Sapphic Writers Collective Issue #4 a Note from the Editors
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Out Of the Wardrobe Sapphic Writers Collective Issue #4 A note from the editors... Sapphic Writers has been around almost a year now, and in our last few zines, we’ve published dozens of wonderful pieces celebrating sapphic love, holding space for family, friends, and community, and dreaming of the radical new world we want to help build as lockdowns begin to lift. In this issue, we thought we’d do something a little different. Here, we invited our writers to open the portal, pass through the back end of the wardrobe into sapphic country, and explore ‘fantasy’ both as genre and concept. We asked for work set in worlds that aren’t quite this one: the worlds you dream of, fear, escape to, and bring back treasures from. We wanted to hear about the portals you stood on the threshold of, and the thresholds you’ve crossed. In the process of making this zine, we discovered that a number of members of our online community were either already writing fantasy or eager to give a new genre a try, and we held fantasy-specific online meet- ups to talk about world-building and brainstorm ideas for future novels. In the final product, we bring you helpful magical items for trans Dungeons and Dragons characters; a piece about Medusa’s girlfriend; love poems to nymphs and mysterious, magical butches; and a lesbian elf-human wedding. We hope you enjoy reading these flights of sapphistry as much as we enjoyed compiling them! Love, The Sapphic Writers team About Us Sapphic Writers is a small writing organisation that provides avenues of support, connection, and inspiration within the global sapphic writing community by offering workshops, publication and performance opportunities, and news and resources aimed at this underserved community of writers. With a team of exclusively sapphics, we work with sapphics only - which encompasses lesbians, bisexual, pansexual and queer women and non binary people who experience attraction towards people with similar identities - this includes asexual sapphics who experience romantic attraction. You can read more about different definitions of ‘sapphic’ in this blog post, written by one of our wonderful core team members. We are fully inclusive and supportive of trans women and non binary people, and happily welcome them into our work. Find us at sapphicwriters.squarespace.com to see a calendar of our upcoming meetups, sign up for our newsletter, and take a look at our growing zine collection! CoInn ortderr oif abppueartancoe rs Writers Ally Fowler Gabrielle Dixon Abbie McLaren Jo Ross-Barrett Madelyn Mahoney Kelly Wilk Julia DaSilva Jodie Sandiford Dez Carrington Mārta Ziemelis Mimi Lam Nitya Swaruba Sarah Simpson Scarlett Mueller Susie Williamson With special thanks to Ginna Wilkinson (she/her) for the beautiful cover artwork. Ginna Wilkerson has a Ph.D. in English from the University of Aberdeen. She has one poetry collection, Odd Remains, published in 2013. Ginna currently lives and works in Tampa, Florida. The Witching Hour by Ally Fowler Meet me at the Sabbath, darling. I’m going to make you a dreamscape, a fleet-footed-scene escape, and I’ll hold you until you don’t hurt. I’m going to show you magic, cup your palms around it, hold your knuckles to my mouth. Breathe in the sweat of your efforts and weave flowers into your dresses by the light of the moon. Violets for a girl and a girl. Ivy for the fidelitous. Lavender love spells and bouquets spilling over with carnations. This is the witching hour. This is the hourglass and the solar plexus. Soft mouth ‘til morning and identical grins and I’ll spin you until your arches ache. Tangled in cotton as moonlight drifts through glass, until the sun’s illumination sends me back to watch from where you can’t follow. Separated by the mystic veil. I’ll love you even through the lightness. I conjure a petal, red for remembrance, and leave it on your pillow, catching the dust motes. When I am gone, I watch you through the mirror. Linger like a smokescreen for another witching hour. Wait for moonrise on the slopes of your body and I’m yours again, a dedicated pagan. This is a solunar affair: I, the witch, and you, the dizzying familiar. Palm to palm, bound to separate planes until I slip through liminal space and hold you dusk to dawn. Hands brimming with golden rays, fingers clasped, snug, with