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. She’s weary, but not unfeeling or cold, Sometimes she’s young and sometimes she’s old.

There’s something about her that I can’t quite place, She always looks different; different hair, different face. The woman herself is each day someone new, Yet she always stands proud in a suit of powder blue.

I just want to know her, is she comfortable sharing? Does she shape shift? Or change shifts with others, standing staring? Please miss, who are you, if I do beg your pardon? And why are you standing at the end of my garden?

I walk to her slowly and ask for her name, She doesn’t respond, but she smiles all the same. I ask who she is, I ask which face is true, And why does she always wear a suit of powder blue?

She said…

“Is there ever only one name to a face? Does that name determine how you live out your days? The names that we need are simply Me, and You. There’s no one way to wear a suit of powder blue.”

She was gone from the garden when I next went to find her, Leaving nothing at all but her blue suit behind her. \ Abbie (she/her) is a queer, vegetarian, Sagittarius actor and creative from Scotland, and recently graduated with a BA in Musical Theatre. Her loves in life are almond milk vanilla lattes and making up stories! Growing up she was very bookish and will always thank the authors she used to read for making her the writer she is today. hopefulwrites.co.uk Magical Means Of Transition For Tabletop Roleplaying Games by Jo Ross-Barrett Social

Fixed Pronouns Badge. Very common magic item. Exerts a minor magical effect on all creatures within earshot and/or eyeshot of you: any time they attempt to use gendered language to refer to you, a minor illusion replaces inaccurate terms with more accurate equivalents. This illusion covers sound (roughly approximating their voice) and vision (their lip movements and/or sign language).

Scroll of Find and Replace. Common magic item. This single-use scroll is blessed by worshippers of the deity of secrets. Filling in the gaps allows the user to update their previous name with their new one across all records of their existence, including writing, speech, art and other people’s memories. The effect continues for as long as the user keeps the previous name secret, as keeping secrets is a sacred act to the deity maintaining this miracle.

Chameleon Pronouns Badge. Uncommon magic item. Works like the fixed pronouns badge, but slightly more sophisticated enchantments allow it to update in accordance with the wearer’s needs, allowing more versatility for people who use different pronouns at different times or in different contexts.

Pitch Amulet. Uncommon magic item. The pendant is a small hourglass- shaped bottle filled with a black substance which drips extraordinarily slowly. While worn, it creates a minor illusion that gradually becomes more potent over time, making the user’s voice seem higher or lower pitched depending on which way up the hourglass is positioned. Once the user is happy with the result, the pendant can be hung sideways to keep the effect steady.

Physical

Potion of Hair Growth. Common magic potion. A popular item that causes luxuriant hair to sprout from where it is applied to the skin, with several inches growing over a 24-hour period following application. Most often used to gain facial hair and body hair, or to tackle unwanted baldness. Can also be applied to existing hair to substantially increase its growth speed.

Potion of Hair Removal. Common magic potion. A popular item that can be applied to unwanted hair. When exposed to moonlight, the hair will be destroyed and will not grow back without magical assistance.

Breathable Binder. Uncommon magic item. A simple chest binder that creates exactly the desired shape without causing discomfort or breathing difficulties. Can be worn indefinitely with no negative repercussions. Enchanted with self-prestidigitation to ensure a freshly-laundered feel at all times.

Gender Fluid. Rare magic potion. When consumed, this single-use potion reshapes the drinker’s body in accordance with their will by redistributing bone and tissue.

Ritual of Shapeswitching. Requires at least two freely willing participants. By marking their bodies with ochre to denote the areas to be transformed, the participants enter a magical contract to switch body parts. Commonly used by those who wish to alter their chests or genitals, but also popular among people who wish to give their internal reproductive organs to someone who would like to conceive. This ritual is also used to transplant organs from one person to another, and can still be done when one participant has died – so long as they freely consented beforehand and the body parts in question are still fit to fulfil their function. \ Jo Ross-Barrett (they/them) is an autistic, non-binary, asexual, polyamorous relationship anarchist. They have a Distinction-grade MSc in Publishing. Their writing has been published in two anthologies by Monstrous Regiment – The Bi-ble (Volume 1) and So Hormonal – as well as in AZE Journal, an online magazine for aromantic- spectrum, asexual-spectrum and agender people, and We Are Here, a collection of poetry by LGBTQIA+ disabled and chronically ill people. You can find more of their work here. CN: homophobia mention

