaving the newborn with its father, the wife left her family and traveled to the land of the dead, never to return. As the weeks passed the huntsman’s heart grew cold. He resented his newborn daughter. Her cries and needs. Her resemblance to his lost wife. One evening he woke to her cries and called out, “I wish you were a stone, and could be put out and forgotten.” Then he fed the child and returned to bed. When he woke in the morning there was a large round stone where his daughter had been. The huntsman sat the stone in the garden that had been his wife’s pleasure, and though he did not truly forget, the years that passed dulled the huntsman’s pain as it dulled his memory. Eventually the huntsman remarried, and with his second wife conceived a son who brought joy and warmth back to his father’s heart. When the boy was five years old, however, the huntsman’s new wife was also taken to the land of the dead. After her death, the huntsman grew afraid even of a light rain and locked his son inside their cottage, fearing that the world would take his one last pleasure. The boy grew strong in the cottage, but he also grew very lonely with only his father as company. Many times he tried to escape. Through his window he could see the world outside, but he could only open the window enough to breathe in the clear air and never enough that his small body could fit through. Every day he would stare out his window to their little garden and the forest beyond and wish for friends to care for him. One day during a light rain, while his father was out hunting, a pale and gnarled woman appeared at his window. Excited to see someone new, even if her visage was terrifying, the boy rushed to open the window wide to speak to her. To his surprise the woman only passed him a large stone through the open window. It was a stone from the garden, one that he had stared at many times but never really thought of. “Make your wish upon the stone,” the woman said, “and you shall have someone to care for you.” The boy, who had been warned about dangerous witches by his father, was wary, but his desire for a friend was so strong that as soon as the woman had gone, he sat the stone down on his small bed and wished for it to become a friend. Immediately the stone began to transform, and soon became his sister, now grown to a young woman. When the huntsman returned home, he was met by his son and his daughter. At the sight of the young woman who now looked so much like his first young wife, the huntsman’s heart was overcome, and he begged to be forgiven. His daughter, rather than see him in such agony, only said; “I wish you were a raven, so that you could fly far from here to be again with those you have lost.” Immediately, the huntsman was transformed into a raven. He flew from the open window and crossed the forest to the land of the dead, and when he had gone the stone-sister and her brother lived together in happiness. Betty Stanton (she/her) is a writer who lives and works in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in various journals and collections and has been included in anthologies from Dos Gatos Press and Picaroon Poetry Press. She received her MFA from The University of Texas - El Paso. Cover: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff