We here at The Elephant Ladder would like to dedicate this issue to Ruth Bader Ginsburg. A champion of women’s rights and a hero to us all. May her memory be a blessing.
“Being normal is vastly overrated.“Halloweentown
Letter from the Editor
For hundreds of years people have feared witches; from the burning times to Salem, all the way to modern witch hunts like the Satanic Panic of the 80s. Our world has a tendency of targeting and attacking those who dare to dance outside societal norms, but there is also great power in being feared.
With the rise of social media, women, men, and non-binary folks alike have joined forces to reclaim the word ‘witch.’ On YouTube and TikTok witches from around the globe can be found sharing their spiritual journeys, giving tips on spell work, and creating communities of uniquely beautiful individuals who dare to question the rules and seek answers to the questions far too many are afraid to ask.
When you, our readers, voted for the theme of this issue to be Witches, we were thrilled. While anyone of any gender can be a witch, it is women who have been historically targeted for practicing witchcraft. This doesn’t invalidate the suffering and struggles of witches who do not identify as female, but it does create an interesting dialogue considering the world as we know it right now. The Elephant Ladder is based out of America, where we are currently locked in a battle for women’s rights. In 2016, our country suffered a great loss when a champion of women’s rights, Hillary Clinton, did not win the presidency and as another election quickly approaches, we cannot help but mourn the loss of what could have been.
Like many other parts of the world, America has a deep history of misogyny and an overall fear of ‘otherness’ that still plagues us to this day. Nevertheless, much like witches in the face of persecution, those of us who believe in justice and equality will persevere. There is great bravery in the witches of today (and every witch throughout history) as they stand united against hatred and fear, not just in America, but around the globe.
We are so excited for you all to consume the amazing poetry, short stories, artwork, and photography in this issue and we hope it inspires you to go out and seek your own magic.
Samhain approaches, the midnight hour is close at hand, and remember—we are the weirdos.
Molly Likovich (she/her)
The Elephant Ladder is based in America and we want to encourage all of our American elephants to go out and vote this November! Use your voice, exercise your right, and help make our country a better place!
Check out The Elephant Ladder merch shop!
“I liked myths. They weren’t adult stories and they weren’t children’s stories. They were better than that. They just were.”Neil Gaiman
The Ocean at The End of the Lane Left Me Drowning
book review by Bridget Barnsley
Neil Gaiman is a prolific writer. Many say he’s one of the greatest living authors. He has a wide variety of stories which people have mixed opinions on, but there is no doubt that he can write a good book. The same can be said about The Ocean at the End of the Lane, which came out in June 2013. It’s a short fantastical story with magical realism elements that bring it all together, but ultimately left me wanting a bit more.
The novel follows an unnamed middle aged man as he ventures back to his childhood home. During his trip, he walks down to the farm at the end of the lane where memories return of his childhood friend Lettie Hempstock and her mother and grandmother, all of whom had mysteriously vanished from his mind. These memories overwhelm him, forcing him to come face to face with a strange past that he had all but forgotten. Forty years ago darkness was unleashed in the town and Lettie swore she would protect him.
The strength of Neil Gaiman’s prose is a given. He has written many phenomenal books in his lifetime and this one was no different in terms of how he paints a picture in the reader’s mind. Ocean read like an adult fairytale reminding you of a time gone by. The way he described the nostalgic lens people view their childhood through was extremely relatable. Gaiman also traced the idea of learning more and less as you grow up. A quote that especially stuck out to me was: “The truth is there aren’t any grown-ups, not one in the whole wide world.” Many people grow up with the idea that they will know exactly what to do when they grow up, only to be “grown” and realize they still don’t know. The uncertainties of life are astounding and Gaiman managed to highlight that in a very humanizing way.
The young bookish boy who we follow was very relatable. I enjoyed seeing his innocence contrasted with his older mind looking back, but at times the shift was quite jarring because we would be in his head and then he would think like an adult and it would throw me out of the story. His relationships with the other characters in his life were vivid and well explained. Similarly, his interactions with Lettie were always full of mystery and kept me on the edge of my seat as I tried to piece the story together.
Lettie, her mother, and her grandmother provided an intriguing take on witches. They often seemed to know what was happening, but would not let the audience in on it so we were simply watching the scene as confused as the boy. In some ways this worked wonderfully, fully immersing you in the boy’s perspective, but in the end this was the part of the story I found to be the weakest. While I understand the point of omitting many of the details about their lives and how their magic works, I was left wanting something more cohesive. I desired more answers than Neil Gaiman is ever going to give, leaving me to come to my own conclusions.
