Reviewed by Samantha Hui

A fairy tale where the true magic lies in the possibilities of the human spirit

The Girl Who Came Back to Life, by Craig Philip Staufenberg, transforms the question of what it means to live when everything is falling apart into a layered middle grade fairy tale that reads as both adventure and allegory.

Though filled with danger and loss, the book is ultimately about hope, forgiveness, and the ways grief can act as both a mask for denial and a tool for acceptance. Staufenberg leans into the myth-making tradition of fairy tales so that Sophie’s struggles resonate beyond her individual story. Readers who enjoy darker, more reflective fairytales will find themselves drawn to Sophie’s world. It’s a book that speaks not only to youth but also to older audiences who appreciate stories with moral and emotional depth.

“You must join the steady stream of mourners who pour north at all times to Send their loved ones, unwilling to let their dead wander forever through the cold.”

The novel follows Sophie, a twelve-year-old girl navigating a dangerous world after devastating loss leaves her unmoored. In this world, when someone dies, their spirit wakes in the City of the Dead, where they remain until a cherished loved one Sends them off with a heartfelt goodbye.

But when Sophie’s parents die suddenly, she refuses to let them go. Instead of Sending them, she concocts a plan to travel to the City of the Dead herself and bring them back. Left in the care of her estranged grandmother, Sophie’s complicated relationship with the old woman becomes one of the novel’s central tensions. As she ventures north, Sophie encounters mobs of mourners, desperate travelers, soldiers, and strangers who reveal both the cruelty and the kindness that emerge in times of crisis. These encounters slowly transform Sophie’s understanding of herself and of what it means to say goodbye.

“She showed her granddaughter the delusions people paint over their own eyes to avoid the devastation of loss, of all loss, of any loss, especially those small hits that wound the pride more than the purse.”

What makes the novel so powerful is Staufenberg’s style. His prose is simple yet resonant, echoing the cadences of classic fairy tales while grounding the narrative in very human emotions. At moments, his sentences are clipped and urgent, heightening the sense of danger; at others, they swell into lyrical rhythms that capture grief, longing, and fragile hope. His use of metaphor lends the story the weight of myth, making Sophie’s journey feel timeless while still accessible to middle grade readers.

“Some said the spirits of the dead killed you themselves if you met them with an insincere heart. And still others said the lost ones had chosen to leave with their loved ones, willingly leaving this world behind in favor of the next.”

If the book falters at all, it may be in its pacing. Early chapters return again and again to cycles of hunger, escape, and temporary relief, which may feel repetitive for some readers. Yet this repetition is intentional, mirroring Sophie’s own relentless struggle to survive. Likewise, some chapters are remarkably short, sometimes less than a page long, which can make the story feel fragmented. But these brief chapters also echo the rhythm of a journey broken into small steps, and for many readers, the structure will deepen rather than weaken the experience, immersing them more fully in Sophie’s world.

“When she lived, my daughter brought pain to my heart. After she died, she became a persistent wound I couldn’t heal.”

By the end, Staufenberg’s fairy tale leaves readers both weary and uplifted, as though they have walked Sophie’s long journey themselves. The Girl Who Came Back to Life immerses us in questions of love, grief, and acceptance while never losing its sense of wonder. It is a fairy tale in the truest sense: not about spells or enchantments, but about the human capacity to endure, to let go, and to find meaning in loss.

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Reviewed by Nick Rees Gardner

A compelling folkloric exploration of the push and pull of family life and the power of choice

Set seaside in the Orkney Islands, just north of Scotland, Selkie Moon follows Isla, the daughter of a fisherman father and a mother whose erratic and often animalistic behavior begs questions of her origins. Isla’s mother disappears frequently, sometimes for days at a time, and she fights frequently with Isla’s father. 

While Isla’s mother prefers to school her children in the natural world, swimming in the surf and combing the beaches, her father wants to move the family inland to attend a proper school and better integrate with society. After the birth of her brother, Callan, and a terrifying incident in which Isla watches her father have the webs cut from between Callan’s fingers, the separation between Isla’s parents threatens to become permanent. It is up to Isla alone to get to the bottom of her mother’s possible selkie bloodline while also figuring out her own place in the world. 

