FAIRY TALE FLASH - Into Something New and Strange by Emilia Agrafojo

Light filtered through from above,
and her world expanded...

Water glistened as it trailed down the inner curve of her cell. Her long, pink tongue struggled to catch each drop, her mouth parched and desperate. Light filtered through from above, but not enough, and the walls of her prison were still so very strong, thick and unyielding.

Were her wings starting to unfurl? That would be the death of her, borne down into suffocation by the weight of fledgling bone and skin. She shifted slightly, gently testing the limits of her cage, and felt distinctly less open space above and behind her. Wings, indeed.

Shouldn’t she have been released from this containment hours ago? Days ago? It didn’t matter. Soon, it wouldn’t matter at all. She had so little time left.

It was a risk she had welcomed, the chance to become someone new and true overriding caution and judgement. She had flung herself into this metamorphosis, hopeful that youth and joy and hunger were enough to see her through to the end.

Light reflected across the pearlescent inner walls of her egg. Could there be more of it, or had a cloud only shifted overhead? The subtle cracks in the walls radiated a golden glow, then suddenly shuddered, widened, split apart.

Fragments of shell fell onto her back, light and dry. Her world expanded, her limbs released, and she stood, amazed. Arms and legs stretched, wings expanded in unwieldy delight. A body new, and strange, different and perfect.

Acolytes rushed to help her escape the remains of her chamber. She turned and faced the sun. Dragon, female, reborn.

Emilia Agrafojo lives in the Northeast US, with the appropriate prerequisite spouse and cats to complete her fairy tale. 
Follow her on Facebook HERE 

Cover: Amanda Bergloff

FAIRY TALE FLASH - Beastly Heart by Shelby Kisgen

She’d once been beautiful.

The transition was slow,

like a shiny apple with a rotting core...

She’d once been beautiful. A charming child of giggles and grins, spoiled with praise for her cherubic face and doe-eyes.  

Bathed in compliments and gifts, the girl morphed. The transition was slow but vicious, like a shiny apple with a rotting core.  

One day, a witch approached the girl’s castle, requesting bread and a dry place to sleep. The girl laughed in her trilling alto before slamming the door. The thud of rejection echoed in the witch’s ears. With a raised staff, the witch cursed the girl with a body to match the reality of her heart.

The beautiful girl’s round face elongated into a distended jaw. Her wide eyes streaked with broken blood-vessels, stark and appalling on translucent skin. Her delicate hands rippled with protruding tendons, tufts of hair spurted from her pert nose, and her erect posture slumped as if a hill burst through her spine. She was beastly. Inside and out.

Only true-love’s kiss could break the curse and return her appealing outward appearance.

The ugly girl grew into an ugly woman as she waited for a loving man to take pity on her. To heal her with a kiss.

Then she waited some more. Waited for a man to see behind her ghastly face to the new-found beauty within. To the kindness and humility that only suffering and loneliness brings. The compassion learned by years as an outcast.

She might have waited forever, but one day, she looked in the mirror and gasped at the beautiful maiden blinking back at her.

Gone were her nostril hairs. Gone were her claws and blistered eyes. She was beautiful once again, an exact replica of herself before the witch’s curse.

But no man had kissed her. Beyond the initial horror and taunting, no man had deigned offer her a moment of his time. The curse was not broken.

But pain had made her heart lovely. And without a beastly heart, she had no beastly body.

Two days later, a man gaped as she strolled about the garden. She was polite, he was drooling, and before he parted, he dared to request a kiss.

She declined.

Shelby Kisgen is a book publicist by day and writer by night. Her short story, "The Weight of Laughter", was published in Chicken Soup for the Soul: Curvy and Confident edition.

Follow her on Twitter @ShelbyKisgen

and Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/shelbykisgen/

Check out her website: https://shelbykisgen.com

Cover: Amanda Bergloff @AmandaBergloff

FAIRY TALE FLASH - Faeries 4 Hire by Caleb Echterling

The on-camera spokes-faerie radiated a sincerity,

and Gary had a need for a love potion...

As a frequent consumer of 3:00 a.m. infomercials, Gary knew most services they pimped seemed a bit dodgy, as were, often, the infomercials themselves. But the Faeries 4 Hire advertisement stood out. The relative crispness of the production values gave the impression that no one was drunk or high during its planning and execution. And the on-camera spokes-faerie radiated a sincerity other wee-hours longform hucksters lacked.