Neil Gaiman read the audiobook version I was able to rent from the library and no matter what faults I had with the story, his reading of it was impeccable. I loved every second of his narration.
If you’re looking for a book that will leave you with more questions than you started with and get you thinking about some existential topics, this book is for you! While I had some critiques and I certainly don’t think it’s a book for everyone, many people will enjoy the mystery and the way Gaiman brings supernatural ideas into a world grounded in reality.
“Those who do not believe in magic will never find it.”Roald Dahl
A Tree Telling of Girl Magic
by Laura Eppinger
Two girl-humans left the hard plastic swings.
Ran their fingers into ribbed bark. And their lips. I accepted the human kisses. They called me, Beauty. Then started picking at the waste around my base, the bits other humans left after use. Wandered away. Came back bearing bottle caps, fingers circling the scalloped bits of tin. Some said 7UP, some Heineken. These tiny ones lined me with bottle caps limb to limb.
They saw me—not just as a staple of their neighborhood park, not as a marker to meet a mate at midnight. Not just a place to lean against while sipping sour beer. Pretty, pretty, they called their work and my leaves and the shade I cast. Pretty, they called me.
Six-year-old fingertips left soda tab constellations over me. The spark warmed my sap, each veiny leaf. The longest days are behind us, summer season becomes the season of sleep. Yet I rustled.
Just in time to feel another girl-human, a head taller than the other two, scrape the decorations loose. She heard their Nos and the Stops but dashed my colorful new bits back into the dirt.
You’re littering, she told my weeping devotees. It’s the same as throwing this stuff on the ground.
When the gatherer-girls wept, their tormentor said, If you pick it up, I’ll throw it off again.
Two broken girl hearts that day. Two little mammals lifted into mother arms, carted back home for nap time. But we made a circle and shared a spark. We made a circle and girl hearts can mend. I am old and they are young and I have been witnessed and I am awake.
Laura Eppinger (she/her) is a Pushcart-nominated writer of fiction, poetry and essay. Her work has appeared at the Rumpus, the Toast, amongst others. She’s the managing editor at Newfound Journal.
Visit her here: https://lauraeppinger.blog/workspub/
She Tweets at @lola_epp
“I’m through accepting limits because someone says they’re so.”Wicked
Wise & Walking
by Kathy Mire
Kathy Mire (she/her) is a Louisiana teacher with a background in Psychology who is always seeking new opportunities to be a student herself. Her hobbies include: hiking, dancing, journaling, and intuitive tarot.
“In this whole wide wicked world the only thing you have to fear, is me.”American Horror Story: Coven
by Callie S. Blackstone
by Callie S. Blackstone
Callie S. Blackstone (she/her) is a lifelong New Englander. She is lucky enough to wake up to the smell of saltwater and the call of seagulls. Her creative nonfiction has been published in SageWoman. Her poetry is forthcoming in the Tell Me More anthology from East Jasmine Review.
“You had the power within you all along, my dear.”Glinda The Good Witch
by May Palace
May Palace (she/they) is a professional data scientist from Maryland who spends all of her free time collecting creative projects. Among other things, she enjoys writing, drawing, and photography. Her favorite subjects in any of these media are those that feel witchy. You can find her hiking and running, or sitting at home playing video games with her cats.
“In witchcraft, each of us must reveal our own truth.”Spiral Dance
The Witch in the Trees
by Jordan E. McNeil
Dahlia carried the bag full of materials deep into the forest, to where no light shined through the denseness of trees. How fortunate for her that the greedy prince sought her out, demanding her help. It saved her a mountain of trouble in procuring the items she needed—she could’ve done it herself, if she needed to, but it was better to have another body do the work.
Why put yourself in danger if you didn’t need to?
In the darkest part of the woods, only the creatures of the trees could see. Dahlia removed the stone pendant from beneath her gown, held the disk to her lips.
“Light” she whispered, breath rustling over her fingers. The stone glowed, brighter and brighter until she dropped it back to her chest. Greenish light surrounded her, eerily resting on bark and leaves.