In an author’s note at the end of the novella, author Kelly Jarvis gives a brief overview of selkie folklore and also explains how Selkie Moon diverges from common themes. Rather than hit the reader over the head with the fact that Isla’s mother is (possibly) a selkie, Jarvis allows the title of the book and subtle clues to let the reader know what Isla, the narrator, does not. Though Isla knows that her mother is a not-quite-normal human—that she is somehow tied to the sea and separate from the hoi polloi—it isn’t until late in the book that her mother’s origins are laid out for Isla. This slow revelation of Isla’s mother’s selkie-dom is perfectly timed, allowing the reader to focus on how the family handles the mother’s strange clicking sounds, for example, and how the mother does her best to focus on her children. While Selkie Moon could be considered a book about a selkie seduced by a human and stuck in human form, it becomes obvious early on that it is a book about family and about the choice one has to make to put family above self. 

It is this folkloric approach to family that gives Selkie Moon its edge over other family dramas, a certain beauty that both separates the story from modern life but also draws parallels to the realist’s world. Through language alone, Jarvis paints a world that is easy for a reader to be swallowed into. As Isla hits teenagehood, she begins to see similarities between her mother and herself, comparing their faces to “two oval moons with glowing freckle-kissed skin.” 

And the setting—with its aurora borealis, its “simmer dim,” and its islands that, “float in the frigid waters where the North Sea kisses the Atlantic”—is one that feels almost fairytale-esque, a dreamy place that makes the family conflict so much more tense. As Isla realizes that the magical world she lives in isn’t so perfectly divine, the experience turns both devastating and enlightening. 

In just over 100 short pages, Kelly Jarvis has crafted a unique addendum to selkie folklore, expanding it beyond the mere seduction that leads to selkies shedding their seal skins, their wildness, to struggle through the tame and mild life of the land. She has bent the folklore into a relatable story about family and choices, encouraging the reader to see that family, school, and home is a choice. The question is one that compares wildness to tameness; like anyone, both Isla and her mother must choose.

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Reviewed by Lauren Hayataka

Step into a realm of vivid characters, haunting realities, and the legacy that words leave behind. 

Mina Ikemoto Ghosh’s fairytale, Numamushi, beckons readers into a mesmerizing realm where reality and enchantment intertwine seamlessly. Set in post-World War II Japan, Numamushi, a child marked by the scars of napalm, becomes an unlikely protagonist, raised by the guardian spirit of a river, blurring the boundaries between humanity and nature.

When a war-weary stranger named Mizukiyo enters his life, Numamushi’s curiosity about mankind is sparked, leading to a unique bond forged over a shared taste for frogs and the written word. Their friendship deepens, transforming the world around them into something that neither one is prepared for, making them question everything they once knew. 

Numamushi stands out as a precocious and delightful main character, bridging the gap between a world of wonder and hate, one dominated by both man and beast. Many authors struggle to create a child protagonist that resonates with mature audiences while maintaining authenticity and sincerity. However, Ghosh deftly navigates this challenge, portraying Numamushi with a personality that never loses its charm. In a memorable scene where Mizukiyo is upset by a visitor, Numamushi’s endearing nature shines through: “Did he steal your frogs? Shall I go and bite his ankles?” This innocence and loyalty make Numamushi a character worth cherishing. 

Alongside Numamushi are the ones he comes to love and sees as his family, like his close friend Mizukiyo and the guardian spirit of the river. Despite the limited cast of characters, Ghosh masterfully brings them, as well as their world, to life. Using two sentences where others may use ten, Ghosh describes their characters in wonderfully vivid ways: “If Mizukiyo’s voice was the river, Tora’s was the mountain. When he talked—which was constantly—his words were firm and sunlit, cutting solidly through haze and rain.” 

The narrative’s fundamental theme revolves around the significance of words, and their influence on man and beast. Ghosh’s careful selection and placement of words underscore the story’s essence. When Mizukiyo praises Numamushi for being mindful of his words, he imparts a valuable lesson: “Words are water, after all, and water is precious. Easily wasted.” No one knows this lesson more than Ghosh, and it is a lesson that other writers should take note of. 