Gary did have a pressing need for a love potion, and a dollar ninety-nine a minute wasn’t so outlandish, especially considering late capitalism’s inability to provide the marketplace with general purpose magicks.

The operator sounded as though she chain smoked potpourri blunts, and talked fast for someone with a financial incentive to stretch out the conversation, but Gary scribbled down the important bits.

“Teaspoon of unicorn tears, uh huh … three quarts of 10W30 motor oil, got it … seven crushed petals of a rose picked in fresh fallen snow … two black scales from the emo dragon of despair …  all mixed together in the pale glow of moonlight … I’m not sure where to find … oh, you sell everything required for the recipe … that would be a lot easier than … how much? … good Lord, that’s more than I make in a year.”

Gary sat cross-legged on his lawn. The ingredients for a love potion were piled into an upmarket blender between his legs. The waning crescent moon emerged from behind a cloud to cast its pale light onto his patch of earth, and Gary checked the faerie’s instructions one last time. He pushed the button for ‘Pulse’ and counted down from five. When the countdown struck zero, he switched the speed to ‘Liquefy’.

The next day, Gary sprang the concoction on the object of his desire. He hadn’t anticipated how much wrangling would be necessary to get them to drink viscous sludge from a 2 liter Mountain Dew bottle. An offer of currency, and a strong but false insinuation about the presence of a hidden camera crew for a revival of the Ashton Kutcher vehicle Punk’d, brought the bottle to their lips. Gary ended up wearing the entire potion, minus the one sip, first as a hat, then as an elegant shoulder accessory, and finally as a slick, sticky pullover.

Gary called Faeries 4 Hire to register his complaints. The operator had him recount, in detail, the potion preparation process. As he ticked off each step of the mixing, she added a curt “uh-huh” to the end of his sentences.

“There’s your problem,” she cut in. “Not moonlight. Moonlighting. With Bruce Willis and Cybill Shepherd. In order to blend properly, the potion needs exposure to TV dramedy with a ‘will they/won’t they’ trope. If you leave that out it’s basically motor oil, which faerie research shows has the same effect as an angry potion. You fucked up, dude.”

Caleb Echterling's recent short story collection combines staid bios with insult comedy, ya filthy bastards. He tweets funny microfiction using the highly inventive handle @CalebEchterling. You can find more of his work at http://www.calebechterling.com.

Cover: Amanda Bergloff @AmandaBergloff

SATURDAY TALE - Made for Their Hands by G.D. Watry

The enchantress sacrifices all,

including her life with him...

The enchantress murmurs the incantation, her voice a lisping whisper in the snow-swept night. Despite the chill, she stands unmoving on the canoe’s bow, her body wrapped tight in a ratty peacoat. The cold seeps into her old bones, but no visible shiver passes through her body. She keeps the tremor locked in her spine, blocking its spread to her extremities. All she feels is tension radiating outwards and flurries kissing her wrinkled face. The balance between the internal and external stimuli is ethereal, a reminder of the eternal touch of Gaia, for whom the enchantress sacrifices all. 

Including her life with him. 

Wind sweeps across the thawed lake, creating spirals in the snowfall. The canoe wobbles in the chop. Ice chunks scratch against its cedar wood. 

Through the flakes, the enchantress can make out gas lanterns on the shore. The ones attached to the dock bob gently in the distance. They trace a path up from the dock to the cabin, lighting its deck. The enchantress can see the knots in the cabin’s wooden door. 

She could row to the dock and walk up that familiar path, hands touching each lantern along the way. She could knock on the door and wait for him to answer. She wonders if he’d be able to recognize her, be able to see who she used to be. 

The enchantress could do all that. But she won’t. She’s as close as she needs to be for the spell’s sphere of influence. And if she’s being honest, she’s as close to the island as she can bear. It hurts to be this close. 

The enchantress knows that memory has a geography, that places revisited can unbury the past. And sometimes those memories eclipse lessons learned by new experiences. They can occult progress, and worse, ignite reversion. Suddenly, you’re no longer what you are but what you were. 

The enchantress remembers… 

What are you? 

She was asked this question at the Altar of Devotion, hidden in the mines of Schwarz Mountain. 

Weak, the girl who became the enchantress replied. It was how she felt after that last ordeal. Her hands were stained with his blood. Though he was safe, his cries still echoed in her ears. She was ashamed she allowed him in harm’s way. Again. She had to do something. Her work was dangerous and he was insistent. He would never leave her side voluntarily, so she found someone with the power to help. 