She continued forward through the brush and branches. With a flick of her wrist, a path was parted for her, no need to physically push the flora out of her way. Eventually, she arrived at her destination—the smallest clearing amidst the trees. A perfect circle from ground to sky, the exact size to completely fill with light during the apex of the sun and moon’s rotations. Currently, it was just past midday, sunlight barely slanting into the clearing, so Dahlia had some time to kill.
Placing her pack down on a nearby rock, she sat cross-legged on the grass, still dewy damp from a much earlier rain shower. Centered her body, centered her breathing, centered her mind on a singular thought. A singular face.
“I see you’ve ignored my warnings.”
Dahlia let out a slow huff of breath, rustling the hair that had fallen in her face, before looking up at the woman standing in front of her. The Witch of the Water.
“A little far from home, aren’t you, Leigh?” Dahlia asked, stretching her legs.
The woman shrugged slightly. “Distance is a relative concept.” She brushed a hand over her shaved head. “So is home.”
“I didn’t ask for your philosophical poetry.” Dahlia stood, checked the level of light in the clearing—shortly after sundown. Not much longer now. “Why are you here, water witch?”
Leigh’s face stilled. “Don’t play ignorant. You know why I’m here.”
“Yes, well,” Dahlia brushed grass from her legs. “Unless you have something new to say, I don’t know why you bothered to make the trip.” She purposefully walked past the other witch, ignoring any eye contact, to her pack on the stone. As she rifled through the bag, double checking the contents, Leigh came up behind her.
“This isn’t right, and you know it.” Her voice was softer now, kinder. “There are rules here, natural laws—”
“Forget the laws!” Dahlia turned on her heel, nose mere inches from Leigh’s. “Do you see any of the townsfolk caring about your precious natural laws? Do you think any of them would even think twice about what they should or shouldn’t do if they had even a fraction of our power? And who do you propose has created these ‘laws’?” Her face started to twist into a sneer. “Enforces them? Some almighty god?”
The older witch stood still against the younger’s tirade. “All magic has a price, Dahlia.”
“Don’t treat me like a child.” Returning to her bag, she continued over her shoulder. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
She expected Leigh to keep lecturing—she loved to lecture—but when she turned back around, she found nothing but the moonlight starting to shine through the trees.
When the moon reached its apex, the clearing filled with soft light, Dahlia began. She emptied the bag, placed the pieces of Angel Quartz in a small circle in the moonlit grass in front of her. One by one, she held a bundle of wormwood in her hand, whispered “light” upon each to start them smoldering. She stabbed the unlit ends into the ground, three points of a triangle around the circle of quartz.
She paused, looking up at the moon above her. The heady scent of wormwood wafted around the clearing. Leigh’s words echoed faintly in her head.
All magic has a price.
Dahlia swore under her breath for letting the witch get under her skin and shook her head clear. She had limited time if she wanted to do this tonight, and she wasn’t about to waste it thinking about Leigh and her “rules.”
She pulled the final item from her pack—a black leather tome with small gold leaf on the title: spirituum quaeritis. It felt heavier in her palm than she remembered. Quickly skimming through pages by the moonlight, she found the section she was looking for. A deep breath in to steady the nerves, and then she started to recite the old language to herself. Once, twice, three times, she continued to recite it over and over, knowing that it could take many times for the words to work their way through the veil and reach the person she wanted.
After the seventh incantation, a strong wind ripped through the clearing, fluttering the pages and dowsing the wormwood. In front of Dahlia, floating above the quartz circle, was the literal wisp of a girl. Translucent, her hair and clothing flowed as though she was suspended in the sea. Dahlia had to fight the urge to sob, to reach out and attempt to lace her fingers between the shade’s.
“Lil,” she whispered. “Lil, it’s me. It’s Dahlia.”
The girl blinked slowly at her. “Da…hlia?”
Dahlia smiled, started to cry in relief. “Yes. Yes, it’s me, honey. I’m here.”
“Why,” Lil’s voice warbled and warped, as though she was speaking under water. As though she was speaking from so very far away. “Why…did you bri…ng me here?”
Dahlia stumbled, stunned. “I’ve missed you…I’ve missed you so much.”
“Why,” the ghost of Lil repeated, “am I…here?”
This time Dahlia leaned forward on her knees, closing the distance between her and her lover. “I’m going to figure it out.” Her hand hovered near the ghostly other’s. “I’m going to bring you back; I’m going to save you.”