Words, too, are shown meaning something different to each character. For Numamushi, they are a lure into a world that he has never known, one that he embraces without question. For Mizukiyo, words are a link to the past, and for Tora, they represent the present, as he grapples with his career and where life in post-war Japan has taken society. And for the guardian spirit of the river, words, especially names, mean less to him than a human could ever imagine for: “The land and its creatures all knew what they were and didn’t care so much for who. It was only humans who asked for names and gave them to everything they feared to lose.” 

Underscoring Numamushi is how it is unafraid to embrace the harsh reality that exists in fairytales, something that many forget—or choose to ignore. There is something terribly sinister about the mutilation of Cinderella’s sister to fit into glass slippers or the evil queen’s demise by dancing in scalding iron shoes in Snow White, yet Ghosh is unafraid to take risks with their story.

Numamushi and Mizukiyo’s intense consumption of small creatures scattered along the riverside, described with a vividness that might seem bizarre or repulsive in the hands of another writer, captivates readers. Ghosh’s adept prose draws them into these scenes, while the gorgeous black and white illustrations found throughout chapters refuse to release their grip, enhancing the story’s unsettling allure.

And the unsettling allure of Numamushi is what allows the story to succeed. It is untraditional in its format, for the story breaks the mold of what fairytales tend to be. There is no princess that needs saving or a dragon to be slayed; instead, there is a curse buried within the home that Mizukiyo resides in and in the heart of each character that comes near. The story blurs the line between the world of beast and man, but it does not question or compare the nature of each and make the reader consider which is more brutal. Instead, Ghosh allows the story to breathe and intertwine around the themes of love, forgiveness, and pain: raw and unforgiving pain. And with pain comes healing, as Numamushi reflects: “If snakes had venom to fill and protect the stomachs that made them snakes, then humans had tears to protect and clean the hearts that made them humans.” 

Overall, Numamushi is a captivating novella that transcends the boundaries of traditional fairytales. Ghosh’s ability to blend enchantment with stark reality, coupled with their skillful characterization and thoughtful prose, creates a world that lingers in the reader’s mind. With its rich thematic depth and compelling storytelling, Numamushi stands as a testament to Ghosh’s literary prowess, offering readers an incredibly lovely yet bittersweet escape. 

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Reviewed by Rosa Kumar

A fruitless quest, a deadly fog, and bones being left behind

Imagine a fantasy novel that combines the sociopolitical intensity of Suzanne Collins’ The Hunger Games with the creepy imagery of the original Grimm’s fairy tales. Now stop imagining. Rosalyn Briar’s The Crown of Bones is a tantalizing mix of the two styles, and it’s exactly the page-turning escapist novel I needed to kick off 2021.

Our spunky redheaded protagonist Gisela cleans manors, sells produce at the market, and manages the caretaking of her sister who suffers from a developmental disorder, all while warding off handsy obnoxious suitors and managing an alcoholic father. If that isn’t enough on her plate, she is constantly badgered by her dead brother’s gorgeous best friend Brahm. And not to mention that she has no money…and she’s still a virgin.

“The woman steps towards the Altar…She allows her toddler to sacrifice an egg. I rub my temples at the sight. How many more of my customers will waste my goods on a fairy tale goddess?” (3)

At 18, she is also a potential Offering to the local Goddess Bergot; her entire town is obsessively pious toward Bergot, but Gisela finds the piety ridiculous and wasteful. This isn’t something on her radar though, given that she’s the sole provider for her family.

But then she is Chosen.

Gisela knows it’s not a coincidence that the day before she becomes an Offering, Brahm is also chosen, and together with other Offerings, they have to navigate the deadly fog and horrifying fairy tales of the foggy mountains. They are searching for Bergot’s mythical crown. They don’t know what it looks like or where it is, just that every year eight Offerings go on this quest, and every year not a single one returns.

“The white smoke creeps all around. On the track leading into the dim cavern sits six rusty carts. And seven of us” (54).