yours. \ Ally Fowler (she/her) is a poet interested in the mythological, historical, magical, and bigger-than-herself. Her poetry normally leans towards doom and gloom, but she likes to indulge in soft romance every once in a while. Instagram: @makingthingswrite. Medbyu Gsaabs Dixon The room pulses. A deep bassline turns the black walls red. People are getting drunk on the 808. Tonight is gluttonous and delicious. On stage, you have us in your light. Your heads would kill a man, but we’re pulsing with life. You give me more than life; a reason for it. The will to rise. This room is yours. Bounce, bounce. Never have I seen a body so joyously full. When I watch you, I’m astounded at the power you get, the energy you draw off all these people. The sweat glides over your collar bones, glistens off a skin that is dazzling. You are the sun. If they found you, if they knew what we had here, they would kill us. You, first, but everyone else too. We would die if we didn’t have you. I bounce. I touch myself. My waist, my chest, all my curves. My skin is soft, my skin wants to be played with. Wants you to tense your sharp fingers over my softness, make me tight. You have magic hands. I watch, captivated, as you shine bright and brighter in front of me. Your second head watches me. Every eye in this room is on you, but your second set of eyes watches as I stare. I could not take my eyes off of you, my glistening woman, if I tried. You have turned me to stone. Your heads admire the crowd in the room, but the second is always on me. The fourth keeps an eye on the corner, where the bar is. The bar offers an escape, but the people who are there aren’t here for your spirit. Usually, they are harmless. They are looking for a different kind of spirit. A different energy. I dance, closer to the stage. Your legs from this angle stretch up to heaven. You are a monster, a divine deviation, from the fangs of your stilettos all the way up to your tailbone. The luxury of you has consumed this room, a deep aching in my soul that wants you to take me whole. Take my entire life. Take my life. If I can’t enjoy you, I don’t want it. Your presence is hot stones down my back; your energy is my hands in my hair, my arms to the sky, every muscle taut and burning. I am alive. Then, there is a cold hand on my waist. I’m knocked, and the eyes around me feel invasive. The pressure in the room is so intense I could scream. Rough stubble is against check, wet lips on my cheek. My hand is pushed open for a glass. It reflects back the red, so welcoming before. The water reflects an unknown. Between me and her, there is a body. I twist, he pivots. There he is behind me, an arm weighing down on my shoulder. I shrug, I duck, finding my way only in a maze of arms. His clammy hand closes over mine and lifts the glass to my face. A pointed toe bumps his shoulder away. Her venomous eyes rest on him. The room slows down as he grabs the drink from my hand, ice flashing across the room as she screams. He has one foot on stage, gold sneakers raising him to her level. His cocky assumptions will be his downfall as she kicks him so hard, her stiletto pumps take the skin from his chest. Down, he falls, thudding on the ground and growing silent. Still as a statue. She jumps down from the stage. The energy in the room buzzes around her, standing over the body on the floor, but I see only her. Her heads shake, angrily flinging off the droplets he felt entitled to throw, and her foot rests on his chest. The crowd leans in. She looks at a face that will never move again, and a drip lands on his t-shirt, blossoming grey. She leaves. I follow. Opportunities are promised on the street, a lucky escape that I haven’t felt before. She keeps us safe, she turns the sky a burnt orange. Her hand slips into the delicate slope of my stomach, her fingers like a lock and key. I feel drunk on adrenaline but her energy keeps me centered. The world is hers, and all I can do is embrace it. The burn keeps me warm as she walks us home. \ Gabs (she/her) is a 23-year-old journalism student studying at UAL. She's lived in London for five years now and cannot wait for the clubs here to open up again to start up again. Find her @gabsdixon everywhere writing about queer current events and subculture. Thbye ASbbiue iMtc Loarfe nPowder Blue There’s a woman that stands at the end of the garden. Her eyes look kind, but her face has been hardened.