Lil violently shook her head. “No. No NO!” Her voice, for a brief moment clearer than before, caused Dahlia to flinch back. “It…hurts.” The words were sharp in her ears. “Existence…hurts.”
“You…you don’t think I know that?” Dahlia couldn’t stop herself from crying, now. “That’s all I’ve felt since…since you…”
“Grieving what…is gone.” The wisp looked gently upon her. “I…am gone, Dahlia.”
“No. No, I’m going to find a way, I’m so close, Lil, I swear—”
“Don’t.” Lil’s voice echoed in the clearing. “Don’t you…dare.” The wind started to pick up around the two, the clearing growing dark with the movement of the moon. “I don’t…want.”
“No, Lil.” Dahlia’s voice was barely a whisper. “Please.”
Lil’s shade became thinner, sounded farther away. “I don’t…I’m already g…”
A tree branch snapped in the wind, and the ghost was gone. Dahlia stared at the empty space before her, hand still hovering where her lover’s was. Wolves nearby sang to the setting moon as she sank into the ground and sobbed.
Jordan E. McNeil (she/her) writes fairytales, rages at videogames, and takes selfies with goats. Her work can be found (or is forthcoming) at Curating Alexandria, The Arcanist, Arsenika, and Liminality. She can be found on Twitter, @Je_McNeil, and at Patreon.com/JordanEMcNeil.’
“I am wicked in many ways.”Jessica Spotswood
Marcia L. Ruiz Olguín (she/her) dwells in a little corner in Mexico, aspiring writer, and full-time witch. Soldiering through the inconvenient mundane responsibilities. She is a senior in college, and has a Creative Writing certificate from The University of Edinburgh. You can usually find her drinking coffee, dreaming of the Scottish land, accompanied by her black cat and every now on then on Tik Tok embodying niche characters (@markibreet)
“They’re burning all the witches even if you aren’t one. So light me up.”Taylor Swift
The Witch’s Mirror
by Shell St. James
Every Halloween, her house was egged. Every year, she would rise the next morning and find her trees wound with toilet paper, her trash barrel tipped over… occasionally a brave soul would venture close enough to soap a window. One year there was chalk scrawled on the street in front of her house: “WITCH” it spelled out, with the sign of the pentagram. She had snorted in disgust and conjured up a rainstorm to take care of it.
That was the problem, she thought. People were ignorant these days of what being a witch really meant. Her great-great-grandmother’s experience was different. Her journal told of people in the village respecting her herbal knowledge and unique insight regarding their future. They would bring gifts of chickens, or sweet potatoes, or sometimes barter in exchange for her services.
These days, people were so high and mighty, foolishly equating witchcraft with evil. Nonsense! She had inherited her gift from a long line of witches and had performed her first spell at the tender age of eight – and she had never caused a speck of harm to another.
Now, a little mischief…that was another matter altogether.
As she watched through the parlor window, a group of schoolchildren walked past her house, pausing to speculate and whisper to each other. She could sense it coming, even without regarding her crystal ball. They were planning hijinks for this evening. Well, this time she’d have a little surprise for them.
The ballerina pirouetted under the streetlight, looking up at the night sky. Her twirling was a little less than graceful, since her mom had insisted that she wear sneakers instead of her ballet slippers, and her shadow was a tad bulky, due to the sweatshirt over her leotard. Still, the night was magical! She felt exhilarated to be out with her friends, on their way to what was sure to be a great party – hosted by the most popular kid in their sixth-grade class.
She danced over to Stacie, who was dressed as a princess. It was a great costume, and she was especially envious that Stacie had been allowed to wear make-up. Blue eyeshadow, a touch of lipstick and blush, and even a smattering of glitter graced her friend’s already pretty face. She was sure to get the attention of all the boys. Already, Tim, who was dressed as a cowboy, was glued to her side, talking her ear off.
Stacie smiled at her, welcoming a distraction from Tim, who was rambling on about football. “I bet your legs are freezing, Beth!” she commented. Although Stacie was not wearing a coat, her princess gown had long sleeves and came down to her ankles. Beth knew she was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and leggings under it.
Beth glanced down at her tights, wondering if she should have worn jeans over them, at least for the walk over to the party. “Not really,” she lied, glancing back at Kevin, who was lagging behind. Had he even noticed her costume? She’d been trying to get his attention since September.
Kevin looked dashing, dressed as a pirate – specifically, Captain Jack Sparrow – and was busy texting as he shambled along in his swashbuckler boots. He had grown at least an inch over the summer, and now he was the same height as her.