Two Under the Stars, One

Ambyo Mnagd eTlyn hMeamhoney

“If I hear one more person say, ‘under the stars,’ I swear to God.” I'm not sure where I was going with that. But it feels good to say after days of immersion in Elven culture. There's no one in the clearing to hear me anyway. At least, no one besides a iridescent green squirrel-thing with way too many legs and some luminescent birds hopping between trees. It's like a Disney movie on drugs. Despite this being my first moment of solitude in way too long, I keep complaining as if someone is there to listen. But it’s just me, dripping-wet and trudging through a magical forest on my own.“And if I never eat boiled tree bark again, it'll be too soon.” Okay, maybe that was unfair. The magic the Felkmidryr use in their cooking does make it taste pretty good. But I would do anything for a cheeseburger and a milkshake right now. Magically-flavored plants are hardly the catering I'd imagined for my wedding reception. My stomach gurgles as my soaking-wet feet squelch in the dirt. Really great sounds that you definitely want to associate with your wedding. I enter the tree hollow my fiancée has known as home for 457 years, and I've known as an extremely specifically-themed motel for a week. If there was a door to slam, I would have deafened the entire clan. I swear I can hear their murmurs at my oh-so-human outburst. I’ve gotten way too used to them since I first entered this realm and met my future in-laws. But my rage is only channeled through an aggressive toss of the loose vines draped over the entrance. Another scratch against elf culture: no privacy. My parents might have been into the whole “free love” thing a few decades ago, but I need to be able to shut a damn door sometimes. Thinking about my parents distracts me from the culture shock momentarily, but not in a positive way. I get why they couldn't come, secret magical world and all that, but it's still hard. I always pictured them here. Call me traditional, but I hoped that Mom would wear a gaudy Mother-of-the-Bride dress and Pop would clumsily dance with me. Instead I’ll either have to inform them that my girlfriend was secretly a centuries-old mystical being the whole time, or that we eloped and didn’t take any pictures. I’m not sure which option Mom would hate more. And I’m not sure if Pop would appreciate me ending up with someone over 400 years my senior. Even if she is about my age by her race’s standards. Nothing about this wedding is what I or my parents had planned on, though. Least of all the location. Not that I would have chosen their homophobic church. Being a lesbian is one thing, but I think they especially don't approve of magical gay marriage. I probably would have picked an art museum or a fancy library. Maybe even Vegas, if we had to. But here we are instead, getting married at a venue I can't pronounce the name of. In a secret, magical world I can’t pronounce the name of. When Jaynqree told me that the star ceremony can only take place every seventeen Earth years, we both knew we had to jump at the opportunity. Even if we’d only been engaged for two months. And I’m happy to be doing this, I really am. It’s just a lot. Like, “getting soaked in a magic river and running away crying” a lot. I guess I imagined the night before my wedding as more of a girl’s-night-in sort of deal. Board games, cocktails, mani-pedis. But that’s what I get for falling in love with an elf and not a human. Just my luck that the cute barista I finally got the guts to give my number to after eight nervous latte orders turned out to be a magical being from another plane of existence. That might be a dealbreaker for some, but I fell hard, and finding out that Jane Smith was actually Jaynqree Sumthylaka apparently wasn't enough to scare me off. Plus the pointy ears, purple skin, and all-blue eyes just do it for me. Don't ask why. “Under the stars.” I know what I said earlier. But I don't do whatever it is I was planning on doing to the next elf I saw. Because this one has a particularly familiar voice and is wearing the same bizarre wedding outfit that I am. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that Jaynqree's lavender-tinted cheeks seem to glow in the moonlight peering through the trees. Maybe it does. It seems like everything around here glows, or floats, or has some other interesting magical property. Except for me. I sigh without turning to face the woman I’m supposed to marry in an hour. “Jaynqree, I love you. And it is really sweet that you followed me. But I am seriously about to explode and I don’t want you to see that.” “Do you wish to speak your feelings, Aly?” Her peaceful, slow, almost singsong voice does not match the current shakiness of mine. Although I do feel myself calming slightly just in her presence. Dammit, it is really hard to be mad when she's so cute. And thoughtful—her face tells me that she really wants to understand and give me the chance to vent. It almost convinces me to just swallow my frustration. Almost. “Do I want to talk about it?” Now I turn around to look at her. She’s wearing the usual curious and soft expression that I first had a crush on. But thinking about falling in love with that face doesn’t stop me from blowing my top. “Do I want to talk about how I'm getting married in a dress made of uncured leather? Does elf skin not chafe, or something?” Jaynqree starts to respond. Rhetorical questions are not her specialty. “Well,” she begins, but I'm really starting to heat up now and I continue my rant. “Oh, but at least my rubbed-raw chest is covered! My feet are fuh-ree-zing. If I make it out of this with all ten toes, it'll be a miracle. And do not get me started on the way your entire family looked at me after the Kerud fen—fent— fentchk—ugh! That stupid ceremony at the river!” The Felkmidryr language does not flow naturally for me. I can’t even make some of the sounds they do with my mouth. Jaynqree’s family didn’t have any trouble murmuring among themselves when I messed up another one of their rituals, though. “Like, gee, sorry I can't walk on water like you all can—,” I interrupt myself when I turn around and see the look on Jaynqree's face. Her normally stoic face is showing actual sadness and pain. I can count on one hand (and I only have five fingers, unlike my fiancée and her clan’s six) the number of times I’ve seen her wear such a strong emotion. My anxious brain immediately shifts into damage control mode before she starts apologizing for something that is not her fault at all. “And it's worth it, of course. You're worth it. Us getting married is worth anything.” Which is true. “I'm sorry I blew up—I’m actually honored to be a part of all of this. I'm so happy we're doing this. Really.” I hope she believes me. I hope I can make myself believe me. But Jaynqree doesn't look convinced. “And at least the leather get-up is working for you, trust me.” She usually laughs at my jokes. At least, when she gets them. The Felkmidryr aren’t big on humor. She isn't laughing right now, though. “You are unhappy with this.” “No, no, bluejay, I promise I'm not.” No one in this realm uses nicknames, which means that I have dozens for Jaynqree to make up for 454 years of formality. “The outfit could use some work, yes. But I'm happy that we’re doing this. It's just not quite how I pictured it.” “What did you have in your mind?” At least Jaynqree’s English isn’t completely perfect. Although her occasionally awkward grammar is a lot cuter than my attempts at her language—it usually sounds like I'm gagging. “You know, the usual. White dress, big fancy cake, all my friends and family.” She nods, but doesn't have much of a reaction. “I guess you don't know, actually.” “You are correct that my people’s joining ceremony has difference from yours. But I can understand the feelings you have.” She’s right—she’s lived on Earth for years now, and I’ve only been in the Felkmidryr lands for a few days. I’m starting to feel pretty selfish now. But if the love of my life is thinking that, she doesn’t bring it up. Instead she steps towards me and holds out her palm before speaking in her native tongue. “Versk dan kjinifr.” I'm not sure what was supposed to happen, but Jaynqree is wearing a proud smile now. So that's an improvement, at least. I follow her eyes down to my torso, and realize that my skin isn't screaming at me anymore. It's not that the leather isn't bothering it—it's that the leather is gone. Where the rough hide was covering me moments ago is now a shimmering white gown. Smooth satin flows from the shoulder straps to the ground around me, pooling gently at my feet. “Oh, wow.” It's a little bit goofy, but I can't help giving a small twirl as I inspect the delicate garment. It is seamless, light, and (if I do say so myself) hugging me in all the right places. “It's amazing. But what about your clan?” “As far as they'll know, you're still wearing the hide of the Rymhoj. This—,” she steps forward and places her hand on my hip, gently feeling the soft satin, “—is just for us.” “It’s—thank you, Jayn. This really does help.” And it does. Even just this small piece of human culture makes me physically and emotionally more comfortable. “And I’m sorry for venting at you like that. That wasn’t fair and you deserve better.” She nods—Jaynqree body language for accepting an apology. “If you still wish to have your ceremony of wedding in your world, we may. I would prove our love a thousand ways if it would please you.” A half-laugh, half-gasp escapes me as tears form in my eyes and I rush in to hug Jaynqree. She gently wraps her arms around me. “But you creating a star with me at the Lithgrakash ceremony tonight is all I’ll ever need.” That’s right—the final ritual before we’re actually married in this realm. Instead of rings and vows, the Felkmidryr literally create new stars to signify their bonds. Considering that the last ritual I took part in left me submerged in a river, I’m not confident in how the big one will go. There’s a joke about it costing three month’s salary there, somewhere. But I don’t think my fiancée would get it. “There are billions of stars up there already. How will we even know which one is ours?” If I can even do it right, I think but don’t say. Jaynqree lets go of me and points up to the sky. I follow her finger and look at the multi-colored sea above me. Unlike Earth, the stars I’m standing under now vary greatly in size, color, and shape. “You see up there? Above that tree? My two yikwes created that star when they joined.” I have to take a moment to remember if yikwe translates to grandmother or coconut—context tells me it’s the former. She points again as I smile up at her, appreciating her face more than the celestial bodies. “And to the left—no, my left. Apology. That orange one? The great hero Llenyh made that for the man he loved thousands of years ago. And everyone in the clan could still point it out and recite the story from memory if you were asking of them.” “They’ll be reciting the story of the clueless human who humiliated herself in front of the whole realm soon.” I gulp as flashbacks to the Kerud flentchkalr fill my mind again. A tentative step followed by a frantic splash. The confused looks as I shiver in the cold water. Jaynqree’s gentle touch lifting me out before I ran away. But Jaynqree just laughs and holds me again. “They will tell the tale of the brave human who made one Felkmidryr the happiest in the realm. We will be having a bright and warm star. It will be the most wonderful thing anyone has ever known. And it will burn forever. As long as we will be together, Aly.” I could ask a hundred more questions. Voice a thousand more concerns. Given enough time, I bet I could find a million reasons to worry. But feeling the warmth of my soon-to-be wife’s hand in mine helps me to let go of those. For now. Instead there’s only one thing I want to say. “Kash s-suwr dir, Jaynqree Sumthylaka.” “I love you too, Alyson Redford.”

***

In classic fashion, it all went smoothly. Despite my usual worrying, Jaynqree and I became “two under the stars, one among them.” Human poets have got nothing on elves, I gotta tell you. We joined our hands over a pool of pitch- black water, heard a whole lot of words I didn’t understand, and then a small ball of light formed in our palms before shooting up into the sky. You know, pretty standard wedding stuff. My extraordinary wife did convince the matriarch to include “you may kiss the bride” at the end. For once, it was the clan’s turn to roll their eyes at one of my traditions. When I look up at the sky from the makeshift bed we’re sharing in the clearing from earlier, I have to admit that she's right about one thing—I can tell exactly which star is ours. A pale blue gleam, the same color as both of our eyes. It doesn’t stick out much among the rainbow of suns covering this realm. I can’t help thinking it might be the best of them, though. But when I lower my gaze and see my sleeping wife's peaceful face on the pillow next to me, I know that Jaynqree got one thing wrong: the most wonderful thing anyone has ever known is right here.

\ Madelyn (she/her) is a novelist attempting to inject LGBTQ+ characters into as many cis-hetero-dominated genres as possible. If she isn't gaying up the sci-fi and fantasy world, she is probably begging her cat for attention or hiking. CN: homophobia

Burnbyi nKegll yG Wilikrls: An Excerpt

Krista is a girl who was from when she was born displayed light and the pattern of flames in her eyes when experiencing strong emotions. She is raised by her father but does not really know who or what her mother was. Her father was approached by one of The Order of the Moon, priestesses who lead their spiritual community. He was told to bring her to them when she came of age and wished to control her power, and learn more about her parentage.

