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When you're traveling east of the sun And west of the moon You’re always late Racing against time The elements and Fate There is no map but your body And the marks upon it: The raw red stripe across your wrist Where the tallow seared you Along with the lover you Lost The knots in your hair Where the east and west and south Winds whipped it round your face Plastered it over your eyes Till you were blind to all but The storm whirring, stirring your Insides The blue burns where the north wind nearly Dropped you in the cold, roiling ocean And the water froze the tips of your Toes And still you clung to the back of the Wind; you flew beyond the borders of the World, guided only by the compass of your Heart Till you landed at the castle where your Selfless love, your selfish wishes, your Foolish errors all slept, together, waiting For you to free them Free him—your bear prince, brutal Animal and gentle lover, the one you Desired and the mirror image of Yourself You had slept with this tender monster Of your heart for so long Believing yourself blind in Darkness, not understanding You needed no candlelight to see You did not learn the truth Till you had journeyed east of the sun And west of the moon To the castle at the end of the world The truth— Only you possess the power To rescue him, to rescue you To wash clean the old stains, mistakes, selfish Foolish things you had to do, the trip You had to take— Only you And so you should never have worried. No Matter how long the journey, you Would never be too Late Stephanie Parent is a graduate of the Master of Professional Writing program at USC. Her poetry has been nominated for a Rhysling Award and Best of the Net. Cover Design: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

They say long ago when this land was still barren and dry, there was a girl who was born with a heart made of diamond. Her skin was like that of frosted glass, and as her mother gazed down at her daughter, she could see it clear as day. A diamond heart, shimmering as it pumped liquid gem blood throughout the newborn's body. The midwives and the clerics who assisted with the birth were awed by the sight, and word quickly spread. Soon, people all across the land knew about the little baby girl with a diamond heart. But word travels across all circles, good and bad. When bad men heard the stories, many of them spoke of finding the girl and cutting out her valuable heart. Whispers carried back to the child’s mother and father, who were very worried for their daughter. They prayed to the Gods in the Sun and the Moon to protect their baby girl. The gods heard the parent’s prayers, but gods have a reputation for being merciless and absolute, and the Gods in the Sun and the Moon were no exception. Gods are powerful, and although they could not take away or change the girl's heart because it was a part of her, they could give her the power to defend herself. They came down to the baby girl one night and they filled her with poison. “Her diamond heart is far too pure for her to ever willingly use this, even against those who wish to harm her.” The God in the Sun said. “Then we will give her sharp nails and teeth that will excrete the poison, and we will turn her skin into poison as well. And anyone who will touch her will die a horrible, painful death,” the God in the Moon nodded. So the little girl grew up, but as she grew, she changed. Her fingers split open into poisonous barbs, and her teeth grew into long fangs that dripped venom. Her skin became like sandpaper, coarse and sharp, every inch of it poison to the touch. The tears that poured from the girl's eyes when her mother could no longer hold her were poison. And the cold sweat that dripped from her pores as she rocked herself to sleep alone at night were poison. And she looked up at the sky at night and begged the God in the Moon to take the poison away, and she’d look up during the day and beg the God in the Sun the same, but the Gods couldn’t take away or change her poison because it was a part of her now. They turned their backs on the girl, content that if nothing else, she was now safe from the bad men who wanted to steal her heart. The bad men who came for her died, but so did her friends that reached out to comfort her, and her lovers who were desperate to hold her. She lived a life of sadness and longing, and she cursed the gods for afflicting her with a poison that took everything from her. One day when the loneliness was too much, the girl threw herself down into a stony creek, and she broke her neck on the rocks. And all that poison she was filled with trickled out of her eyes along with her tears. Yet even after death, even after rot, her tears still trickled out. And when they evaporated in the light of day and weighed heavy in the clouds above, those same tears rained back down to the lands, harder than any storm we’d ever seen. Finally free of the poison that plagued her tears in life, in death, the girl’s tears hit the earth far too pure to cause any harm. Instead they quenched the barren soil and breathed life into it. Soon grass grew, and then trees. Then forests, stretching for hundreds of miles, tall and full of life. They say it’s the girl's spirit in her tears that makes the towering trees of this land twist to block out the Sun and the Moon, the Gods that cursed her and turned their backs on her. And they say that somewhere at the bottom of the swamp, her poisonless body still cries, cradling a heart of diamond no one ever knew. Cover Design: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

Long ago in a far-off land Elizabeta Drominichka lived with her ailing mother on the edge of a starving village. For months rain passed them by as villagers sickened and died, picked off by famine, disease and thirst. Somehow Elizabeta kept herself and her mother alive by sheer force of will. With her mother failing, her crops wilting and their pigs afflicted with the wasting disease, Elizabeta grew desperate enough to believe the old tale that the first eight drops of water presented by the New Year and gathered in a vial would stave off drought, famine and pestilence. But which eight raindrops are the first? And how to gather them? Deciding she had nothing to lose by trying to harness the power of the stories, Elizabeta unearthed an old, cracked crystal vial. On the very first day in the new year, she left her small home to search the sky for any clouds that might bring rain. A week went by. Two weeks. Three weeks. The land remained as dry as her teacher’s heart while her mother coughed in her bed and the pigs dwindled to resemble paper cut outs, but Elizabeta persevered. Each night she returned home, exhausted and discouraged, but the following morning after her chores she set out again, receptacle in hand, scouring the skies for any small cloud that might contain