Tim’s stomach growled audibly, and Beth and Stacie giggled. His face turned red under his cowboy hat. “I’m starving,” he confessed. “We had fish for dinner – barf! – so all I ate was French fries and cole slaw. Do you think they’ll have any real food at the party? Or just candy?”
Stacie laughed and said “Apples! For dunking…” with a grin.
Tim groaned. “Is it too much to hope for, that they’ll have pizza?”
Beth said, “I hope they have hot apple cider!” She’d rather have cocoa but didn’t say so. Her big sister, who was in ninth grade, said cocoa was for babies.
Just then, Kevin jogged to catch up.
“OK… don’t hate me,” he began, still looking at his phone.
“Too late!” Tim joked and Kevin gave him a shove. Tim stumbled, grinning, but kept his balance.
“What?” asked Stacie, stopping and looking worried.
“Why?” said Beth, thinking, Hate him? Never! She stopped too, watching Kevin as he finished sending a text message.
He looked up sheepishly. “I got the time wrong. Party starts at 8:30.”
There were groans all around.
“Sorry!” he said, putting his phone away. He shrugged. “I just read it wrong. It happens.”
Tim said, “I don’t care if we get there early. Let’s just go.” He started walking, visions of party food in his head.
“Uh-uh.” Stacie added her dissent, shaking her head vigorously, her tiara wobbling. “That would be lame.” Beth and Kevin agreed. Tim rubbed his stomach, looking doubtful.
“What are we gonna do for a half hour?” he asked. “By the way, did I mention I’m starving?”
Beth tentatively ventured, “Maybe we could trick-or-treat?”
Her suggestion was met with silence, and she wished she hadn’t said it. They had all stopped trick-or-treating last year, deciding only little kids did that.
Kevin said, “I know…” with a gleam in his brown eyes. He was wearing eyeliner to look more like Jack Sparrow. Only Kevin could get away with that and not get beat up, Tim thought.
Kevin lowered his voice conspiratorially. “We could go to the witch’s house.”
“For what?” Stacie demanded. “She’s probably not even a witch. I’m not up for playing pranks on a harmless old lady.”
Beth agreed. “That was ok when we were kids, but…I feel kind of bad now.”
Tim looked at Kevin. “Any other ideas?”
Kevin wasn’t about to give up. “No, guys, listen! It’ll be cool. I’ve got my new phone now…we can take selfies up on her doorstep! Like, right next to the “666” on the house. It’ll be a great Halloween picture!”
The house address was really 696, but recently, the nine had flipped upside-down. Now, rather fittingly, Tim thought, the house bore the mark of the devil. He warmed to the idea.
“That would be a great picture to show the kids at the party…” he admitted, then looked at the girls. “C’mon! Once in a lifetime. After all, who knows if we’ll even be dressing up next year.”
Beth and Stacie glanced at each other. They had just been talking about this. All these childhood traditions were coming to a close… it was kind of bittersweet. Through eye contact, they came to a mutual decision.
“OK,” said Beth. “But we are not throwing eggs!” Stacie added her two cents, “Or soaping windows!”
Kevin doffed his hat and bowed grandly. “Wenches, you have my word. No shenanigans!” It was a pretty good pirate accent, Beth thought admiringly. He must have been practicing.
Tim grumbled, not happy with the attention Kevin was getting. “It’s not like any of us are carrying any soap or eggs, anyway.” He wondered if he should have gone with his second costume choice instead. A WWII bomber pilot was way cooler than a cowboy.
The foursome moved on, their Halloween adventure about to begin.
They stood in front of the old Victorian mansion, gathering courage. The house was in a state of disrepair: peeling grey paint, a broken window taped up with cardboard, a shutter hanging askew. Weeds filled the yard, and the black iron gate lay discarded, face down on the dying grass. The place looked abandoned.
“I don’t know…” whispered Stacie, looking up at the crooked steps.
Beth shivered, silently agreeing. It was pretty spooky.
Tim glanced at Kevin and could see he wasn’t fazed a bit. Hoping to get some glory for himself, he boasted, “I’ll go first!” and started up the steps. He stopped on the third step and looked back. “Guys,” he whispered loudly. “The door is open.” He sounded a little rattled.
The trio on the street stared through the gloom as one. The door was halfway open, though it was hard to see. There was not a single light on inside.