Dark fairy tale retellings are one hell of a way to spend a cold winter night. Rosalyn Briar does not shy away from the gruesome authenticity of the original German stories either. But my favorite part of reading this has got to be the imagery; I vividly picture the moving deadly fog and all the horrible little fairy tale creatures. Briar’s writing is absorbing and fast-paced, with adventures in every chapter.

Another aspect that keeps us going is the competitiveness between the Offerings; it’s very much a reminder of The Hunger Games and their desperate need to survive, but lucky for us, it’s different enough to stand out.

A word of warning: there is plenty going on fairy-tale-wise within the novel, but it does ultimately read as a romance which is difficult to tell from the blurb; expect frequent scenes of romantic intensity along with the expected deadly quests, dark twists, and headstrong characters. If you’re down for all that, you’ll be just as enthralled as I was.

Category: Dark Fantasy

Paperback: 250 pages

ISBN: 978-1655164422

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Reviewed by Joshua Ryan Bligh

Packed with wit and weirdness, The Science of Lost Futures weaves through the absurd to tell stories of human conditions and connection.

A foot the size of a water tower washes ashore; your deceased Nana paddles her coffin over to your front porch during a flood; you bring your pet Nazi to class for show and tell. Nothing out of the ordinary, right?

Right. Or, at least, such is the feat that Ryan Habermeyer pulls off with his short story collection The Science of Lost Futures. In under twenty stories, Habermeyer pulls from a boundless imagination to deliver tales that proudly stride upon the line between dream and reality without ever losing their relevance to the reader.

Each story has a central element of absurdity. But through a masterful use of prose, pacing, and narrative, the absurd elements–while they’re always around–take a backseat to the story’s characters and their emotional and psychological struggles. Where authors could use the surreal as a crutch, Habermeyer does something unbelievable with the unbelievable: it becomes mundane.

“My father said we’re all really good at trying to be the thing we are not, but we’re miserable at being what we are.”

His works are in the magical realist vein of Marquez, Murakami, or Castillo in their ability to take something otherwise magical and place it into the confines of daily life. But Habermeyer goes a step further, creating works that make the surreal real: surrealist realism, if you would. The surreal never hogs the stage, as Habermeyer’s strong prose and well-constructed characters create a sense of tightness in an otherwise expansive subject matter, keeping the reader’s attention and grounding the narrative in relatable themes.

The stories might follow a woman living in a zoo exhibit, a literally wandering womb, or a person turning into a black hole—but these moments all have their purpose. Even at their most ostensibly irrational, Habermeyer’s characters act on thoroughly human emotion, needs, and drives. The stimulus-reaction link might seem unfamiliar and the characters’ behaviors may for a moment seem unbelievable, but the human core is always there in each action, grounding each story and allowing its message to shine through the glitter of the author’s delicious absurdities.

The Science of Lost Futures is a rare gem that should appeal to both fans and non-fans of the fantastical. It certainly tantalizes the imagination with its scenarios, but never sacrifices narrative and technical quality at the expense of the fantastical. You might come out the other side of these tales a little weirder, but, oddly enough, more grounded as well.

Category: Magical Realism | Short Story Collection

Publisher: BOA Editions

Paperback: 216 pages

ISBN: 978-1942683605

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Reviewed by Felicia Nicole Hall

No damsels in distress—only strong women defeating beasts in this illustrated collection of feminist fairy tales

Some stories in this collection reimagine classic fairy tales like Cinderella and Rapunzel, while others are completely original; but they share a common theme—the women are the heroes this time.  In the original fairy tales that we grew up with, the princess is too-often the damsel in distress, the one who needs to be saved by the prince.

But in She is a Beast, we see our favorite childhood princesses with the strength and independence they deserve. We see them taking control of their relationships, choosing the paths that will best satisfy them, and defeating beasts with their own power. It’s a feminist’s dream come true.

There are so many stories and moments in this collection that ring true and bring us together. In the first fairy tale, “Killing the Beast,” the narrator describes being groped in a crowded pub; later on, she feels trapped in marriage and motherhood. Even through the filter of fantasy, these moments among many others are undeniably recognizable for women, setting the stage for our connection to come.