eight drops of rain. Alas, it continued fruitless. The villagers mocked and scorned her pursuit but Elizabeta refused to care. What harm was she doing? What other hope did she have for her beloved mother? She swallowed her sorrow instead of bread so as not to alarm her mother when she fed her the last of their supplies. She kept vigil for the desperately needed raindrops, watching the heavens, staying up late and rising early in her quest for showers. But it was as if the weather, too, made game of her. One day as Elizibeta ventured outside seeking some sign of precipitation, a stranger rode up on an adorable gray-brown donkey. It was such a merry little beast Elizabeta forgot her trials to laugh with pure pleasure at its twitching ears and soft back. So caught up in admiring the donkey was she, that she hardly noticed the sharp faced lad on its back. “What do you mean, staring so rudely at me?” the visitor snapped. “Do you scorn me like the rude villagers do?” Elizabeta stammered her reply, “I-I did not mean to give offense. I was just admiring your steed.” “That’s alright, then,” he answered. “He is the best donkey in the kingdom.” “Certainly! The finest one I’ve ever seen.” Elizabeta did not explain that he was the only one she had ever seen. The young man leapt off his mount, peppering her with questions while the donkey nibbled at the sparse grass. After a bit the he asked about the vial with its stopper. Elizabeta hesitated to try to explain her hopes and fears but the stranger was so persistent and so interested she finally told him her plan to gather the first eight drops of the new year. “Must they be from here?” he asked. Elizabeta didn’t know. The prophecy was none too clear on the finer points of geography so when the youth offered to take her with him on the donkey’s back to chase clouds farther away, she dared hope the drops could be from anywhere. With no thought for her own safety, she agreed to go with him to pursue a particularly promising cluster of clouds blowing toward the western border. The little donkey obligingly carried the pair after the darkening skies. The miles passed and the day grew late as they talked and sought the rain, until at last Elizabeta knew she must go home to care for her mother and find something to feed her pigs. With no raindrops but a heart somewhat lightened by friendship, a sorrowful but determined Elizabeta returned to her house. When she thanked her companion and his donkey, he promised to fetch her again the next day. Each day they chased the promise of rain as the pigs grew thinner and her mother coughed and the crops wilted away to nothing, until one day the lad arrived to find Elizabeta slumped on the cottage step, trying very hard not to cry. “What is it?” he asked. “My mother will not last the night, my pigs are so thin, you can see through them and the crops are brown stubble. I have no strength to carry on.” Her companion gathered her in his arms as tears began to leak down her face. To her amazement, he pushed her away and grabbed her crystal vial, unstoppering it to catch the first eight teardrops that escaped her eyes. Immediately, a gentle benediction of rain began to drop on the crops. The pigs shook off their lethargy to snuffle for mushrooms springing up in the damp. Her mother’s voice, stronger than it had sounded in ages, called out in relief. With a shout of joy Elizabeta jumped up and hugged her friend. Imagine her amazement to find the beggarly fellow changed into a handsome prince and his donkey into a noble steed. She gasped in shock and stared, speechless. “I am brother to the storm and cousin to the earth. I have the power to help those who put others first. You have sacrificed and striven, never once asking a thing for yourself. When your mother is well and your pigs fat and your crops ripe, I will return and take you with me to meet my family. Together we will return peace and plenty to our land.” And they did. Helen Liptak has written over twenty young adult comedy/dramas and three books. After living in six states and three countries, immersed in middle school culture for more years than she would care to mention, she now weaves her stories in South Carolina. Cover Design: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

Wings of spun sugar, wrapped up in paper: a gift from the god who lived down the river. His increasing favor had grown even greater, intentions made known with sprawling curled letters: “It’s true, you are sweeter than all other creatures. My bird, won’t you sail through my sky on these feathers? But when there is thunder or the sky’s clouded over, go home right away where you’ll be warm and safer.” So when skies were clear, I’d don crystal feathers, eyes on the horizon for clouds taking over. I’d soar, and I’d hover over meadows of clover leaves of forest below like waves of the water. But when I’d stray farther than I had ever, I’d hurry back home as blue skies turned grayer. It never did matter just how nice the weather was before leaving; it always turned sour. One day I discovered with my candy feathers, a place more beautiful than my mind could muster. Landing with a bluster, I entered the cavern and there in the dark found the nest of some creature. Off over my shoulder I heard distant thunder, but there was plenty of time to fly home, I figured. Her wings were of ochre; they spread from her shoulders. She guarded her eggs with the strength of a mother. Her eyes burned with fervor at my wings made of sugar, and I saw in her gaze questions I couldn’t answer. The thunder boomed closer, calling for my departure, so I took to the sky as the wind became quicker. I flew with on vigor and just a few prayers to bring me home safely as the storm quickly gathered. But soon came the downpour, and I landed in terror as my wings began melting into puddles of sugar. I walked home in slippers then my cheeks grew redder embarrassed to find in my cabin, a visitor. “You can’t fly in this weather-- did you not remember?” His words rang out harshly as his eyes shaded darker. “I’ll make you a new pair,” he said through his temper. “But you have to stay grounded during inclement weather.” So I smiled sweeter than any smile prior, and I promised obedience while crossing my fingers. Then alone by the fire, my soul burned with anger, for he is the god who sends rain on the farmers. Six rainy days later, new wings wrapped in paper arrived at my door, fragile feathers of sugar. Veiled gifts from a lover-- no, gaslighting imprisoner. Sugar wings are a cage, just a gold-gilded tether. I waited till after his eyes seemed to wander And then I flew off in the sun to revisit the creature. She bid me come closer letting me study her: grown her eggs and her wings both apart from another. Maybe that was the answer to my gold-gilded tether. Cut it myself-- then it started to thunder. Lifting up in the air, candy wings beating