Lady In The Meads

0
My feet leap in the world of Faerie My body dances in my sacred grove. In my eyes, you see something wild – something you cannot tame and take back home to your castle to meet your king. But you will surely still try. My...

Besom

0
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...
because I can no longer feel my feet. Was it a trick of genetics or a magic potion that made my fingers into feathers or fins ready for a different kind of escapade? My body is slowly giving itself away from this universe. It...
Painting by Anne Bachelier Your once-silken voice will desert you, your legs will make every step on land a torture. There will come a time when you miss the seaweed and seals, your old ways, your old body. Now fit for neither land nor sea,...
© Julia Jeffrey

The Seal Wife

0
Illustration by Julia Jeffrey of Stonemaiden Art Sometimes when we fight, I want to slip on my seal skin and disappear beneath the waves. I warned you when we married there are only so many times I can drink my own tears before the ocean comes...
Brian and Wendy Froud

Dreaming Faerie

0
Cover Images by ©Brian and Wendy Froud I dream of green eyes and the silent fall of petals on my hair; the sound of someone breathing softly in my ear. I dream of a hand gently stroking my cheek, waking me with...
©Kate Leiper

Selkie

0
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...
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...
Photography by MICHAELA DURISOVA The root queen knows your secret hopes. The root queen knows your heart The root queen’s crown is thorn and branch; her garden, silver bones, where acorn-seeds dream of oak-leaves, and shadows speak of bright. Have you seen the root queen there, combing...
O silent wood, I enter thee With a heart so full of misery For all the voices from the trees And the ferns that cling about my knees. In thy darkest shadow let me sit When the grey owls about thee flit; There will I...