Jamie writes stories where magic lives just beneath the surface—where ghosts haunt houses that no longer exist, selkies are stranded far from the sea, and witches discover their power one herb at a time. Her work blends folklore, emotional depth, and a deep empathy for characters navigating impossible choices. She lives in Colorado, where her two border collies are still waiting for her to get them a proper herd of sheep.

Spells Gone Sideways by Jamie Ferguson

Years ago my husband made a lemon tart. He changed the proportions a little because the dish we had didn't fit what the recipe called for. This seemed reasonable: I've doubled recipes plenty of times. Except…the tart came out tasting like fish. There was no fish in it, and no fish anywhere in the kitchen. We both put a brave face on at first, but after a few bites, enough was enough. Apparently lemon juice can interact with certain materials and result in unexpected flavors. Who knew?

That's how magic goes wrong in the stories you're about to read. Nobody summons a demon or breaks the world. Someone uses the wrong ingredient in a spell, or drops something, or bumps into something and accidentally opens a portal to another world.

I love writing about the kind of humor that shows up in real life, where it's part of how you find out who somebody is. Digging into characters, how they feel and what they think and why they react the way they do, is often even more enjoyable to write—and to read—when there's humor involved. And it's always fun to put my characters into unexpected situations and see what happens. Sometimes even I'm surprised!

In Greek and Roman mythology, there's always some innocent person who gets turned into a monster, or a tree, because a god acted like a little kid throwing a temper tantrum. That's how I came up with the idea of writing about the monster Scylla. Not only did she eat people, she had six heads, twelve tentacles, and, inexplicably, six dog heads around her waist, so writing her story was a lot of fun. When I was asked to write a story for a Christmas collection, I had a great time using as many holiday tropes as I could fit into the story. And when I wrote a story about Bean the goblin on a road trip I gave him a cousin who is a super nice guy, but not the kind of person (or goblin) you'd want to be in a car with for fourteen hundred miles.

I hope these stories give you the warm, happy feeling I had when writing them.

And if you ever find a mysterious portal, try not to bump into it.

CURATOR'S NOTE

Jamie Ferguson loves to write about magic that's gone slightly awry. She takes everyday examples and turns them into moments of magical trouble. In her stories, you'll find goblins on road trips, angry (but not necessarily vengeful) gods, and moments where magic lingers just beneath the surface. Stories that will leave you wanting more. – Kristine Kathryn Rusch

 
 

BOOK PREVIEW

Bean hated road trips.

He used to love them. Driving along a road in the sunshine, the window cracked open just enough to feel the wind in his hair, but not enough to drown out the sound of his stereo. For a goblin who'd spent most of his life in caverns deep underground, road trips were a wonderful adventure.

Or at least he'd enjoyed them until this trip.

"I forgot to pack my toothbrush," his cousin Heinrich said, and took a big bite of the candy cane he held in one large, sticky hand.

Bean's fingers tightened on the steering wheel of his little sedan. Storm clouds filled the sky, they were barely out of the Pittsburgh city limits, and he was not going back to his cousin's apartment to pick up anything else. They'd already gone back three times: the first time to get Heinrich's down pillow, then to get a grocery bag filled with snacks, and finally to get his favorite pair of sneakers. Why Heinrich wasn't actually wearing the sneakers was unclear. For some reason he'd insisted on wearing a pair of fuzzy, red-and-green striped slippers with silver bells sewn on the tops instead. It was June, not December.

They'd left a little before ten a.m., two hours later than planned, since Heinrich had been asleep when Bean arrived to pick him up, then insisted on making pancakes before starting off. This might not have been such a bad thing—Bean loved pancakes—except Heinrich turned out to be an appallingly bad cook. Now they were finally on the road, and had removed the illusions they wore to hide their true selves from the humans they lived among.

"We can stop and buy you a new toothbrush," Bean said. Tiny droplets of rain began to patter on the windshield, and he flipped on the wipers.

"But what if I can't find the same brand?" Heinrich asked. He poked at his teeth with a charcoal-gray fingernail. "Dental hygiene is important. I don't want to risk getting a cavity or gum disease or something."

"It's not like you're going to be gone for months," Bean said. "It's a two-day drive from here to Denver. We'll be back home by Saturday. You can deal with a different brand of toothbrush for a week."

"Fine," Heinrich said, pressing his big nose up against the passenger window. He'd already left nose smears all over the glass.