Krista

“Once I had seen myself, once I knew the truth, or as much of it as I could know, it actually made it harder.” “Why?” Caylee looked scandalized. Krista grunted as she rolled up her pant legs and kicked off her shoes to reveal sodden stockings which she gingerly stripped off. At long last she felt the cool earth under her feet and then the cooler reflection pool. She could not make her body move like the other girls and when they practiced the rituals involving dance, she slipped and faltered in every direction, sweating and knuckling down like she was having a tooth pulled. At least the agony was ended for the day. Caylee wrinkled her nose, diverted from her question momentarily looking at the socks on the ground. “Perhaps you should wash those?” “Caylee,” irritation was setting in, “I will cool my feet in this sacred body of water,” Caylee snorted, and Krista paused unable to withhold a smile, “but I’m not going do my damn laundry here. Then they really will have a good reason to kick me out!” “No, then there would be no one to play the triangle!” Krista unwillingly let her spirit lift; Caylee always had this way about her. “Ah yes, my embarrassing debut, another argument for proof of my deficiency!” “You are being rather hard on yourself, you have only been here a month and you are still a novice. Hell, I’m still a novice, give yourself a year before you accept defeat!” “I’m not like you Caylee, not like any of you.” “No” she said with a steady gaze that Krista had to weigh for a moment before she continued. “You, you have the gift of grace, you are proficient at observing rituals and seem like you had magic in your blood and a flourish for dance even before you crossed the gate.” Krista absently waved her hand in the direction of the hill leading back up to the temples entrance. She sighed at the thought of stealing back to the stable, saddling up Mist and riding back to her father. That is if the silver artifact that had revealed the way to The Order of the Moon would work in reverse. However, Mother Moon would not be likely to accept such a defection. Anyways, what would her father say when she told him she learned nothing about her powers or her parentage. He would be disappointed if she could not apply herself to herbalism, spell work and so far, oracle studies had not made the scrying pools reveal a blessed thing to her. No, she would have to stay, even if she was not sure how this was supposed to help. Then there was Sula. She took a deep breath and recanted all of those reasons in an instant, knowing that no matter how she struggled she needed to be where Sula was. Even if Krista’s captivation with the High Priestess sometimes scared her enough that she could count that as a reason to leave as well. “Oh flattery,” Caylee dramatically sighed. Krista had to shake herself to remember what they had been talking about. She had been too busy thinking about the shade of Sula’s lips and tiny space between her front teeth, the way her honey-coloured tresses shone gold in the firelight. Krista could not stop the images from creeping into her mind’s eye, the vision of Sula, eyes fluttering when she came out of a trance, Krista was breathless when Sula’s eyes locked on her as if she had been present in whatever Sula was envisioning. She had to stop staring at Sula. “Flattery?” Krista attempted to remember what Caylee said. “Hello, Krista,” Caylee waved her hand in front of Krista’s face. “Are you in there or did you actually achieve astral projection this time?” “Very funny,” she smirked, “I guess the day caught up with me. I was flattering you?” “Yes, you and your deluded notion that I was born a priestess and dance like a goddess,” she wiggled her eyebrows again. “Oh. Well, you do,” Krista agreed. Caylee raised an eyebrow looking like she was still appraising Krista’s level of attention. “No, I’m in earnest when I say that” and she shifted closer to Caylee unconsciously. “Watching you practice you are like a swan among crows.” It was too dark to know for sure, but it looked like Caylee had suddenly blushed a deep scarlet and fiddled with the knots and braids in her hair. “Thank you,” she said, not meeting her eyes. There was a loaded silence between them as they paddled their feet and looked into the dark water. The Lady Moon was only waning so there was not much light to be had. “Caylee,” Krista cleared her throat. “I am so glad to have a companion that I can be honest with about my doubts. With everyone else it’s all serious business and polite conversation.” Caylee said nothing but squeezed Krista’s hand and quickly let go. “Krista?” Caylee looked up again. “What happened after the villagers barred you and your father from the church? They just forbid you to be part of their community?” “Essentially, but not all together. Father was the best smithy in town.” Suddenly Krista was back at the church looking at all the angry faces and not being able to understand them. “We were never frequent visitors in town but as I got older more people took notice,” she gestured to her eyes “and grew weary. It made me angry which only made it worse, the flames were much more noticeable then. Soon they just crossed the street whenever they saw me. It made father livid, so I just didn’t go to market with him anymore. I stayed home to tend to the hives. The bees didn’t like the flames either, I could always collect the combs without protection.” “What did they think you would do,” Caylee ruffled indignantly, “burn them where they stood? They are just lights in your eyes, nothing more.” “Perhaps.” Krista shrugged. “They didn’t know what I could do. I didn’t know what I could do. I never got used to looking into mirrors and now I don’t want to.” “That’s why The Hawk assigned you that task tomorrow!” Caylee curled up her legs under her on the grass and faced her head on. “She knows you have an aversion to them.” Krista loved that Caylee had picked up stern Sister Agnes’ nickname and was indignant about all the past and present slights she had made against her. It made her feel protected and acknowledged in a way she had never experienced. Krista did however feel nervous on occasion when Caylee would casually drape her arm over her and sit a little closer than anyone else did. It felt nice and was flattering but she did not want to reciprocate it. She had enough to worry about trying not to pay too much attention to Sula. What if it was like in the village school, when she was struck just for voicing the idea of two women falling in love. She could not let that be what would finally send her packing. Even so, Krista longed to ask Caylee if this was a correct assumption, but to be certain she had to speak up, but then it would become a conversation she was not ready to have. It would invoke the unspoken between them that would be very hard to examine in a clear light. “Yes, that,” Krista changed the subject to the equally concerning topic. “A whole day in meditation with a mirror is feeling pretty unsurmountable. I don’t know what I’ll see and what it will do to me.” “You are afraid, I would expect nothing less, but you have to trust the sisters to keep you safe.” Krista shook her head slightly. She could feel the heat coming behind her eyes that seemed to bloom and rise like a fume from the fear running in her blood. “Look at me,” Caylee suddenly commanded, but Krista did not oblige. She closed her eyes over the pattern of flames and felt the heat assaulting the inside of her eyelids. Caylee took hold of her chin and yanked it up none to gently. Krista’s eyes opened in shock. “Look at me, now.” Krista could feel the heat escape and she watched the reflection of light dancing across Caylee’s face in the dark, her dark hair making her face shine in contrast. “Relax,” she said with a voice now full of love and kindness. “Remember what we are learning to do. We have to let some things happen by choice, we have to release fear, what is dark will come to light” she quoted Sister Hazel. “Then you can understand it, confront it, let it go. Wouldn’t that feel good, not to be afraid of yourself?” It always felt strange to burn and cry at the same time, her tears were quite warm as they fell down her face. “Look. At. Me.” Caylee slid towards her and Krista froze. “You listen to me Krista Harbinger, I have looked into the flames in your eyes many, many times and not once have you burned me to a crisp!” Krista huffed and started to breathe again. Caylee’s face was suddenly very serious. “You have sister Hazel, and a whole order of women who know what they’re doing. And you have me, and I’m not going anywhere.” Caylee really was a wonderful girl. Krista was momentarily lost in the outpouring of affection reaching out directly from her heart to Krista’s. Krista was not sure how many emotions were suddenly swirling around in her, or how it affected the pattern or colour of the flames in her eyes, but suddenly there was less fear and intense gratitude with a touch of excitement. Caylee took her thumb and traced it over Krista’s bottom lip. Suddenly everything in Krista’s body was awake and she sat straight up. Caylee’s hand moved as she trailed her fingers down her cheek and across the sensitive skin on her neck, up to her ear. “Look at me.” Caylee seemed to be asking something different. In that moment Krista knew there was only one answer. Krista inclined her face toward Caylee, closed her eyes, and breathed in deeply. Their lips met and moved in a dance they already seemed to know. Caylee’s mouth was soft and pliant under hers and Krista’s hands instinctively reached out to bring her closer. In that moment, Krista knew she had never been built to love a man. Suddenly she felt like a bird that was struggling to swim and all at once found itself in the air, flying. Krista’s arms around Caylee’s small body felt like a kind of home. A bird understanding what wings were for. Their kiss deepened and in that moment all that Krista wanted was to get as close to Caylee as possible and pray that she was exactly right. That they could be together and not be burned to cinders.

