Snow Angel

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Illustration by Marina Mika We know you only by your absence. The hole left behind, pressed through the drifts like something fallen from a great distance. Wings shorter than we would have expected, stumpy and round as a sliced orange peel and your body a footless...
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,...
This collection of poetry is about time and consciousness. In one way, time is merely a human construct that does not exist except as we have imagined it, so that we can function in our daily lives. In another...

Besom

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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...

Girl With Cloven Feet

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Article taken from Issue #36 || Autumn 2016 Print || Digital A hunger for green things| starts in the toes, lingers at the hedges on deersoft steps. She waits for nightcover to track past clover and henbit, to garden lettuces and parsley and strips them down to topsoil. The hunger for...
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...
Feature Image Credit:  Peter Horree / Alamy Stock Photo He drifted through kelp, broken scalp diffusing red like squid ink clouding itself. Crowded, the spiny urchins hinged their drift west. He slept, I knew, towards his death. What harm could there be in waking him? Through...
Article From 2014 Spring Issue #26 Subscribe // Print // Digital Sing your song for us, mamma, they cry, sing your song, sing your song, small white cheeks upon pillows, bright eyes blinking the black. Tearless lovelies are mine, who know only sugarplums and ponies; they beg night...
Brian and Wendy Froud

Dreaming Faerie

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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...