I can make you more, the earth mother promised, powerful enough that you can protect the ones you love. But only if you promise your life to me. 

The enchantress swore her life away and became more. She became someone who could control the elements and exert her influence over the minds of others. Adventure filled her life as she fulfilled Gaia’s will, and often the fates of many were in her hands. The enchantress became a savior, revered and deified in certain corners of the world. She did her best to cultivate detachment, but still…

It isn’t enough. 

The enchantress doesn’t miss who she was, but she envies the love she used to have. She longs to be on the shore, to feel his arms around her and hers around him. Their bodies one; not on the outside looking in. 

But she knows it wouldn’t be the same. Her presence would only complicate the life he’s made without her, without the memory of her. 

Made so by my hand, she reminds herself. For his benefit. 

She stops the spell mid-cast when the cabin’s door opens, and he shuffles onto the deck. He raises a hand to his forehead, as if searching the darkness. The enchantress knows what it’s like to be under the influence of a waning spell, to feel its mystical grip slip. She knows he’s searching for her, that he can feel her presence. An impression of her is forming in his mind. A vague mask that he at first only saw in dreams is slowly becoming distinct, morphing into a face. Her face.

Not all ghosts are dead. She smiles at the thought.

He looks feeble from a distance, his face is scrunched in confusion. Gray curls spill from beneath his knit cap. She remembers brushing his hair with her fingers as they lay in bed in the morning, how he’d fall asleep under the spell of her touch, before she learned the ways of real magic. 

The enchantress wants to go to him, but she can’t and the reason why steps out onto the deck. 

The old woman materializes from the cabin’s darkness and touches her husband’s shoulder, rousing him from his midnight search. The enchantress doesn’t want to admit it, but she sees a smile break across his face. He loves the woman; she’s someone he can anchor himself to while weathering this storm of confusion. The enchantress has watched their relationship develop over the years, returning to this spot annually to wipe his resurfacing memories. Her words clear the gale in his mind. 

He has her, she thinks. He doesn’t need me.  

The enchantress continues with the spell. Alone in the cold, she tells herself, maybe things will different next year. 

G.D. Watry is a writer from California. His work has appeared in Pantheon Magazine, Hinnom Magazine, Horror Tales Podcast, OCCULUM, Enchanted Conversation Magazine, Third Flatiron Publishing, and The Molotov Cocktail, among other publications. He can be found on Twitter @GDWatry.

Cover: Amanda Bergloff

FOR FOREVER by Connor Sassmannshausen

She was everything to him,

and him to her.

But they could not be...

He’d loved her since the beginning, love at first sight you could call it. From the primary glances, she was dark in every way. With one look, she stole his heart. With a smile that seemed to light the sky, she could rival the sun. The sparkle of joy and sorrow in her eyes put the stars to shame.

When she saw him for the first time, she noticed the way his laugh lit up his face. The energy he exuded in everything he did held her attention, even if it was the most menial of tasks.

Everything about him was bright, seeming to hold everything in his thrall.

She was everything to him, and him to her. She was his match. He wanted her more than anything in the world, just as she yearned for him. He would give anything to her, for her.

But they could not be.

It started with flowers, every kind he could think of, every species she could imagine. And she held them dear, smiling with each gift. Then, he turned to all manner of trees and plants, and she kept them all. And she loved him all the more. So many, he sent, that she created a vast garden, where she would walk, alone, and think of him.

Because they could not be.

But still he loved her, and she him.

Then he began to send her creatures, from the smallest field mouse to the massive whale. And she found a place for everything he sent. She made space for an ocean for the fish, for the whales, for the seals, and all that swam. She created plains of various grasses, for the buffalo and the mustangs, and for the elephants and lions. She took trees from her garden and planted her own jungle for the creatures that dwelt there. Until she had a boundless menagerie.

And she loved him.

But they could not be.

As time spun on, he saw that she was alone, that he could not rid her of that. So, he began to send her companions, hoping they may take away some of her pain. He sent her both men and women, trying to find her a match that would take his place as her equal. He sent the wise and the wealthy. He sent her kings and scholars. He sent her farmers and shepherds, ranch hands and business owners. He sent doctors, lawyers. He sent dreamers, writers, creators, artists. He even resorted to liars and thieves, murderers and traitors. Hoping she would find someone to keep her company in her quiet, lonely days.

But none she found to compare to him. None could understand her. None could comprehend what she thought and said. But she kept them, housed them, fed them, cared for them, because he had sent them to her.