faster, I now knew what to do all thanks to my teacher. Feet landing on clover it started to downpour, and I doffed candy wings throwing them in the river. Reaching for my interior, I felt waiting, a flutter --something bold and alive that’d been with me forever. I gasped out in labor, but the pain was an anchor as they sprout from my back-- something harder than sugar. They were longer and stronger than any god’s favor. The wings of my flesh shook and flung off the water. With my own wings unhindered, my feet left the clover lifting me in the air without even a stutter. That god up the river called me his bird, only sweeter. What he didn’t realize is I’m some other creature. I have grown my own savior from deep in my shoulders. Now I fly untethered in sun or in rain. Jordan Hirsch writes speculative fiction and poetry in Saint Paul, MN, where she lives with her husband. Her work has appeared with Apparition Literary Magazine, Octavos, and other venues. Find her on Twitter: @jordanrhirsch. Cover Design: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

There once lived a maiden who wanted for almost nothing. She was kind and clever and beautiful, with thick curling hair and lashes like the wings of a bird. She slept every night beneath silk sheets on a feather-stuffed mattress, and in her tower-room there was all manner of books, an array of wonderful instruments, and a wardrobe full of gowns sewn so beautifully that you would gasp to look at them. But despite all this, her heart was very heavy; for her father, who provided all these things, had ensured that it was all she knew in the world. The room was inside a great tower of emerald, which lay behind thick walls of granite, and several iron doors. She never had a visitor, for fear they would take her away, so spent her days entrapped and mostly alone. As the young maiden grew older, she grew more and more depressed. She stopped her reading, her playing, and her embroidery, instead spending all her time staring out of her solitary window. Her father had ordered gardens to be grown, thinking that the views would bring her pleasure, but they were more of a torment; she wanted desperately to be amongst the flowers, but could only make do with bouquets that her handmaidens gathered for her. Some of them dared to plead with their master, suggesting that his daughter was growing dangerously unhappy, but he was a hard-hearted man and ignored them all. Winter that year was crueler than ever, and all the garden was soon buried beneath ice and snow; still, the maiden liked to look upon it, and think about being free. One day, as she was watching as she always did, she noticed a bird lying amongst the snow; it was brightly colored, and looked to be from a warmer place. It was lying quite still. When she saw the animal, the maiden entreated one of her servants to bring it into the tower-room, and they abided by her request. She was enchanted with the creature, and nursed and spoke to it all through the Winter. But once the crocuses began to break through the white again, and the Sun began to shine, the maiden had it released. The loss of her confidant made her weep, but she would never inflict entrapment upon another. Little did she know, her affections were returned; the bird was not just a bird, but a Prince of a faraway country, and he felt equally devoted to the maiden that had saved his life. Knowing of her desire to be free and amongst others, he returned often to the tower, bringing her flowers and fruits from foreign gardens, or trinkets from bustling market-places; but he could not take the maiden with him, although the two of them wanted it dearly. Seeing her sadness, and feeling his own, the Prince finally decided to consult a witch— a clever and formidable woman, that he had learnt of during his travels. “If you wish to heal your maiden’s heart,” she instructed him, “you must prove yourself its match in devotion. The warm months have nearly left us; you must spend the colder ones with me. When the Snow falls, you will gather up all the flowers in my garden, and send them to your maiden with instructions to spin them into a gown for her to wear. When the garment is complete, she should put it on, and then you will have your wish.” The Prince’s men said that she was mad, and that flowers would barely grow in the Snow; but the Prince agreed to spend the Winter with her. Her garden was larger than he had ever seen, with all manner of strange herbs and plants in it. She told him to ignore all those, however, and simply wait for the Snow. So, he did – and, you can imagine his surprise, that every time a drop touched the ground, from it sprung a cloud-like flower, with a silver stem all covered in thorns! They made a wondrous sight, but the Prince did not let his amazement deter him. Their thorns pricked him until he bled, and the weather turned his fingers first red and then purple with the cold; but every day, he gathered so many that he had to call upon many common birds, doves and crows and sparrows, to help deliver the flowers to the maiden. She was amazed at the sight of so many birds, and more still by the strange flowers, and the instructions; but, desperate for her freedom, and suspecting now that her bird was much more than that, she matched her Prince in diligence. She and her hand-maidens began work at once, spinning a beautiful dress that was soft and sparkling as snow. When it was finished, she sent word back to the Prince with a dove. When he received the letter, the Prince hastened to the tower, stopping only to thank the witch, leaving her presents of gold and jewels. The maiden was waiting for him, and when she saw him in the distance, she asked that she be helped into her dress. Once on, the Snow-gown melted, and she with it; flesh became feathers, and she a silver bird, with wings that stretched as widely as the Prince's. And so, the tower could not hold her— the two of them soared out the window, free birds at last. They descended to his homeland under the light of the Sun, where they were pronounced King and Queen; and, still, the people say, sometimes you will see them flying together as birds, away to beautiful and faraway lands. Megan Baffoe is an emerging freelance writer currently pursuing English Language and Literature at Oxford University. She is keeping track of her published work http://meganspublished.tumblr.com. Cover Design: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