\ Kelly (she/her) is a Freelance Writer and blogger for PinkPlayMags. She reads her work at venues such as the Bed Post Erotica Reading and The Rebal Girl Salon. She is also fresh off a theratrical performace in #HERStoryCounts; women telling autobiograbical tales, her in a blue unitard and cape, discuss. CN: conception Canto For Shattering by Julia DaSilva

The shatter-proofing charm was just beginning to take to the newly-repaired fence when Jan felt Kaletriel missing her, reaching out with her enn. Before she had time to wish that her wife wouldn’t open her enn like that—how many times had Kal been told she shouldn’t just let her magic source roam unconstrained, open to others?—she was clutching the grey fence-post as it brightened, as it grew to feel like living tree bark, blurred with the little rectangle of grass beneath it. Jan never knew quite how to reach back, but Kal assured her that if she also missed her, she could feel it, and of course she did—miss Kal, that was. The shatter-proof finished, Jan began the walk home through their apple orchard, which despite pressure to the contrary both she and Kal had refused to plant in rows. ***

Excerpt From the Sceya-Etheron, Canto X

(Carathe to Lette, their wife) “Twice joined, twice cursed; our enn ebbs with the tide. But take my hand, and turn toward the Path, That will weave our double blessing into One: Once joined, twice blest, my Lette, weave back with me.”

(Carathe and Lette, upon completing their final home) “That last stone won’t be last,” said Lette, her arm Around Carathe, and drew her lover close Against the windworn Path, and her embrace, windworn, Against the windworn years since last they joined By enn. “But you’re my last.” Carathe’s lips Traced a warm promise on Lette’s cool breast.”

*** “Arroth said he could help us. All we need to do is decide when, and find someone who can watch the Taiel-lok while he makes the trip out here.” Jan pulled the door shut against the cool fall evening. Kaletriel heard the generations-old maple planks scraping against each other. One of these days, she thought, they weren’t going to be able to get the door tight enough to put a key in. She would have to make sure to fix that before the next Maud patrol came through. Now Jan was pulling off her boots. Most Elven women in this part of old Jen-Etheron went barefoot after the snow melted, until past the first frost, but Jan refused to leave her boots at home until the summer heat made them unbearable, and sometimes not even then. “Do you think Canel would do that?” “Do what?” Kaletriel looked up from her copy of the Sceya-Etheron, the meandering epic of Melletor colonization and of the first decades of resistance fought in the Elven kingdoms surrounding the Path that Winds. She had been attempting to read while peeling apples for fillbread. Half of them still lay aside, unpeeled, beside the worn-cornered volume. “Watch the school, love. For Arroth. So he can come here and help us have a baby.” Jan graciously ignored the half-peeled pile of fruit. Placing a hand on Kaletriel’s shoulder, she drew aside a strand of her wavy, deep-blue-and- chocolate brown hair to plant a kiss on her sky-blue cheek. “Wait, you talked to Arroth already? I thought—we said we’d wait—“ Kaletriel gestured at the tome in front of her, open as it so often was to a passage from the canto of the lovers Lette and Carathe. “Oh, Kala-mi.” Jan drew back, pushing aside several apples and half-sitting on the edge of the table. “You’ve been glued to that book for months. And half the Elves on the Path, half the Grey Goddess-damned Ardir have been picking apart those words like Mels in Algarool. Poor Lette and Carathe. A few minutes of sex make it onto paper…” Jan grew serious despite her half-joke, running a hand through her short silver-blond hair, her clipped sliver of sacrilege—for Elves of Jan’s northern ancestry, to cut one’s hair short generally amounted to breaking one’s link to the Grey Goddess. “I want a baby before we’re old, Kal. And I want it while we’re still on the Shail-range.” “We’ll always be on the Shail-range.” Kaletriel reached for Jan’s hand, rough with the work of shoring up the winter guard-fences and weaving the spell traps. The Melletori—the humans—without the innate magic that the first inhabitants of the Path had could still be put off here and there with Ardir tricks. “I wish I had your hope.” Jan reached into her back pocket and set a small, jagged object on the table, about the size of a plum. “Look what I found today. Arroth found two more, over by the Taiel-lok.” Kaletriel picked it up. It was almost like stained glass, but darker and thicker than anything she could imagine a window being made out of, and a deep, muddy brown-red that would have made filtered sunlight look like someone had puked on the temple floor. It felt light at first, but as she turned it over in her hands, imagined what it might have broken off of, she felt the weight of its meaning sinking into her palm. “This isn’t—“ “From a Glassblower temple? Or wherever they do their rituals? Of course it is. Who the hell else stains their glass with blood?” Jan was right, of course. “But what do you mean it was just by the Taiel- lok? No one’s found any new Glassblower remains—“ “I don’t think they’re remains. I think they’re a threat. Or Arroth does, and I’m inclined to agree.” “About what? Why now? Isn’t this the one thing the Maud patrols are supposed to be good for?” Kaletriel watched Jan take up the knife she had set aside and set to work peeling the rest of the apples. How did she always manage to look—to be—so useful? Jan raised an eyebrow. “This is the first time I’m hearing that the Maud patrols are supposed to be good for something. Kala-mi,” she continued, “just—let’s—please, let’s just do it. Even if the Glassblowers aren’t back, there’s only so long Shail can hold out if the Maud patrols decide its range should go up for sale. This isn’t the time for —“ she gestured at the pages in front of Kaletriel, hastily brushing away a bit of apple peel that fell on them— “for reviving old knowledge we don’t even know is knowledge to begin with.” “But it is!” The words danced in front of Kaletriel’s eyes like the flickering of Jan’s knife. “Lette and Carathe lived—they lived just before the Glassblowers, didn’t they? But anyway, they lived in constant war with the Melletori too. And they had two children. By themselves. And—“ “Alright! I’ve heard the story. But whatever they had, we don’t. Right now we have what the humans do. And I’m worried we aren’t going to find it before the Maud patrols let some revived murder cult tear up the paper trail you and the rest of that scholars’ circle has left them, and a lot more with it.” “I know, I know, just—“ Kaletriel wished Jan would stop peeling apples and look up for more than three seconds at a time. “—just—tell Arroth not for another few weeks, alright?” “Okay.” Jan put down the knife and came to stand by Kaletriel’s chair again, brushing aside a curl flecked with blue and letting her fingers linger along her wife’s cheek. They were a little sticky from the apples, but Kaletriel barely noticed; the motion always reminded her of when they had first slept together, Kaletriel traveling east on her Weaving Into One, and Jan had told her she never needed the sun to rise because her face was the colour of the sky just after dawn. Kaletriel shut the Sceya and retrieved the knife. “Market’s tomorrow,” she said, “better finish these loaves.”

***

They left for the market in Shail early the next morning, riding together on Brae, the horse Jan usually rode, Jan in front and Kaletriel behind, baskets of fillbread loaded on either side. Kaletriel liked the two hours’ walk once a week, but Jan insisted that they would get past Maud patrol doors faster on horseback, and since the one time a Maud had offered to “help” them carry their baskets, Kaletriel knew she was right. She was also too busy thinking to argue, picking apart a passage from the Sceya she had revisited that morning while Jan went to fetch Brae. The lump of Glassblower glass Jan had left on the table had reminded Kaletriel of what another Elf in the reclamation circle had remarked about her and Jan’s ability to open their enns to each other. That there was good reason to think that shared magic, joined-enn magic, had not always been an unthinkable contradiction. If so, it had disappeared with whatever Lette and Carathe had been able to do to have a child, when murder cults like the Glassblowers gained prominence. On a whim, Kaletriel had flipped to an earlier canto.