And as the days passed, she would remain by the door, waiting for whatever gift he sent.

Sometimes, another flower to add to her garden, or a creature for her zoo, sometimes another friend to try to break away some of her loneliness.

So many days and weeks and months had passed, she began to believe they would never meet again, like in the beginning. The stars in her eyes began to dim, and sun in her smile began to fade.

Then, one day, the gifts didn’t come. She had become so accustomed to them, she didn’t know what to do. She waited by the door for another messenger, with even the smallest blade of grass, but none came.

She felt her heart break, the stars in her eyes went out, and the brightness of her smile shattered as she let out a cry of anguish. She fell to her knees before the door, sobs wracking her body.

Then the door opened, and in he stepped. With only a glimpse of her distraught form, he knelt beside her, lifting her face. He wiped the tears from her cheeks. His smile gave her the light of the sun, and his eyes gave her the stars.

He helped her stand, never taking his gaze from her face. She lifted her hand, offering it to him.

He took it, lacing their fingers together. With a glance out the door, he pushed it closed, turning the lock. This was the end.

And Death led Life into her home.

Connor Sassmannshausen is an Australian based American author who also enjoys the art of filmmaking and cross-stitching. If it were possible she would have a pet dragon. She spends her time writing, watching movies, and reading.

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/csassmannshausen/

Twitter: @Sass_Connor

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/sass.connor/  

Cover: Amanda Bergloff @AmandaBergloff

THE SILVER THREADS OF THE SPIDER: A Folktale from Paraguay by Nohan Meza

I will marry the one

who brings me a true gift,

one that is different from all others...

It is unclear whether Samimbí ever loved either of them, or any of the other suitors for that matter, but knowing the way of things, she gave instructions of how one of the two brave warriors was to win her favor. Of course, she admired both of them for their respective qualities: Ñanduguasu, Brave-Ostrich, was a swift and fearless warrior known for his speed, which is why he had been given that name by their shaman. And Jasyñemoñare, Son-of-Moon, was known as one of the most handsome men in the village; it is said he was blessed by the gods. Both courted her with poetry, songs, and dance in an attempt to win her hand, for she was the chieftain’s daughter, and so beautiful and kind that light itself, whether by day or night, always shone upon her face. Still, these were not the things that mattered to Samimbí. She longed for something different, something that would be unique among her people.

One day, she spoke to her two suitors and said, “I will marry the one who brings me a true gift, one that is different to all others, and as such cannot be replaced. By bringing me the most beautiful gift in the forest you shall prove your love.”

Within days, her home had mountains of the most alluring offerings from all neighboring villages: necklaces made with feathers from birds of paradise, bracelets encrusted with precious stones the size of eyes, and crowns of flowers that bloom once every four years. The gifts came from all suitors who had heard the word. None of these were what Samimbí was looking for.

One night, Jasyñemoñare was wandering through the woods, looking for the perfect gift. Son-of-Moon looked up to the stars, called upon the gods to help him. His wish granted, he caught sight of something between the two highest branches of the highest tree in the forest, glinting under the moonlight. It looked like threads of silver, thin as hair, composed into the most beautiful and complex arrangement he had ever seen. Knowing he had found the true gift, Son-of-Moon began to climb.

So fate would have it that Ñanduguasu happened to be walking through the forest at that time and had spied upon Jasyñemoñare. Driven by the jealousy found within his heart’s desires, he swiftly took out his bow, pulled the bowstring taut, and loosed an arrow that pierced through Jasyñemoñare’s chest, dropping him dead.

Brave-Ostrich climbed the tree with much more facility than his fallen rival, and soon he stood on a thick branch, beholding what would win him his beloved. Under the light of the moon, he reached for the silver threads. However, upon touching them, the shapes dissolved like shadows, leaving his hands empty. He reached time and again between the branches, his eyes wide with terror, yet he grasped nothing but the cool air of night.

He returned home and for three days and three nights he did not speak, did not eat, and did not sleep. He merely wandered the fields aimlessly with a vacant gaze. Ñanduguasu’s mother, worried for her son, questioned him throughout his mourning. Only upon the fourth morning was she able to extract what had happened. Her son had killed a man out of passion. And yet, the love she had for her child would not falter. She could see his regret and his broken heart, so she asked her son where he had seen the beautiful threads.