I wandered in the desert until I found my way to an astrologer. She told me to seek a Virgo; instead, I seem to have found virga. Impressive clouds race toward me sweeping up my senses stoking my anticipation until at last rain falls toward the cracked, impatient ground. But then it stops. Halfway down the sky the rain evaporates hanging like ribbons tauntingly close yet still out of reach. I tire of building walls on which to stand to try and quench my thirst. I tire of wandering with my eyes wanting an oasis so badly that I hallucinate; I tire of the tantalizing mirage, lush and green yet having neither depth nor substance. If you want me, I will be here, continuing to chart my path by the positions of the stars and moon. But I will not spend energy to scale walls that will never reach your raindrops regardless of how much I desire to drink. Ryan E. Holman has published poetry in the Silver Spring/Takoma Park Voice and was featured thrice in the Third Thursday Takoma Park Reading Series. In 2016 and 2021, she won third prize in the Baltimore Science Fiction Society’s poetry contest. Ryan lives in the Washington, DC area. Cover Design: Amanda Bergloff Twitter @AmandaBergloff Instagram: amandabergloff

Editor's Note: We have a delightful essay on wishing today by our very own Kelly Jarvis. She does a deep dive into wishing in popular culture. Wishing is always in season. When my boys were little, they would run through the fields of late spring and early summer gathering fistfuls of dandelion stalks to use for wishing. Once they had plucked all they could carry, they would blow on the stems, sending their wishes into the air with each downy white seed that flurried across the breeze. On winter evenings, when another form of soft white magic was blown down from the sky, my boys would search the horizon for the first star and wish for a “Snow Day” filled with the hot cocoa taste of freedom from school. Wishing is always in season in fairy tales, too. While fairy tale variants shape and reflect the cultural conditions of the places they are told, the act of wishing is a universal quality of the stories, emerging in collected oral tales, literary renditions, and 21st century films. Snow White and Sleeping Beauty both famously begin with the wish for a child, and the wished-for children of fairy tales soon grow up to make wishes of their own, even when, in the case of Charles Perrault’s Cinderella, they are unable to articulate exactly what they are wishing for. Wishing is central to the contemporary fairy tales of Walt Disney which has turned a genie, a blue fairy, and an evening star into animated wish fulfillers. Perhaps most famous of all is their unique presentation of a kind-hearted fairy godmother, a construct most recently explored by the film, Godmothered, which attempts to give the donor character of fairy tale fame a turn in the title role. Even Disney soundtracks are full of memorable songs about wishing and wanting, and the theme park’s popular fireworks show, Wishes, ran for an unprecedented thirteen years. Although Disney may put its trademark “happily ever after” spin on the act of wishing, many traditional tales, gathered under the Aarne-Thompson-Uther Index 750A The Foolish Wishes, caution against the folly of wishing and imply that wishers often end up worse than they began. In The Three Wishes, a version of the tale collected by Joseph Jacobs, a poor woodcutter is offered three wishes in exchange for sparing a forest tree from his axe. That evening, tired and hungry after a long day’s work, he wishes for a link of black pudding which magically appears before him. When his wife realizes he has squandered a precious wish, she angrily wishes for the black pudding to be stuck to the end of his nose, and the couple is forced to use the third wish to set everything back to the way it was. The variants of this fairy tale have been explored in depth, and its pattern inspired the short horror story The Monkey’s Paw, published in 1902 by W.W. Jacobs. Each version ends by exposing the folly of humanity and the dangers inherent in the act of wishing. In spite of the dangers, wishing persists, spurred on season after season by folklore. People have thrown their wishes into wells, tied them to trees with colorful ribbons, and released them into the sky with the soft glow of lanterns. People have imbued ordinary objects with magical powers, turning ladybugs, lamps, clovers, and candles into instruments of achieving desire. Some say wishing should take place at a specific time of the year, like a birthday, when the smoke from blown-out candles carries wishes up to heaven, and others say wishing is best done at random times, like the moment the first red-breasted robin of spring alights on the lawn. New wish-making rituals are constantly being created and circulated within family structures; my older sister taught me to make wishes on watermelon seeds. On the hazy summer days of our childhood, we would each make three different wishes on three juicy watermelon seeds, sticking them on our foreheads to dry slowly in the hot sun. Only the seeds which stayed on our heads the longest would grant us the wishes we had made upon them, and we giggled, our fingers crossed for luck, as the seeds slowly shifted and slid down our sweaty faces taking our little girl dreams with them. One October day when my son was four years old, I told him that he could make a wish upon a falling leaf if he could catch it before it hit the ground. A breeze was blustering around us, and my little boy, who loved the wish-filled fairy tale Aladdin, ran back and forth for hours under the plummeting leaves, stretching his hands toward the magic foliage he believed would grant him his cave of wonders. The task was not easy, but by the afternoon’s end, my son had two crinkling wishes clutched tight in his hands, and he leaned close to whisper them into my ear. His first wish was to have all the toys he had ever dreamed of having, but his second wish surprised me. “I wish for you to have all the beautiful things, Mommy”, he said, unable to articulate exactly what those things might be. The dying sunlight slipped through butterscotch-stained leaves and danced in his amber eyes as he spoke, and I marveled at how quickly his wish had come true; in that precious moment when my little boy used his second wish for me, I was surrounded by the most beautiful things I could imagine. Perhaps wishing is always in season because we have so few seasons together on this earth. Wishes may seem trivial, but they also give voice to our deepest desires, our innermost longings, and our human yearning for something more than the mortal life we have been given. The act of wishing is an astounding expression of faith in the design of the universe, giving us hope that something as common as a leaf, a seed, or a star in the sky just might be the magical object that will season our days with beauty and make our wishes, and the wishes of those we love, come true. Kelly Jarvis teaches classes in literature, writing, and fairy tale at Central Connecticut State University, The University of Connecticut, and Tunxis Community College. She lives, happily ever after, with her husband and three sons in a house filled with fairy tale books. She is also Enchanted Conversation’s special project’s writer.