She had always loved the one about Ossyra-Aiyin, Gienn, and Runem, a Caldor Fae and two Elves travelling together for Runem’s Weaving Into One, with the first two completing the journey when Runem died. Normally she focused on the always-popular section where Gienn fell in love with another Elf, Milar, and stayed behind to help raise their child while Ossyra completed their Weaving. But today a line stuck out she had never noticed before, a little earlier, just after Runem’s death. Gienn had asked Ossyra if she and Runem had been lovers. “Alas,” Ossyra replied, in the stiff pentameter of the Sceya’s Lost Tongue, “our enns were never joined as one.” This was usually read as a metaphor: “lovers touch enns,” “so close their enns were touching,” the ready- to-hand romance cliché now favoured by second-rate poets. “Twice joined” Lette and Carathe had been. But what if— “Jan-mi,” she said, as they reached the end of their farm and turned onto the road leading into Shail, “what if Lette and Carathe really joined enns?” “What, like in all of Carriol’s novels before someone’s revealed to be a Melletor collaborator and they share one last hate-filled, passionate kiss before the other one storms out?” Kaletriel rolled her eyes, not that Jan could see. “No, I mean for real. What if that’s what we’re missing? What if it’s not something that one of us does, what if—“ “But what does that mean? Your enn is just your own magic source. Two separate people can’t just—“ “I don’t know.” It had sounded so much more plausible in her head. “I’ll talk to Arroth about it if he’s in town today.” “He’d better be,” said Jan, “he promised to buy half our fillbread.” It was the kind of morning that seemed to have prepared itself for a frost that never appeared. The leaves on the trees in their neighbour Canel’s orchard had a greyish tinge and a stiffness that suggested they had already submitted to snow. They passed the fence separating Canel’s land from that of their next neighbour, watched the apple trees give way to now-bare white-oat fields in silence. “Maybe we’d get our answers,” Jan remarked, “if we could farm on a commons like Lette and Carathe did.” One of the few times Jan openly engaged in wishful thinking was when she talked about opening up the lands around Shail into a commons. She would go

into incredible detail, too, pointing out as they rode to town where would be the best places for communal granaries and barns, and which neighbours they should try to ensure took on which tasks. She listened avidly at the inn for news of places that still had commons, even Melletor communities if they had a shared field. Kaletriel would sometimes joke that, was Jan getting tired of her company already. Jan would raise an eyebrow and Kaletriel would reach over to scruff up Jan’s hair. But mostly she liked hearing Jan’s—daydreams? detailed agricultural planning?—for the same reason she loved reading the Sceya: for stories that were something other than this slow fragmentation, the story where the Maud patrols ensured that the entire Path was boxed up neatly. As far as humans were generally concerned, the Path that Winds, which wandered through the territories left to the Elves and Caldor Fae, was the wild place on the fringes of Torinnia from which you could extract taxes and obedience if you sent enough soldiers but could never really understand, see fully, or control. Five years before, Queen Maudwyn, from her seat in the east, had announced her intentions to change this state of affairs. Her patrols were, in theory, surveyors: they were to produce reports on the current utilization of every square inch of land along the Path, including forests, including sacred places no Melletor had ever seen. In practice, however, they were fully equipped to be just as invasive as their “surveying” project made them sound: they had all the authorizations Army officers had on the Path, as well as the authority to make “land use recommendations” for greater efficiency. In other words, they decided who had to sell their land to the Torinnian government, which common areas could be better used as private farms, and when and how their recommendations should be carried out by force. In order to ensure that the information they collected was accurate, they had set up checkpoints, or “doors,” as they had come to be known, all along the Path and its surrounding roads in a network that was in constant, only semi-predictable flux. They were approaching a door now. Up ahead, the sides of the road were flanked by four horses stamping the ground anxiously beside their dismounted riders, two of whom stood with their spears upright. “Yes,” Kaletriel answered, wrapping her arms tighter around Jan’s waist, “it would be more than nice. Kick all the doors down…”

“Names? Address?” Kaletriel gave the number the Mauds had assigned to their farm three years before. The officer took them down, glancing at the baskets at Brae’s sides as he did so. “Just fillbread,” said Jan, “for the market.” The officer looked at her in silence. Kaletriel felt her wife’s body shake against her as she reached into the basket on their right and pulled out a loaf. For a second, she was worried Jan was going to throw the loaf at the Maud, or on the ground, and she opened her enn to Jan’s to send a silent urge through the ends of her fingers, hoping she could steady her enn enough to counteract Jan’s shaking anger. To her relief, Jan placed the loaf in the officer’s outstretched hand, saying, “Better not stay out here too long. It might freeze.” She whispered in Brae’s ear before the Maud could say any more, and they continued on their way. “What was that about kicking down doors?” said Jan, once they were out of earshot. “I was thinking, I’ll have to learn to use your grandmother’s sword,” said Kaletriel, resting her chin on Jan’s shoulder, “because we can’t have you fighting Maud patrols this spring with our baby inside.” “Sh, love, you can’t talk about that out here!” Kaletriel knew, of course, that discussions of that spring’s escalated resistance, rough and early though the plans were, were not to be held anywhere outside the magically-enforced walls of the schoolhouses. “Besides, if the Glassblowers are back, who knows…” Kaletriel decided that this was not an appropriate time to mention that she had brought the lump of blood-stained glass with her, to ask Arroth about it. The road stretched on uneventfully until the Taiel-lok, on the southwest fringe of Shail, was visible. The Maud patrol often stationed there must have been the door they had passed earlier, because no one else was here apart from a few other Elves trickling in for the market. “Could you get us a place? I want to see if Arroth is still at the school. I’ll run ahead now and meet you there?” “I mean, if you can’t wait?” “I can’t get this Sceya passage out of my mind.” Kaletriel kissed Jan on the cheek and slid down from Brae’s back before Jan could say any more. She really did run, to her own surprise. She told herself she was just anxious to know whether Arroth, who was more connected to the circle of scholars recovering the Path’s lost knowledge than her, would be as quick as Jan to dismiss the notion that “joining enns” might be more than a metaphor. But as soon as she left Jan’s side, she felt the weight of the bloody glass in her pocket grow more intense, pulling her towards the Taiel-lok the way the grey leaves pulled frost down from the air. She had to know whether Arroth had heard anything about a revived Glassblowers’ cult since whenever he and Jan had talked. The Taiel-lok was seven-walled for the seven types of magic in the largely- defunct Melletor magic classification system. It was low and plain from the outside, and windowless except for the glass in the ceiling. Kaletriel hurried to the wall facing the crossroads between the road they had taken and the east- west road heading into Shail. The wall with the door was once used to represent armamental magic, and the other side was painted with blurred blocks in different shades of red. But from the outside its only distinguishing feature was a brass door-knocker and handle. Or it normally was. As Kaletriel approached, she noticed a slip of paper stuck to the door. Her heart sank. The Queen had promised that the Maud patrols had no authority over the Taiel-loks, but of course Kal wouldn’t have sold a loaf of fillbread for the amount a Queen’s promise was worth. But no, as she drew closer she saw it was too elaborate for a Maud notice, too densely packed with script. She heard Jan and Brae passing by into Shail as she pulled it from the door, the words already swimming in front of her eyes. She saw fragments, like when she tried to look a Maud patrol in the eyes. Notice from the House of the Blown Glass. Was that what the Glassblowers called themselves? This Taiel-lok has been cleared as upholding the practice of the Singular Form. Every enn is a fragile creation, whole unto itself. Guardians against the shattering. True to the Form. The Form is the Lifeblood. What in the Grey Goddess’s name? Arroth had shown her writings by any number of old anti-Ardir cults, various anti-magic Veritan subgroups’s propaganda, and this was barely distinguishable from most of them. But in light of the Sceya reading she had done that morning—in light of all her endless poring over Lette and Carathe’s love—the words took on a new meaning she could not quite place. The notion of the enn as a solid shape blown from a single piece of glass, identical with the blood in one’s own body; was that not exactly the image Jan had appealed to to dispel her hope at the concept of joining enns? But why run around the Path telling Fae and Elves to keep their enns pure? Kaletriel grabbed the door-knocker, calling for Arroth. She needed his knowledge of precise dates, historical details. The Glassblowers had been prominent in the days following the Sceya-Etheron’s events, after the Second War of the Path—the same period in which whatever knowledge that had allowed Lette and Carathe to have children together was lost. What if the two were connected? No one answered the door. “Jan!” Kaletriel called, turning back to the road, but she knew she had waited too long, and Jan would already be setting up their stall in Shail’s main circle. She turned to the school, torn. Arroth might be in there, who knew what the Glassblowers had done to him. But so might whoever the Glassblowers were. She tried the handle. To her surprise, the door was unlocked. To her further surprise, the room was not only empty, but appeared as she would have expected it to on a day Arroth had closed it to go to the market. The light reaching in through the stained panels in the roof was just enough to make out the uneven rectangles painted on each of the walls. Elemental magic had four, yellow red green blue, seamed with a paler yellow; natural magic had yellow above pale green, framed with a slightly darker green the same colour as the leaves on their apple trees. Though Kaletriel’s hometown was almost a hundred miles west, she had grown up learning in a schoolhouse just like this one, for they were the same all along the Path. All the colours all softly blurred together like the dirt roads fading into grass at the edge of each farm, but as easily defined as every fenced-off plot. They all knew the magic system they stood for was as outdated as the Glassblowers’ ramblings on the Form, but they kept the aesthetic around because it fit so well with the type of training the Taiel-lok called for; for setting boundaries around one’s enn, learning where it ended and where the rest of the world began and using that soft bright box as your centre and source of power. Or, as the Glassblowers put it, apparently, your Form. A whole. But she wasn’t a whole. Kaletriel cast her eyes around the room half in a daze, looking for any evidence that some Melletor murder cult had come raging through Shail’s centre of Ardir magic. But there was nothing, only the muralled blocks of colour that began to swim before her eyes as she realized she was really casting about for Jan, like Jan was going to suddenly sense that she wasn’t just inside having a pleasant chat with Arroth. She told herself to focus, that she would find Jan as soon as she had pieced together some kind of coherent line of thought. One. The Glassblowers were back, but they hadn’t felt the need to attack the Taiel-lok. Perhaps they had Arroth. Two. The Glassblowers were not, perhaps had never been, a simple Ardir- murdering militia. Their primary concern, if their own propaganda could be trusted, was the preservation of the individual enn against—she wasn’t sure what the alternative was, exactly, but perhaps that was why they hadn’t bothered with the Taiel-lok, because no one had the alternative to which they were opposed. Three. The walls— Kaletriel blinked. She could have sworn the blocks of colour had begun spiralling into one another. It reminded her of the way Jan accepted her steadiness when faced with the Maud patrol, and they had a moment of intertwining, all inside. A technique they had never been taught, because magic wasn’t something you did together.