Shortly after, Ñanduguasu’s mother set out and found the tallest tree in the forest. There, she found the half-putrefied corpse of Son-of-Moon, just like her son said she would. Holding back tears, for the child must have had a mother too, she began her slow ascent up the branches. She did not have her son’s skill, and her life had been long in years, yet she knew her son would die of misery if she failed to make amends for his mistake. With the last few rays of sunlight as witness, she finally arrived at the top and carefully approached the two branches where the gift had been. A small creature ran back and forth between them, weaving. After watching its movements for a few minutes, she took out her wooden needles and with her own aged, silver hair as thread, she began to copy the symmetrical movements under the moonlight. With every single hair on her scalp she weaved the most regal dress the gods had ever seen. Once she was done, she thanked the creature we call spider and gave it the name it was known by thereafter, Ñandu, in honor of her son, for upon Ñandu’s beautiful tapestry always lie the snares of death.

It was not until the rosy braids of dawn appeared on the horizon that she returned to her village. Weak and bald and, knowing the way of things, she spoke to him and said, “Go now, my child, take this gift I have made from my own body, just as I once made you, and claim your heart’s desire.” Ñanduguasu was overjoyed, though his happiness was bittersweet, for the act had weakened his mother, who was not long for this world anymore.

He hugged and kissed his mother a hundred times, then laid her to rest and ran to Samimbí’s home with the gift, giving honor to his namesake. Seeing the beauty and complexity of the arrangement, Samimbí knew this to be the most beautiful thing in the forest, and agreed to marry him. The whole village marveled at such godly cloth, the likes of which they had never seen before. Unable to deny her village such beauty, Samimbí allowed the women to copy the technique of Ñanduguasu’s mother—who never told what she had learned of Jasyñemoñare’s fate—so she would live on in their collective memory. The method of weaving they called Ñandutí, hair-of-spider, and made it the crowning achievement of their people. Then all sang under the sun, and later danced under the moonlight, too.

Nohan Meza is a writer from Paraguay, South America, currently living in New York. He began writing stories when he was seven, stapling printing paper into little booklets and promoting them in the streets for a dollar each. Previously published in Disturbed Digest and Fever Dreams Magazine, Nohan is always on the lookout for that next story. You can find him on Twitter: @dietweetybird

Cover: Amanda Bergloff @AmandaBergloff

LOVE IN THE HOOD by Deb Whittam

So, I’m walking through the forest,

sticking to the path when I hear a voice...

From her position at the kitchen table, Anya watched her great grandmother flit across the room, her sly expression concealed beneath the hood of her frayed and faded red cape as Anya pleaded, “Grannie will you tell me how you met Grandpa again?”

"Anya, aren't you tired of that tale by now? It’s ancient history.”

“Anya, I told you not to nag your great grandmother.”

Annoyed, Anya glanced at her Mother who sat darning a red cape, her brow furrowed before shooting a hopeful glance towards Grannie, pleased to see the other smiling broadly.

"I don’t know Grannie; she always wants to hear that tale even though I keep reminding her that everyone needs to be here for it to be told right."

The exasperation in her Mother’s voice made Anya frown, but unwilling to concede defeat she retorted, “We’re all here now."

"Your father and grandpa aren't here," Red pointed out

Aware that her request was perilously close to be being denied, Anya shot an appealing glance towards her great grandmother as she added in a wheedling voice, "But they'll be back soon.

The two women exchange a look, and then Grannie pulled out a chair, “Well, why not?

Anya squealed in delight and then aware of her Mother’s scowl, she sat down as the other commenced.

“It was one of those warm spring days, and I was bored, so my mother decided to send me here, to my grandmother’s house with a basket of cakes and a bottle of wine. Your great grandmother was feeling poorly.”

The note of sarcasm in her mother’s voice bypassed Anya, but her great grandmother took exception protesting, “You make it sound like I was an invalid Red, the truth was I had dyed my hair bright orange, and your grandmother was so embarrassed that she forbade me from venturing into town until it had dulled down a little. Didn’t you wonder why I was wearing a night cap in the middle of the day Red?”

“Of course I did, but I was more interested in trekking through the forest and escaping chores,” Red said with a laugh, “Will you stop interrupting already, you’ll get your turn in a minute.”

Grannie sighed, but refrained from commenting as Red continued.  

“So I’m walking through the forest, sticking to the path as directed, when I hear a voice call out, where are you going little red riding hood.”  As her mother mimicked the voice Anya pulled up her hood and Grannie chuckled softly, “And of course I paused.”