Bean gritted his teeth and tried not to think about how dirty his car was going to be by the end of the trip. He really shouldn't have agreed to go at all. His master's thesis was due in a month and he hadn't even started writing it, plus once he graduated with his mechanical engineering degree—assuming he passed his verbal exams, which loomed ominously on the horizon—he'd have to find a real job. His scholarship only covered his rent through the end of August, and even if he went from part- to full-time at the grocery store, he'd barely be able to make ends meet. He had plenty of problems of his own to deal with.

But Heinrich didn't have a car, in spite of the fact that he had lived aboveground his whole life. He didn't even know how to drive at all. While he was brilliant in some ways—he was the only person Bean knew of outside the university whose job was being a mathematician—he seemed completely unable to maneuver the world of transportation. He'd gotten lost every time he'd traveled anywhere on his own. Last fall Heinrich had ended up in Miami, even though Bean had watched him board a train headed to Seattle. So Bean couldn't turn down Heinrich's request for help, and now he was stuck helping Heinrich in getting his great-grandmother's wedding ring out of a storage unit in Colorado, so Heinrich could propose to his girlfriend, Laura.

Laura had broken up with Heinrich last month, saying she was tired of waiting for him to propose. Then she'd moved back to Colorado and hadn't responded to any of his many, many calls or messages since. So it remained to be seen whether or not the ring was really worth the trip.

Bean didn't have a girlfriend of his own. He was a long, long way from even thinking about matrimony. It had been hard to figure out human dating norms when he'd started college—at first everything seemed to involve a phone app, which was really confusing. That was not how it had been in the caverns. And even after he'd gotten up the nerve to ask girls out in person, there was always the question of his goblinhood. Was it right to go out on a date with a human woman while wearing his illusion?

He had to wear the illusion; otherwise, he'd risk humanity finding out that goblins were real, and thereby put his people in jeopardy. And human physical norms were quite a bit different from goblin norms. Anyone looking at him would see a short, squat, muscular young man with peach-brown skin and a larger than normal nose and ears, but wouldn't be able to see through his disguise to see the bluish-gray color his skin actually was. Nor would they realize just how big his nose and ears really were by human standards. Dating someone under false pretenses felt unethical.

Heinrich didn't have to worry about ethical dilemmas. His girlfriend—ex-girlfriend, now—was half elf and half human, and she knew all about Heinrich's goblin nature because they'd met at her sister's wedding.

"Are we there yet?" Heinrich asked. He giggled and took a swig of ginger ale.

Bean gritted his teeth and glanced at the odometer. Only about fourteen hundred miles to go. Fortunately there wasn't much traffic. At the moment.

Heinrich rummaged in one of the many bags he'd jammed around himself, then looked out the front window just as they passed an exit. He let out an ear-splitting shriek and grabbed Bean's arm with both hands.

"What now?" Bean asked, trying to focus on the road.

"You have to pull over!"

"We're on the highway. I can pull over at the next exit."

"No, you have to pull over now!" Heinrich squeezed Bean's right bicep so hard his grasp felt like a tourniquet.

"For the love of… Fine, let me go," Bean said, as he slowed the car and pulled over to the side lane. He turned on the hazards, brought the car to a stop, and stared at his cousin, who still held Bean's arm in a rather sticky death grip. Heinrich's gaze remained fixed on something ahead of them. His candy cane now rested on his bare, hairy left thigh. "Heinrich. We've stopped. The car isn't moving. Would you please let go of my arm?"

"Okay," Heinrich said in a small voice, his gaze still locked on whatever it was he was looking at. His bluish-gray skin had taken on an odd pallor, and his dark eyes were opened so wide that his thick, bushy eyebrows almost reached his hairline. He released Bean's arm and continued to stare out the window.

Bean peered in the direction his cousin was looking. All he could see were cars driving past them, a few warehouses on the side of the highway, and an overpass. The wiper blades scraped against the windshield with that scraping, rubbery sound they make when there's hardly any water to wipe off. Bean switched them off and took a deep breath.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"That," Heinrich said, pointing straight ahead of them. "We can't go under that."

"Under what? The overpass?"

Heinrich nodded. Some of the tiny bits of candy that clung to one corner of his mouth fell off and landed in between the passenger seat and the console.

"Seriously?" Bean rolled his eyes, trying not to wonder whether he'd be able to vacuum up the candy after their trip, assuming it hadn't melted and oozed into the fuzzy fabric. At least it smelled like mint. He resolved to sneak the package of chili pepper and ranch potato chips out of Heinrich's bag and toss it into the garbage at the next rest stop. If they managed to stay on the road long enough to make it to a rest stop. "Come on, Heinrich. We're driving from Pennsylvania to Colorado. You can't expect us to avoid overpasses."

Heinrich shook his head. "We can't go under them. At all."

"Why?"

Heinrich shrugged. "I don't know. I just don't like them."