***

“Arroth!” Jan called when she spotted the keeper of the Taiel-lok just outside Shail’s single permanent store. “Kal’s just at the school looking—“ She stopped when she saw Arroth’s face, his silver dulled to a pale, worn grey as could only happen from extreme stress or prolonged fear. But she had seen him just yesterday, he had been fine— “Jan. You must leave. Get your wife. Get away from the Taiel-lok as quickly as you can. But don’t go home.” He seemed hesitant to look her in the eye. “You can leave your baskets here, if you like, I can sell them and pay you back…” he trailed off, pulling his cloak tighter and fixing his eyes on the hem too long. He reached for one of the baskets. Jan shoved his hands away. “Tell me what in the Grey Goddess’ name is happening!” Arroth glanced over his shoulder, in the direction of the main circle. For the first time, Jan noticed that none of the stalls were set up as normal. Instead, what looked like a Maud patrol door was being formed, Mauds with spears closing off the main streets, only there was another Melletor cluster among the purple-and-black uniformed officers, these in shimmering blue cloaks. “The Glassblowers.” Arroth gestured towards the blue huddle, whose cloaks joined them seamlessly into a single, rippling form. “I—I’m so sorry. They said they were scholars, comrades, they knew names only those in the reclamation circle should know. I—“ Arroth froze, eyes widening in horror at something behind Jan’s shoulder. Before Jan could look, she found herself wrenched from Brae’s back. “Got the Shatterer!” The cloaked heads of the cluster looked up at the rough voice of the person holding Jan’s mouth shut and her arms at her sides. Arroth was grey with guilt. Jan kicked at the Melletor’s shins and strained against his grip. She tried to gather her strength for a defensive spell, but found her enn blocked off. So the Glassblowers were magic practitioners, wizards or whatever the hell humans with their stunted enns called themselves. What was the point of being Ardir if humans could learn to copy your innate magic? And what on the straight Path did he mean by the “shatterer”? Jan screamed through her clamped-shut mouth, wishing she could shatter the bones of every Melletor who dared set foot on the Path. Jan watched the Glassblowers rushing towards them, a storm of blue that drew in the sunlight, and Arroth standing and watching, not raising a finger or muttering a charm. She had never experienced such a crippling enn-block before, like every spark inside her was snuffed out before she could think to light it. Like she was planting seeds only to have them swallowed by the earth. Like there was no earth, like she was empty, empty— The other Glassblowers arrived, and the one holding Jan forced her to her knees, so that she could see nothing but swirling blue and legs and boots, voices asking Arroth if he was sure she was the one. The Shatterer. Jan tried to force herself to think. What was it about her and Kal that Arroth could possibly have betrayed to some resurfacing human cult? Their desire to have a child together? Someone was tying her wrists behind her back. “Kaletriel!” She still couldn’t call out, out loud or with her mind, but she found herself opening up the way she did when Kaletriel let her enn wander into hers, when they steadied each other or brought each other into the same joy. She had always let Kal initiate those sharings, or assumed Kal was initiating them; she had never realized how different it was from calling out as they had been taught. She found she wasn’t blocked this way, she could still reach for her wife’s enn—

***

This time, the spiralling didn’t stop when Kaletriel blinked. She couldn’t tell whether it was happening to the walls or inside her; it didn’t feel like either, she wasn’t really doing magic though she was open the way she was only able to be with Jan. She found herself falling to her knees, gripped by a sudden inexplicable terror. Part of her tried to tell the rest that she should have known better than to wander alone into a building declared “pure” by a murder cult; who knew what kind of curses or deadly spells they would have at their disposal, had already used to repaint the room? But no, the rest of her rejected this rational intervention, she knew enough to be able to tell she wasn’t being worked on, either. If only Jan were here to share with her, Jan was always better at resisting, they could open to each other, even if it left each with less strength to use her own magic. “Kala-mi!” Kaletriel clutched her head as the door burst open behind her, dizzy as the painted walls spun out of control. But she managed to turn, and there was Jan, her hair dishevelled and eyes panicked but melting into relief as soon as they met Kaletriel’s. “How did you know—“ Kaletriel started to ask, but was interrupted by Jan’s more forceful, “Grey Goddess, it worked!”, kneeling beside Kaletriel on the floor and pulling her close so Kaletriel’s head rested on her breasts, running her hands through her curls. For a moment there was only the sound of Jan’s sobbing and Kaletriel’s shuddering, closing her eyes to the chaos of the painted walls and letting herself curl into Jan’s embrace. Then Jan started talking, about the Glassblowers, about Arroth, about the moment she realized she couldn’t use her enn. “…and then, kind of by accident, I realized I didn’t have to. I opened to share with you, and I felt you responding. And I’m—not exactly sure what happened after that. I got free of the crowd, but I don’t remember running here, and as far as I can tell they didn’t follow…Kala-mi? Love? Are you alright?