“Of course,” Her great grandmother's dry tone made Anya giggle even as her Mother reached out to push her hood down, before tousling her hair.

“Alright, I was young, but you have to admit there was something enticing about his voice. It was like molten chocolate.”  For a moment Red stared into space and then she shook her head, “So I turned around and there he was, the big bad wolf leaning against a tree with a quizzing expression.”

“Where are you going little red riding hood?  He asked, and though I recalled my mother’s warning, his brooding dark looks and his debonair smile sent my pulse racing, and bemused, I blurted out the truth, I’m off to see my sick Grannie.”

“That’s enough of this sick grandmother nonsense.”

Her mother smirked. “Why don’t you take her some flowers. She’ll be sure to love them.  Now, I glanced around and sure enough, there were stacks of flowers, so I thought why not and began to collect them.”

At these words, Anya swung round towards her great grandmother, anticipation etched into her features as the other smiled broadly in response.

“I was at home alright. I was getting ready for my morning run,” At this, her great grandmother winked and Anya giggled. “You can imagine my surprise when there was a knock at the door, but that only lasted a second when I laid my eyes on the huge, strong, muscular creature that filled the doorway.”

“Mesmerized, I watched as he leant closer whispering, time’s up, Grannie.  I swear I almost swooned at his words and then as he leant forward to take a bite, I took my chance.  I puckered up and our lips met, and I swear it was thunderbolts and lightening. He staggered back, and I gaped. I’d just kissed a wolf and mortified, I ran past him intent only on escape.”

“And there I was heading to Grandma’s house completely unaware…”

“That the wolf lay in wait.” Anya finished with a squeal of excitement.

“Exactly, even as I fled something was plaguing me, and eventually I came to a halt,” Grannie continued, “Perplexed I wondered why a dark and handsome wolf had appeared on my doorstep, a dark and dangerous wolf who kissed like heaven on a stick.  There was only one reason, and it made me turn quick smart, but I suspected I would be too late.”

“For I had already knocked on the door, only to hear a voice call out, I’m too sick to get out of bed granddaughter, please come inside.” Red continued with a smile as she mimicked the wolf's husky drawl, and Anya grinned as her mother continued, “There was something funny about the voice. It was a rolling smooth sound which was so unlike Grannie’s that I was already suspicious even before I walked inside to see an unfamiliar figure lying in the bed.”

As Anya leant forward, Red grimaced with a rueful shake of her head advised, “I knew this wasn’t Grannie but the figure in the bed was watching me so intently I said, oh grandmother, what big ears you have! To which the figure replied with a decided lack of enthusiasm, all the better to hear you with.  I frowned, but continued on with, but grandmother, what big eyes you have, and at this the wolf sighed languidly before declaring, all the better to see you with. I must admit, I was getting nervous by now and edged closer to the door as I uttered, but grandmother, what a big mouth you have.”

“And that’s when I stepped through the doorway,” Grannie stated with a wide smile, “and said real loud, which is so damn good at kissing, I want to do it again.”

“To which I replied,” A voice said from the doorway of Grannie’s cottage, “And so do I, come her Grannie, you’re mine.”

At the wolf's words, Anya started, and then with a wide grin, she threw herself at the huge muscular figure which towered above her, “Grandpa you’re back.”

“Hey sweetie, I couldn’t leave your great grandma alone now, could I?  She might run off with any old wolf that came along.”

“Idiot,” Grannie stated affectionately, reaching over to kiss her husband on the cheek, “You know there is no one else for me.”

“And Grannie kisses Grandpa, and he turns into a handsome prince.” Anya stated cheekily as her mother, Red rolled her eyes.

“Perhaps not a handsome Prince, in this case,” Red noted dryly as her husband walked through the door.

“And they lived happily ever after.”  Anya continued, determined not to be thwarted.

“That’s only in fairy tales sweetie,” Red muttered absently as she eyed her husband, who was determinedly avoiding her eyes and keeping his hands behind his back, “What have you gone and traded the cow for this time Jack?  Beans, you traded the cow for beans? Here give them to me.”

Deb Whittam is a graduated from Macquarie University Bachelor of Arts, recently she has had the honor her work being published in The Crux Anthology and The Rabbit Hole Anthology.  She has also published a number of titles online which available through Smashwords, which includes the Daddy’s Angels series.

Social Media Accounts

Twitter: @ DebbieWhittam

Blog: http://debbiewhittam. wordpress.com   

Cover: Amanda Bergloff @AmandaBergloff