Editor's Note: We have an original bonus poem for the month to share with our readers today! Author Avra Margariti's wondrous poetry makes us want to wander an apothecary shop and discover its secrets... When I was the baker and the butcher’s daughter I never once visited the forest where lost princes or peasants fall in bramble patches, frozen ponds, early graves, where tree boughs claw and bleed you dry, and fairytales go to die, happy endings like pulling rotten teeth. When I was my parents’ child, I shied away from the city, with its dubious characters and roaring automobiles, its electric lights and dawns of progress of what a girl can do, or be. A witch visited my parents’ conjoined shops one day. After watching me work with gimlet gaze, she left me a book, although I told her I could knead dough and pluck chickens but could scarcely spell my own name. You know where to find me, the witch said nestled in her skirts, the scent of lavender and thyme, the stink of smog and petroleum. I traced my name in the fungi section, later. Amanita, she of agaric mycelia and fruiting bodies. Mushrooms that can kill, as easily as cure. When I devoured every word and illustration, the ink swirls memorized even after the book was snatched from my hands and thrown in the oven, when I could no longer call myself my parents’ daughter, I retraced the witch’s footsteps through the forest. I followed the scent of lavender, of thyme, nothing to my name but the rags on my back. I slept in rabbit warrens and badger burrows, supped on the leaves and bulbs deemed edible by the witch’s botanical grimoire, avoiding the conniving camouflage of poison. I dressed my blisters in natural salve and gauze, my scratches I smeared with honey. When at last I caught the subtle scent of smoke and oil, it led to a little shop tucked between the city and the forest, anathema to both my parents’ superstitions. The witch stood behind the apothecary’s worktable, before an astringent array of phials and tins. Child, the witch said, looking up from pestle and mortar, Amanita, are you ready to learn my craft? When every particle of me wanted to protest, say I’m not good nor smart enough, I’m not made of the stuff of cunning folk, I hushed the aching parts of me with promises of healing. I stepped farther into the pharmacopoetic altar, the witch welcoming me inside her herbaceous citadel. Avra Margariti is a queer author, Greek sea monster, and Pushcart-nominated poet with a fondness for the dark and the darling. Avra’s work haunts publications such as Vastarien, Asimov’s, Liminality, Arsenika, The Future Fire, Space and Time, Eye to the Telescope, and Glittership. “The Saint of Witches”, Avra’s debut collection of horror poetry, is forthcoming from Weasel Press. You can find Avra on twitter (@avramargariti).

Today's interviewee for our Enchanted Creators series is a true powerhouse of creative ability. She paints, she illustrates, she writes, she sculpts and she’s won awards for all four. You may recognize Lauren Mills’ beautifully illustrated versions of ‘Anne of Green Gables’ and ‘At the Back of the North Wind’. Or maybe ‘The Rag Coat’ and ‘Fairy Wings’ - original tales that she wrote and illustrated herself (the latter co-illustrated with husband, Denis Nolan). One thing you should know above all else is that Lauren’s work sparkles with magic, and a lifelong adoration of fairy tales resonates through every piece she creates. Browsing through her extensive gallery is like taking an idyllic wander through The Secret Garden - every glance reveals fantasy, delicacy and wonder. You too can immerse yourself, right here. Our favorite of course has to be the poem: ‘The Hedge Witch and the Fairies’, which Lauren penned and illustrated especially for Enchanted Conversation - but you’ll hear more about that, later. It was an absolute honor to interview Lauren; she’s kind, thoughtful and beholds a unique talent. Please don’t hesitate to read on, you won’t be disappointed... First of all, Lauren, thank you so much for agreeing to chat with Enchanted Conversation; we are so excited to learn more about you and your incredible work! I’m going to jump straight in with the big question: which fairytale is your favorite and why? Ha! That’s a tough one! As far as images I love Snow White… her black hair, rose cheeks and snow white face and mostly because of all the little dwarves. I love painting crinkly, old character faces and I loved playing with trolls as a child - my mother used to make Tomtens. Little old people (elves, gnomes) are adorable to me. That is one reason I chose to retell “Tatterhood and the Hobgoblins”. I also love that story - the mysterious birth, the love between two very different sisters and the spunkiness of Tatterhood. And like Tatterhood, I had goats and ate with a wooden spoon when I was a student in California. That picture book (story) I did also seems to have meant the most to many young girls who felt different and have told me it helped them get through their childhood. I also love Beauty and the Beast because I think it’s so romantic. You mentioned in a previous interview (https://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2016/02/06/illustrator-saturday-lauren-mills/) that, as a young teen, you were greatly inspired by Nancy Ekholm Burkert’s ‘Snow White’. What was it about Burket’s illustrations that affected you so? Do you have an affinity for Snow White? I absolutely love the delicate technique Burkert used - I especially love the cover - She painted with colored inks, applied in tiny lines. Her Snow White cover also looks like my late sister who owned the book when I first saw it and it also looks like my daughter. It’s still my favorite book cover and I have the poster hanging in my studio. You’ve written and illustrated countless tales and painted and sculpted beautiful works of art, but do you have a favorite project that you’ve worked on? If so, why is it your favorite? Oh, I couldn’t choose… and that’s my problem. It’s usually my recent work. I’ve recently sculpted a little girl from Sandy Hook who wanted to grow up to have an animal sanctuary and used to tell butterflies, “Tell all your friends that I am kind.” I also wrote a picture book about her, which I just submitted to a publisher and am crossing my fingers. I’m crossing my fingers that we can sell 10 editions of the small sculpture to fund the life size sculpture that will be installed at the animal sanctuary named after the little girl: “The Catherine Violet Hubbard Animal Sanctuary”. I’m also enjoying painting in oil using gold or silver leaf in a 19th century PreRaphaelite style. I’d like to be as good as my heroes but the idea of doing a painting