What’s happening to us?” The spinning had stopped. The panicked spirals were a clear double spiral, the two of them twined at the source of their magic, their lives as Ardir, their lives as parts of each other. Kaletriel was seized by a clarity that no solid block of colour could ever offer. “We did it,” she said, tilting her head up to meet Jan’s eyes. “That’s what the Glassblowers were afraid of. Even if they didn’t know it. What the Melletori must be afraid of. We did it, like Lette and Carathe must have done, we joined enns!” “What do you mean, like Lette and Carathe?” Jan almost choked on her short, hard laugh. “Is one of us pregnant?” “No,” said Kaletriel, “look. We were looking for some kind of spell, but what we’d lost was so much bigger. A whole way of doing magic, a whole way of— of weaving together.” “We sing the Path they would make straight and hard, Like Common Speech.” Jan was gazing around the room with child-bright eyes as the Sceya line escaped her lips, and Kaletriel wondered whether she was thinking about the neat coloured boxes as well. “Exactly! And—whoever restarted the Glassblowers must have found out about the circle. I mean, no one I know of had connected it to childbearing yet, but other people were challenging the idea of the individual enn. And somehow they knew to come for us, shatterers—“ At the mention of the Glassblower term, Jan stiffened, her grip on Kaletriel’s upper arm tightening as she shot a glance at the half-open door. “They’ll know to look for us here. We’ve got to head out.” “But there’s so much—We need to find Arroth—“ Kaletriel resisted as Jan pulled her to her feet. The joining, or whatever it should be called, had not yet worn off, and it was difficult to tell where her body ended and Jan’s began, and how much of the fear she felt was her own. But she did not want it cut short, more than anything she wanted to stay woven like this, like every brushstroke in every painting was nesting them inside each other. “Arroth betrayed us. We don’t need to tell him anything.” Jan had her arm around Kaletriel’s shoulder now and was pulling the door open with her other hand. “But he did tell us not to go home. I trust his advice that far.” “The jenring grove.” It was as though all the certainty she had never been able to feel was settling over Kaletriel. Arroth would never have told the sacred grove’s location to a Melletor, and the Maud patrols had yet to find it. Jan nodded. “We’ll cut through the forest south of town, and the rose-plum orchards will take us to the ravine.” She risked a look outside and, evidently seeing no one, took Kaletriel’s hand as they headed out. “Do you have enough strength to mask your footprints?” “I think so.”

***

Excerpt from the Sceya-Etheron, Canto XI

(a messenger from the burgeoning resistance movement, Elleseer, to Carathe and Lette) “Long years have passed since Elleseer was but A forest—now, we carry what has long Been borne by Rumour bare and biting wind. Long years of growing roots against their walls— We crack! And our foundations will split stone!”

***

The sun was beginning to sink into the branches ahead of them as Jan pulled aside the silvery vines at the edge of the jenring grove. Kaletriel couldn’t help thinking how much Jan looked like one of the jenrings herself, all silver and dusty gold-blond, every motion a graceful arc like one of the thin spreading branches, yet sturdy enough to help Kaletriel to the bank of the stream barely wider than one of her legs. There was still so much to piece together, but for now she could watch Jan cup her hands full of water and the drops slide over her face, and giggle when Jan realized she had nothing to dry herself with but the end of her cloak, and more when Jan splashed her for giggling. For decades after the first two wars of the Path, and after the Old Wood in the east had been cut down, the existence of the jenring groves had been kept secret from the Torinnian state, and though the secret had eventually leaked that a number still lined the Path, their actual locations for the most part remained hidden, in spite of the Maud patrols’ efforts. This one stretched between the Maud-designated zones 1823, Undeveloped Forested Area, and 1824, Low-Density Agricultural Lot. They visited it often, on the Grey Goddess’ holidays and the remembrance days linked to the Sceya-Etheron and other accounts of resistance. As they always did when they stayed overnight, they gathered the fallen, spindly jenring leaves to make a bed on a mossier patch of ground. They took off their cloaks for blankets and sat, pressed against each other, listening to the trickling stream and the rustling jenring leaves in their deepening gold-orange patterns. The grey of winter never quite reached the jenring groves. Jan brushed a strand of hair from Kaletriel’s face and kissed her softly on the cheek. “They’ll take the farm,” she said. “They’ll sell it to some collaborator for nothing, and burn our Sceya. They won’t know Brae’s name, and she won’t tell them. And Arroth probably betrayed all our contacts as well. And of course he won’t—“ “Sh.” Kaletriel put a finger to Jan’s lips, running it gently down her neck to the ribbons at the back of her wool shirt, which she began to untie. “Oh, love,” sighed Jan, “now? we’re not—“ “We’re as safe as we’re ever going to be, now,” said Kaletriel, coaxing the shirt from her shoulders, reaching back for her own ribbons as Jan stood to remove her wool winter pants. As the warmth of her desire spread through her to undo the greying dusk, Kaletriel, wiggling out of her skirt and letting Jan pull away her tights, hesitantly opened her enn, something she had always been warned never to do while making love because you lost control of your magic, because who knew what could happen. And she felt Jan at the opening, equally hesitant, stepping inside it. She slid beside and then under Kaletriel, crinkling her eyes into a smile. The jenring leaves beneath her crackled and Kaletriel unbuttoned her undershirt, cupping Jan’s breasts in her hands and tracing a line of kisses like soft falling jenring leaves down and farther down, the doors inside them they had never known to open widening all the while. But this wasn’t the double spiral of terror. It was a shuddering weaving like the setting sun was piercing its rays through their breasts and twining them together. When Jan came, Kaletriel could no longer tell who was trembling and crying with pleasure, they were woven to the core and nothing could untangle them or predict what would come of the weaving. And then Jan was sitting up, pressing Kaletriel’s hands to her stomach, and crying, “Oh! Did you—we—“ and stopping because she was really crying now, and she knew Kaletriel could feel it too. “Twice joined, twice blest,” whispered Kaletriel. She placed her hands over Jan’s, then winced, squeezing them tight. “I don’t think so. Not quite. But now —now we know—“ The spark faded into the dusk of their hiding place, a spark they still needed to learn to make catch, the child waiting somewhere in the fragments of their shattered walls and doors, a new whole, a new fragment, a new joined hope.

\ Julia DaSilva (she/her) used to be the queen of a magical country, until she became an anarchist and set out to roam the worlds in search of a fairy commune that will accept her as one of their own. She writes fantasy as well as poetry, with a novel and a collection of short stories in progress and a particular interest in the politics of magic systems. Her poetry has appeared in Eclectica, Rat’s Ass Review, Lychee Rind zine, Cathexis, Half a Grapefruit, High Shelf Press, three previous Sapphic Writers zines, and the University of Toronto journals The Spectatorial, The Strand, and Hardwire. She is a guest in Tkaronto/Toronto on Dish With One Spoon territory. Dream Song by Jodie Sandiford

Bella let out the tiniest sigh as she turned away from the nursery window. The girl in the hallway, the one facing her – she knew she had a name, but did it truly matter? She wouldn’t mind being miscalled, surely. All of these people are far too polite to me now, I doubt she’ll be any different. There – at least there was something to be said for being widowed. “I brought your medicines,” the girl said, quietly but clear as a scream. “The others…they said you’ve been forgetting to take them?” Ah, yes. The medicines. Dastardly things, fiddly stoppers and much-too- fragile vials to contain them all; she couldn’t stand them, any of them. But she felt her voice dissipate to silence within her throat at the mere thought of using magic instead. Not without Linna. “…T-thank you,” she managed instead. Just. Miriam – ah yes, that was it – nodded and set the tray down on the bed, but didn’t turn to leave. “I…I don’t mean to impose, my lady-” I’m not a lady. I’m not even a wife anymore. “You don’t need to call me that.” She looked away. “I was only going to say, if you need help sleeping…” How could she know that? “I would only need to fetch my guitar from downstairs,” she said. “A dream-song might help settle your other maladies, too.” Damn it. She’d hoped none of them would notice the marks – she sure as hell didn’t bother to notice the colour of her skin, her hair, all the signs of death incoming. But she just smiled and gestured to the tray of potions. “I think I’ll be fine with these,” she said. “But thank you, all the same.” The girl usually shrank a little by now, but this time she shook her head. “I could get Alex, if you’d rather-” Nonsense. “I don’t need my granddaughter coddling me, thank you very much.” “You’re ill. Everyone can see the effects of the Pact on you – you’re as pale as a ghost, you know.” Miriam stopped to take a breath, then sighed herself. Bella took a step back when her breath turned to mist in the air. “Please, at least let me help you sleep. Just for a few hours.” She turned back to the window. “Fine.”