“It’s all about knowing who you’re above in the food chain. I was more clever than all of the men in the village put together. I would prove I was more clever than the Beast, too.” 

Rosso’s writing is something to admire. When I first picked up this book, I was worried that the changing protagonists would blend together, the voices too similar or feeling like a continuation of the same story. But Rosso is able to create unique characters each time through her ability to dip in and out of great voices and tones. I read this book straight through without pause, and after finishing, I was able to tell apart each protagonist and which singular feminist fairy tale she shared with us.

It wouldn’t be right if I didn’t mention the use of visual art and text throughout the collection. The classic font and drop caps combine with vibrant drawings to offer an illustrated and fully imagined world to venture through. These aspects really intensify the experience of reading a fairytale. I felt like a little kid again, reading Cinderella for the first time, but this time, I was the hero, not the prince who came to save me.

If there’s one thing that didn’t wow me, it’d be the pacing of the stories. I could have spent a bit more time with each one, slowing down the pace and leaving me with less questions. These characters are just too intriguing for me to leave them so quickly like this. But, hey, if the only thing that leaves me wanting is that I didn’t have the chance to read this book for longer, then I’d say we’ve got ourselves a really special book here.

Rosso does an amazing job of capturing the nostalgia of a fairytale with modern day feminist twists. I read it in one sitting, and I’ll definitely be jumping into it a second time. Due to some adult content, it may not be suited for young girls, but She is a Beast is a modern-day woman’s ideal collection of fairytales—the ones where we’ll be the heroes.

Publisher: Apep Publications

Saddle-stitched: 56 pages

ISBN: 978-1-7346983-0-5

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Reviewed by Rosa Kumar

A dark fairytale romance set in the intellectual landscape of Enlightenment France

If you’ve ever wanted to read a fresh version of Beauty and the Beast, and when I say fresh, I mean dark, sensual, and dotted with Enlightenment-era philosophical discussions, then Therese Doucet’s The Prisoner of the Castle of Enlightenment is exactly what you’ve been looking for.

The novel’s protagonist Violaine is a little bit different than the virginial Belle from Beauty and the Beast. Though both Belle and Violaine love books, Violaine reads books that an 18^th century woman probably shouldn’t have access to; she is a widowed mother of two, and she doesn’t totally mind being sold by her father to be a mysterious wealthy nobleman’s companion – though she only felt like a prisoner for a brief time before getting used to the intellectual freedom the castle and the nobleman afforded her.

“‘Do you wish to leave?’

“‘No,’ I found myself answering honestly, surprised to feel the truth of it.”

This mysterious Marquis has a palace run by invisible servants; he allows Violaine to get familiar with the grounds and library, and they exchange letters to get to know each other until eventually she is ready to meet him. The Marquis visits her only at night; she does not know what he looks like, only that their nights are passionate and their intellectual connection deep. The mystery of his appearance works wonders for my curious readerly mind.

The castle is eventually populated by other Enlightenment-era intellectuals who are invited by the Marquis to escape to the French countryside of Boisaulne where they are free to discourse, read, and create things that they could otherwise be persecuted for; the political undertones of the novel reflect real-life struggles of individuals during the Enlightenment period who struggled to reconcile their views with the Church. In that way, this novel fits neatly into a sort of historical fantasy genre, offering plenty of both for a myriad of readers to enjoy.

“It appears the domain of Boisaulne borders on several villages of heretics…these depraved dregs of humanity ought to have been wiped out with the rest of their kind a century ago.”

This novel combines several fairy-tales and myths, and darkens them to appeal to an edgy adult audience. Though at times it does feel as though the story is going a bit off track, Violaine’s personal growth and passions are always brought to the forefront again. It is refreshing to read a novel where a strong widowed mother is at the forefront of the fairytale, and not your usual helpless damsel. This intelligent retelling weaves us through history with fantasy, grounding us and opening our doors to enlightenment.

Publisher: DX Varos

Paperback: 284 pages

ISBN: 978-1941072622

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