just to hang in a gallery and hope someone will buy it isn’t as enticing as doing paintings that tell a story and go together in a book that reaches many people - so that is why I’m excited about venues like Enchanted Conversation. There hasn’t been a market in years for fairy tales in the children’s picture book world, but maybe there will be for people like us! Your sculptures range from life-like portraits, such as ‘Appalachian Woman’ to more whimsical figures, like ‘Legacy’. How do you capture that sense of magic in the latter? That’s interesting that you picked up on that. “Legacy” was originally a young fairy girl dancing with a little boy and it was illustrating Yeats’ poem, “The Stolen Child”. I submitted it for consideration for the Winona Lake Park in Indiana that needed sculptures for various themes. They wanted to use that sculpture for the “Legacy” theme and asked if I’d change the girl to a grandma. So, I sculpted another that way. Even in my sculpture I’m illustrating fairy stories. When you’re not writing/painting/sculpting/illustrating, how do you relax or unwind? I read fairy tales… from Enchanted Conversation and books about witches. And I spend a lot of time with my three Italian Greyhounds - two are puppies. My partner, Dennis Nolan, and I like to take walks in the woods; we are surrounded by hundreds of wooded acres and see a lot of wildlife. And I garden and make herbal concoctions. I especially like to make fairy mists and ointments with Sandalwood essential oil. You wrote and illustrated the stunning poem, ‘The Hedge Witch and the Fairies’, for Enchanted Conversation, which we and our readership absolutely loved! What was your inspiration for writing the poem? I had originally written it in first person from a child’s point of view, but when I changed it to a hedge witch, and [wrote in] third person, it really became a much better story. I liked the idea that she helped so many people (and probably animals) with little thanks but then thought there was no one who would come help her when she was ill, but the fairies had been watching and came to miraculously cure her… or I imagined that mothers and children came and helped her and she dreamt it was the fairies. I think someday I will be alone and people will gossip about that crazy witch in the woods who feeds all the chipmunks and the chickadees that eat out of her hand and the bear sometimes secretly watches from the woods and comes and steals the seeds. As a self-proclaimed hedge witch, can you tell us a little more about the practice and how it is incorporated into your day-to-day life? I grow roses, chamomile, echinacea, and lots of other herbs and make teas, tinctures, oils, creams, etc… But as I mentioned, I’m most attracted to the scented mists and body care. I also love to paint flowers. I would like to do a Grimoire - some sort of illustrated, calligraphed Faerie Botanica Notebook. Lots of plans and dreams and not enough time in the day. However, living like hermits now here at “Faun Hollow” in the woods - during a pandemic with my favorite places to go closed - does tend to slow down time a bit and helps me feel more creative. I like that no one will come inside the house which means I can leave messes and projects and herbs and puppy stuff about and not brush my hair if I’m too busy. You’ve been on quite a journey to get where you are today, do you have any advice for budding creatives hoping to make it - especially in this digital age? Yes - I would give the same advice I give to my daughter, students, and to myself: create every day because you can and because you love it. Making a living from your creativity has nothing to do with being a successful artist (writer or whatever). It doesn’t matter how you make money to pay your bills… just make sure you don’t stop being creative and someday your love for it will attract others to your work. I like the quote by John Burton, “It is the love of the process that pulls one through the discipline necessary to master that craft.” I also would advise people in this digital age to make sure you are giving your senses nutrition by walking in the woods and through gardens, reading good books, looking at paintings… No matter how down I might be I’m always lifted when I walk in the woods and still get that magical child-like feeling there which inspires me and stirs my creative juices. Check out more about Lauren: Laurenmillsart.com @laurenmillsart Molly Ellson is EC’s assistant editor. All images are by Lauren Mills

Editor’s note: This fantastically magical poem left my mind reeling in a very good way, and it explores the wildness of the natural world and the power of women in memorable words that inspired my imagination. It’s perfect for the last work of 2021. The gate is closed, rusting iron whorled in mimicry of the secrets within, but the warnings go unheeded when you’re too small to read the spiraling symbols. A girl can see coiled metal, the verdant overgrowth beyond and long to stretch her thin limbs through the gaps where a green world awaits. A girl can long for the wild wisdom of witchy women, that teeming, slithering, slippery awareness found in the psychedelic splendor of an acid dream, philosophy sipped from a flower’s nectar, power unearthed in a poisonous embrace. A girl can be drawn first to the bright blush of petals glowing among the tangled shrubbery and vines, having not yet learned such blooms have names, attributes, uses beyond beauty. A girl can breathe in the fragrance of a trumpeting datura, unaware it can drive her into dancing delirium. The hundred-eyed periwinkle watches her descent, gleeful in their garlands promising a girl’s death. The blue flag flies and the wolfsbane howls, blithe in the innocence scattered and lost among the lustful swoon of lilacs bowing, branches tangled in the tendrils of passion flower vines flowering with the promise of a long night’s sleep. A girl can learn to ignore the thorns that tug and tear at fabric and scratch at skin as she tends this fierce nest of greenery, each plant in its patient patch of soil cultivating its own secrets, hidden possibilities of poison or healing, waiting for a witch’s touch to crush the petals, grind the roots down, down into a dreamy potion of seduction, a preparation worthy of violent desire and promises broken. A girl has heard the stories, fair maidens who knew better, but slipped into the witch’s garden despite the warnings. The witches have stories too, stories about good girls who plucked petals from blooming plants to eat the secrets and plant the seeds in black soil and red hearts. They grow foxglove and belladonna and angel’s trumpets in gnarled patches, their own bones lengthening in aching bursts, flesh thickening, breasts blooming. The slender shoot becomes a vine, then a jungle. A girl who takes a chance, becomes a woman, then a witch. She will ramble in her garden, shedding pollen red as blood, red as the rust clinging to the iron gate that squeals as she pushes it closed. Carina Bissett is a writer, poet, and educator working primarily in the fields of dark fiction and fabulism. Her short fiction and poetry have been published in multiple journals and anthologies including Bitter Distillations: An Anthology of Poisonous Tales, Arterial Bloom, Gorgon: Stories of Emergence, Weird Dream Society, Hath No Fury, and the HWA Poetry Showcase Vol. V and VI. Andrea Blythe bides her time waiting for the apocalypse by writing speculative poetry and fiction. She is the author of three poetry chapbooks, the most recent being Twelve: Poems Inspired by the Brothers Grimm Fairy Tale (Interstellar Flight Press, 2020). Image of Angel’s Trumpet from Pixabay

