Photography by Ange Harper Model: The Druidess Of Midian Walk down the path into the woods. You don’t need a lantern, you don’t need light. You’ve been here before and so have I. In my hands I have stars, fish, water, air. I have...
©Kate Leiper

Selkie

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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...
I find it is much harder to sew now that one of my arms has become a giant white wing. It’s nonsense to assume, of course, a spell gone wrong, a stepmother’s curse, a swan nearly freed. I recall being swallowed in...
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...
She had eyes like apple seeds. A small, angular face that reminded me of a fox’s mask. Was it a mask she wore the whole time I was with her? The thing about faeries is, they’re not like us, material. Indeed, they most resemble assemblages...

Lady In The Meads

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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...
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,...
We hope you're having a gorgeous Wednesday! We wanted to make your afternoon slightly more gorgeous with this sweet missive from our friend Sherry L. Ross.   From Sherry: I'd like to wish everyone a soul-satisfying spring. I know I'm especially in need...
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...
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...