Animals have always taught us lessons. We look to them to help us describe our own behaviors and attributes: We are as sly as a fox, wise as an owl, busy as a beaver. Some of us are angry...
A midwife—she reaches
for the flower’s afterlife and dyes
it with a puddle of St. Germain. We’re dealing
in floral ghosts & flakes of paint
curved over our fingertips,
abalone crescents. I have been
told to chant words of protection—
cornstalk & eucharist. She says
I’ll think...
Children! To perform this nifty trick, ask your mother for a shelled-out lemon, balled-up handkerchiefs, a vial of perfume, fire, and a pistol. “I have written this work,” writes Professor Henri Garenne, in his introduction to the 1886 edition...
In her first memory of this life, she clutched two pecans in her small hands. Warm brown with tabby cat black stripes, dry and cool to the touch. She might have gathered an empty husk, too, its edges curled as...
Every time my writing gets stuck, I ask myself, “How would Scheherazade get out of this?” Of course, she would know what to do. That’s how she survived for 1,001 nights and beyond: by knowing when to add to a...
It’s not that I’m not comfortable
in my own skin. It’s that I can’t
ever be without it—it’s a harness
in a handbag, holding me to the ocean
with a hook and a thread.
This is the life I wanted—a cottage,
no Prince Charming but...
The realist masters have avoided
the Appalachians and I have to assume
that this is because fayeland is difficult
to paint. What to do with the sounds of mushrooms
unfolding through fallen hemlocks? How to ensure
the advancement of each tiny...
Historic clothing created and modeled by Seamstress of Rohan.
Photography by Helena Aguilar Mayans.
Take a spoon, silver’s best, but any spoon
Will do, so long as it is old. It should
Be held in the left hand. Take it now, room
To room...
Photography by Courtney Brooke
Twenty eight broomcorn bunches in the center,
seventeen on the outside,
jagged bristles bound,
many years ago I would have just swept up Cheerios and glitter,
dirt; brooms were for cleaning.
Now Besom, you’re bound for riding.
Somewhen, I will cut the...
Short Story from Issue #35 Summer 2016
This is the way she knew he was gone: The door was open. His boots were missing. The cage where he kept a hawk was empty. He’d never said a word. The night before...