Editor’s note: This is just so much fun. I love the way the baby arrives. I love the sachets. I love how accepting the characters are when a wonderful surprise happens to them. Enjoy. On the edge of a wood lived an old woman who was known to grant wishes upon occasion. Now Flora was a kind and generous soul, and was frequently visited by the town folk who had need of her magicks. She never turned down anyone in need, and worked diligently to make things happen for other people. Some wishes were small, some were large, and some were just downright silly. Flora worked in her gardens to prepare the ingredients needed for granting wishes. Everything was dependent upon the plants she grew, and she was always tending, gathering, and drying plants of one kind or another. Oftentimes, Flora didn’t even know what people wished for. She simply gathered the required plants, had the person blow on them, and then Flora made a sachet. She asked that they place the sachet under their pillow every night for a week, and think about what they wished for as they fell asleep. In typical fashion, one day a young girl came to Flora’s door and asked if the old woman could use an apprentice. Flora had seen this girl around the wood, and had visited with her several times, so she agreed. The girl was a quick learner, and Flora enjoyed teaching her all about herbs and the magicks within them. Most importantly, Flora taught her that she must never ask for anything for herself. That would be a recipe for disaster, and there were always consequences! One day, the girl requested a wish from Flora. She looked at the girl askance, and knew this was going to be a bad idea. The apprentice looked at her mentor with pleading eyes, and eventually Flora relented, reminding her that there were always consequences. Flora gathered ingredients and had the girl blow on them. She then painstakingly handcrafted a sachet. Flora instructed the apprentice on the proper use of the sachet, and told her to bury the little pocket of dried plants in her own backyard at the end of a week. The girl did exactly as instructed, except she tied the sachet shut with a lavender ribbon, unbeknownst to Flora. Everyone knew that Flora had longed for a child of her own for almost as many years as she had been alive. She and her husband were not gifted with babies, however. No matter how much she longed for a child, and how much she cried over it, her womb remained barren. One fine day, Flora discovered a new plant near her home. It was a lovely shade of purple, and unlike anything Flora had ever seen before! Puzzled and intrigued, Flora took her little hand spade out of her pocket and rescued the lonely plant, taking care not to damage its fragile leaves or roots. Upon returning home, she planted the flower in a bright sunny spot next to some lilies, and watered it generously. Every day Flora checked on her new plant, watering it when needed, carefully removing any offensive weeds, and making sure the soil was fertilized. The plant flourished, and seemed to grow quickly. One day, Flora noticed an odd bulge on one side of the plant, just under the blooming purple flower. “How strange,” she thought. “What could it be? A seed pod?” After a few days, the bulge began taking shape, and took on a deep shade of aubergine. In a week’s time, the bulge looked like a giant eggplant, and the delicate plant bowed under its weight. “My gracious!” exclaimed Flora. “Look at the size of you!” As the warm summer days turned into brisk autumn ones, Flora tended her gardens and especially the unusual purple plant. She talked to it daily, as all cunning folk know that plants flourish with good conversation. The plant grew taller and the eggplant grew larger, until one day, Flora noticed a crack in it’s deeply hued skin. “My gracious!” exclaimed Flora. “Look at this crack in you!” So heavy was the eggplant, it took both of her hands to lift it and examine the crack. She felt it wiggle, and then it began to split even more! Startled, Flora nearly dropped the eggplant. Suddenly, with a loud, juicy noise the two halves broke apart, leaving a startled baby girl looking up at her, like a pit in an avocado. “My gracious!” exclaimed Flora. “Just look at you!” The baby began to cry as the autumn wind brushed against her wet skin. Flora gingerly pulled the baby from the eggplant halves, and took her into the house. After cleaning the baby and making a makeshift bottle from an old vase and a torn glove, Flora settled into a rocking chair to feed her. The little girl eagerly sucked down the bottle of sugar water and promptly fell asleep. Flora studied the child while she was sleeping, and noticed something odd. It appeared that the babe had purple hair! How can this be? She thought. Right at that moment, her husband came in the door. He took one look at Flora holding the baby, and stopped in his tracks. “My gracious, what have we here?” he exclaimed. After telling him how the little girl came to be in her arms, he started to cry, so happy was he. Together the couple wept tears of joy at their incredible good luck. After very little discussion, they decided to call her Amethyst. The baby Amethyst grew into a young girl who was much loved by her parents, and her hair remained a deep shade of purple all the rest of her days. As for the apprentice, she grew into an old woman herself over time, but never revealed the secret of the lavender ribbon she had tied the sachet with. There were, after all, consequences! Krys Plate is a teacher from Iowa who collects fairy tales. A grandma who loves creating, she can often be found in her yard, harvesting “weeds” to turn into face and body products for herself and friends. Image by Pixabay.

