Fairy Tale Review Archive
Browse submissions from past editions, web exclusive content, author Q&A, and more.
The practice of retelling fairy tales in the form of literary fiction is, if not quite hallowed, certainly established. The great Angela Carter’s revelatory 1979 story collection, “The Bloody Chamber” — a brocaded work of heady sensuality, intelligence and violence — remains the benchmark, but Kate Bernheimer’s Fairy Tale Review and the several excellent Bernheimer-edited anthologies spun off from it carry the standard forward. Those are just some of the more overt homages; Western literature owes as much to fairy tales as it does to Greek myth and the Bible.
-The New York Times
Let’s talk about the fairy godmother, before. At this point, she is just a woman, still relatively young, approaching her life’s precipice,...
i decayed to a voice a vowel a stressed syllable. trapped in the glass of my childhood jar. i used to stab stars in the top. insects crawled on the...
The first time that the trees began to walk, Mae wore pink onesies and couldn’t yet talk. She lived with her mother at the end of the road, and they...
I climbed the beanstalk, up and up, to the realm
Of pendulous curtains.
What made me want him? That supple, brutal kingsnake of a boy, wine-lipped and longhaired.
You resemble an angel created in a landfill.
Father is the name for what guards the front door. The world outside is full of noise. A truck, a lawnmower, a dog, and then another.
In Pompeii we didn’t distinguish rats
The doctor delivers the diagnosis. He tells Gulisa, ‘It could be worse.’
bifurcating like a heart would/night scatters into pieces/reassembled like a girl should/be I tug the laces/of my boots and hold the shadows
On February 26, 2019, we asked our Twitter followers to tell us the biggest and most beautiful stories they could within Twitter's longer, and more...
One day, we came home from a walk in the woods and found something waiting for us. It wasn’t a this, or a that, or a they; it was a bunch.
you are always
On a dirt street, in a one-room shack with a rain-tempered roof, lived a woman who sold sex to the workers of her district, and she did this because of all the ways one made money in the hard-mouthed world, this was the easiest for her.
Because my bridegroom marked the trail
Because my father pushed me
down the path alone