Kevin was determined not to be outdone. “I’m gonna get a picture!” he said and strode up the cracked walkway. He took the steps two at a time, elbowing Tim out of the way. He stood on the porch and looked back at the girls. “Who wants to be in it?”
What could it hurt? Beth thought. Obviously, the place was abandoned. “I will,” she said, and looked at Stacie. “C’mon,” she pleaded with her friend. “We’ll just get a picture, and then we’ll go.”
Stacie looked unconvinced. “I’ll just stay here,” she told Beth.
Beth shrugged and climbed the steps, joining Tim and Kevin on the witch’s porch. Kevin gave her a grin that made her heart skip a beat, and she flashed him a smile. She glanced at the open doorway. She couldn’t see a thing in the dark, but…
“Do you guys smell that?” she asked. OMG, it smelled delicious! Apples and cinnamon… the scent wafted out through the open door, making her mouth water. Hot cider!
Tim sniffed the air. “Pizza!” he declared. His stomach growled hungrily. He poked his head into the doorway. “I swear to God, it’s coming from in there!” His feet followed his stomach and he stepped inside. Trancelike, Beth followed. She had to find out where the enticing aroma was coming from.
“Hey, guys! Don’t go in there! What are you doing?” Stacie cried out in dismay from the street.
Kevin glanced at her and shrugged, shouldering through the doorway and disappearing into the house as well. Stacie bit her lip, looking up and down the street, then scrambled up the steps to join her friends, cautiously edging through the door.
A cheval mirror stood in the center of the room and seemed to emit an eerie glow. Pizza and hot cider and selfies forgotten, Tim, Beth and Kevin all stood silently in front of it, staring. What in the world? Stacie thought, and moved to join them.
Stacie looked into the mirror and saw a grand castle, nestled among rolling green hills dotted with yellow flowers. It was familiar, she thought, her mind fuzzy. From a fairytale, maybe? Intrigued, she stepped through the mirror.
Beth saw a stage, hung with red velvet curtains in front of a packed audience. The curtains parted and she saw a spotlight on a dancing ballerina. That was where she was meant to be! She knew it! She stepped through the mirror.
Tim saw a herd of wild horses, galloping through the open country. A few lone riders chased after them, lassoes in the air. The Wild West! Drawn to the scene, he stepped through the mirror.
Kevin saw a tall ship flying the Jolly Roger. The captain stood on deck, one hand on his saber as he looked out over the deep blue sea. Adventure! Kevin thought with excitement and stepped through the mirror.
As the last child stepped through the mirror, there was a zapping sound, similar to an electronic mosquito trap. The mirror flashed and turned into a heavy book, which fell to the floor with a thud.
The witch smiled with satisfaction and stepped out of the shadows, stooping to pick it up. With a snap of her fingers, the lights came on, and the façade of abandonment disappeared from the house’s interior, the illusion of neglect now existing only to passersby on the street. Her home was really quite lovely, but that was no one’s business but her own.
She leafed through her ancient book, pleased with the new stories: a princess, ballerina, cowboy and pirate. It was amusing to use real children. She’d release them at midnight, and they’d tumble back out onto the street, with no real harm done… and perhaps lessons learned about snooping into people’s homes.
For tonight, anyway, she had a good book to enjoy.
Shell St. James (she/her) lives in an 1895 farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. She suffers from insomnia and lies awake most nights listening for the footsteps of ghosts and spinning stories in her head. Her work has appeared in The Periodical, Forlorn, and Share Your Scare IV.
“And by the pricking of my thumbs something wicked this way comes.”Macbeth
The Elephant Ladder would like to thank everyone who made this issue possible!
- Patron of the arts Susan Marie Doyle for always helping support our staff and contributors
- Assistant Editor Michelle Doering for helping make sure this issue was the best it could be
- Graphic Artist Sirenia Maciel for always creating beautiful artwork for us
- Book Reviewer Bridget Barnsley for helping bring new stories to our audience
- All you wonderful elephants! Thank you from the bottom of our hearts for your support over the past two years!
Follow The Elephant Ladder on twitter @LadderElepant and on Instagram @theelephantladder. If you’d like to help fund the next issue of The Elephant Ladder, please consider donating to our ko-fi page at: http://www.ko-fi.com/theelephantladder Lastly, if you’re interested in running an ad in the next issue of The Elephant Ladder, email us at firstname.lastname@example.org