Editor’s note: The structure of this story is pretty traditional, but I love the surprising little details. And I really wanted to know what happened next as I read through it. A very satisfying read. Long ago there lived an old king who when young had married a woman he deeply loved. She bore him one daughter and then she died. All the king’s advisers told him to take another wife, one who might bear him a son. All told him this but one tall and gaunt adviser, known as a skilled magician, who said that it was an ill-omen to marry with a heart sore sick with grief. And so the king refused every lady of the realm. Now in time the princess grew, and all the gentlemen of the kingdom wanted her. Not only was she as beautiful and witty as her mother, not only did she have the strength and tenderheartedness of her father, but any man who wed the princess would inherit the throne upon her father’s death. And yet still many advisers cautioned him to take a new wife. And yet still the magician said that it was an ill omen to marry with a heart sore sick with grief. The king still missed his wife dearly, and so he did not marry. Now this magician had a son not much older than the king’s daughter, and he so contrived it that his son married the king’s daughter. The match had not been to the princess’s liking, but the magician had the power of persuasion, and the king did as he suggested. Now it came to pass that the magician grew old and sickly. Fearing his death, fearing that the king might yet take a new wife, and knowing that his son had none of his powers, the magician decided to poison the king. Every evening when entertainment and supper were had in the great hall, the magician would bring the king his wine but sprinkle some powder with noxious effect into it. Soon the king grew sicker than the magician. The king’s council quickly called for all the herbalists and hedge-witches in the land to come forward and help cure their king, promising a rich reward. The magician knew not how he could argue against the plan, so he argued in favor of it. In favor of it but with a twist. The magician suggested that he, who had some knowledge of the healing arts, should guard against those who wanted to fraud their way into a kingly reward. And so the king’s poisoner became captain of those who would find the king’s cure. Week after week herbalists and hedge-witches, midwives and all sorts of cunning folk came to see if they could cure the king. The magician met with them all and questioned them about their knowledge of the healing arts. Whenever any herbalist or hedge-witch, midwife or cunning folk showed any sign of true knowledge, the magician cast them out as simple fools. Whenever they showed no true knowledge, he welcomed them in. And so the king worsened. One day when the king was especially sick, a woman came to the portcullis wishing to play her lute for the king. The magician still met and questioned her. And he noticed odd equipment in her lute-case. “What is that powder?” he asked. “It’s meal from my country, far in the East,” said she. “And what’re those straw-like objects?” said he. “Those’re capos from my country, far in the East,” said she. “And what’re those pebbles there?” said he. “They’re picks from my country, far in the East,” said she. He then asked about the healing arts and she pretended ignorance, for it is no evil to deceive a deceiver. Satisfied with the lutist, the magician allowed her to play for the ailing king. Her tone sang sweeter than honey, her melody made the sternest knights cry, and her rhythm carried all before it. To reward her, the king invited her to his table for the meal. “You played with wondrous skill,” said the king. “do you have other skills, madam player?” “Many, your majesty,” said the woman, “But you might enjoy these three.” She showed the king the powder, which she could sprinkle into wine to lessen its effects, and so allow one to drink longer into the night and with greater pleasure in the morning. This trick tickled the king mightily and he poured a heavy heaping into his own drink, and the magician frowned. She showed the king the straw-like objects, which she said would turn even the sourest wine into ambrosia. The king called to the kitchens, and the cook brought vinegar out. But after three twirls of the straws, the king could gulp the wine and declare it the best he had ever tasted. And the magician grew alarmed. She then showed the king the pebbles. “These, sire,” said she, “Will smoke in any poison-touched wine.” Then the magician stood and tried to end the night. “Your majesty,” said he, “That’s enough of petty parlor tricks.” But the king took three pebbles from the woman, and he tossed one into her drink, one into the magician’s drink, and one into his drink. His drink sputtered and smoked. The consternation and anger of the hall is better imagined than described. They captured the magician and promptly hanged him from the ramparts. And the king announced that he would immediately take the lady magician to wife. “But dear father,” said the king’s son-in-law, “isn’t it an ill-omen to marry with a heart full of grief?” And the king said, “I must do what I think best for the kingdom, pray, and bear the consequences if I am wrong. Only a fool trusts a proven liar.” And so the king and the lady magician married, and though the king never forgot his true love, he had some happiness. The lady magician bore him a son. The son grew strong and just, and as king he relied upon the advice of his brother-in-law who had learnt from his father’s disgrace, his father-in-law’s mercy, and his wife’s tenderheartedness and was always truthful and honest. Judd Baroff is a subcreator living the the Great Plains with his wife and young daughter. You may find him at www.juddbaroff.com or @juddbaroff. Image is by Wilhelm, no last name given, from 1890, for a pantomime costume.