***

It was difficult not to flinch, hearing a child sing. She sounded like Linna had, back when they first met. Even then, the magic imbued in every note had spun itself through the air like some tiny, demented spirit, hell-bent on achieving its purpose at least thrice, if not tenfold. And she could remember, more now than ever, how it had felt when the magic had hit her, how in absorbing every last morsel of it, it had turned into pure, unadulterated fascination. For the magic, for Linna….it didn’t matter which, they were one and the same. How she had loved every second of it. How at every single moment, from their first embrace and that kiss, all the way through to the executioner’s block, she could only ever think of the woman she loved and how glad she was. How their pact and the spells binding them had felt like knives, running all through her when it broke. How now, it was impossible to keep going. How it had to end. The song went on, from verse to chorus, melody to harmony, note to note to cadence final. And she could almost feel herself slipping away, whether to sleep or death she couldn’t think to care, so many times. But every opportunity for that darkness to envelop her, her mind instead was spinning stories to keep her there. Like a prisoner. Stories of lovers and families and happy endings. A vast dreamscape of better possibilities, fairer outcomes for all those that she loved. A dreamworld where the magic had worked, where songs and spells and potions could bring Linna back to her. Or, at least, an alternative where she could go to her beloved, and at least be at peace, at last. \ Jodie (she/her) is a fantasy author who also occasionally dabbles in poetry and non- fiction. She is currently studying in Aberdeen to become a music teacher, but still wants to make plenty of time for writing. Find more of her work here and here. Black Magic by Destine Carrington

My mother warned of magic. The way the energy jumps from the coils of our hair can not be handled by the untrained. Our grimoire carved in tongues below the sea. Our magic missed, taken misunderstood.

\ Destine Carrington (she/they) is a queer, black woman living in North Carolina because she enjoys challenges. Other things she enjoys include but are not limited to: burgers, brownies, and Batman. She has a BFA from the University of North Carolina-Wilmington and a cat named Turtle. Her work has also appeared in Rune Bear Magazine, Star*Line Magazine, Prismatica Magazine, Black from the Future: A Collection of Black Speculative Writing, Rigorous Magazine, Serendipity Literary Magazine, Jokes Review, Drunk Monkeys Literary Magazine, and Five2One Literary Magazine’s thesideshow. To A Modern Nymph by Mārta Ziemelis

I never really knew what an Echo was until your face sang it to me as we brushed against each other in passing, wandering the streets. O pink-haired muse, your jacket soft plum corduroy surely lies too sweetly smooth to hide a mortal body. And yet tiny freckles dance, scattered across broad cheekbones. An upturned nose Little imperfections improve your human disguise. O shifting rainbow-hair, do I see an Echo of myself inside your eyes, rich brown like the deep, soft soil of spring?

\ Mārta Ziemelis (she/her) is a Toronto-based emerging poet and established literary translator. Her poetry has appeared in The Ice Colony and CRUSH Zine. Her Latvian- English translations include "Do you exist, or did my mind invent you?", a poem by Gunta Micāne (TransLit Volume 11: An Anthology of Literary Translations, 2017), two short stories in the anthology The Book of Riga (Comma Press, 2018), and Narcoses, a poetry collection by Madara Gruntmane, co-translated with Richard O'Brien (Parthian, 2018). You can find her Instagram here. Hexby G Mimiri lLsam

Deemed an outcast, shunned to a hut, nothing but a book of spells to keep company.

Woman with no lengthy necessities, but love is what she desires. Craving a lady to set her on fire.

Mixing potions to stir up emotions.

Destroying a man to be with his sister for only a mister could be with a woman.

A vial of tears, the secret ingredient She prays for the princess.

To save her she must transform the masculine obstacle into a frog.

The wicked witch can have her happy ending. Ring in hand, broom for escape. \ Mimi Lam (she/her) double majored in Mathematics and Communication Arts with a focus in Production at Allegheny College. She searches for the universal truths in her poems and tells the story of her Vietnamese family, culture, and surrounding community. Currently, Mimi serves as the Library Manager for a newly-found, Black- owned poetry library, the Sims Library of Poetry, in South Los Angeles, a predominantly Black and Brown, low-income community. Through her job, Mimi helps make poetry more accessible to the community and uplifts underrepresented voices in the literary world. She also pursues acting, practices Aikido, and learns calligraphy. thbey wNitayiat S wianr uboaur wings on the cliff under crimson clouds we flutter a feet above the blue grass ground me and her little white butterflies around veil us in enchantment pulling us close the moment our beaks touch my racing breast swells I transform she transforms we become women our profiles come close a blurry vase of the colored valley below heartbeats intensify the world around is forgotten as her waist moves between my arms I admire every line, curve, and piece of skin that decided to morph into becoming her face our nose tips touch I lean in a little I breathe her in as I slide down her cheek to her neck so warm I see her lips make a smile I close my eyes and go on and on vampire-kissing her neck her clavicle, her chest I go along the rhythm of her heart until I lose my breath

I break away with a smile an inhalation, an exhilaration and we go again until we turn back turn back and fly to our nest to wait another year

\ Nitya (she/her) is a poet and writer. Her loves are words, women, nature, the universe, and magic. Her affection and admiration for the woman feed her thought and imagination. She is her muse, pretty much untethered, but constant. Nitya has published two books of poems: One Flew Over The Heart, her first collection about everything, and Words from Under the Burning Bridge, a poetic storybook of emotions that woman brings her. The Writing on the Wall by Sarah Simpson

Saskia was sitting with her elbow on the counter, her hand apathetically supporting her chin, when Hannah arrived home from work and dumped a load of shopping in orange plastic bags on the table. “Hon, why did you go to Sainsbury’s?” she asked, her exasperation coming through ever so slightly. “I thought we agreed we’d only go to Lidl now. And did you forget to take bags?” Hannah didn’t meet her eye. “Sorry, it was on my way home. It’s only tonight’s dinner. I thought you’d be hungry, I didn’t want to keep you waiting.” Saskia realised she’d sounded ungrateful and felt a pang of guilt. After all, she’d been at home all day. “Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be accusatory. I just – you know. I’m just concerned.” Hannah looked up. Even after all this time, her direct gaze hit Saskia like something that hits you real hard, but which isn’t a steam train or a tidal wave or a ton of bricks. “I know. It’s just this once. At the weekend we can go to Lidl together, okay?” “Okay.” “How’s the writing?” Saskia tried to smile but felt like the corners of her mouth were held down by strings attached to the lead weight in her stomach. “Oh, y’know,” she said, attempting to sound the way that she imagined people did when they were described as sounding ‘breezy’. “Love a good listicle. It’s the future of journalism.” Hannah grimaced. “I know it’s not what you want, babe, but at least you’re writing, right? It’s a step in the right direction?” Her face seemed to be imploring Saskia to believe it. Saskia wished she could. “Oh, I forgot to say, the social worker’s coming tomorrow to check out the flat, babe. You’ll be here, right?” “Where else would I be?” snarled Saskia. No, she didn’t. She didn’t say that. “Of course,” replied Saskia.

***

After dinner as they sat watching TV, Hannah picked holes in the threadbare sofa and the plotlines like she always loved to. No detail was safe from her criticism. “That doesn’t make any sense,” she sighed as one character fell surely into a trap artfully designed by another. “She wouldn’t have fallen for that. They make it seem like he’s so good at manipulating people, when who wouldn’t be with a team of writers behind them making sure their victim acts exactly as predicted. It’s not impressive if it’s totally unbelievable.” “Suspend your disbelief,” laughed Saskia. “It’s its own world, whatever the writer says happened, happened.” “That’s bullshit!” cried Hannah, shoving Saskia a little in the ribs. “You can’t just write whatever you want and expect the audience to lap it up uncritically. There have to be limits and they have to be consistent. I’ll suspend my disbelief for dragons or whatever but it doesn’t mean I have to believe characters act without visible motivation. It’s not just like, a free-for-all. If everything is a deus ex machina, that’s just shitty writing. You know that. You’re the writer.” Saskia felt a pain that wasn’t from the shove. “Yeah, but I don’t get to write fiction,” she retorted. “Journalists only get to write what their editors say happened, what can be proved. We’re not in the world creation business. I don’t get to set the limits on my stories. They’re set for me.” Hannah looked at her, surprised at her serious tone. “Well, yeah,” she said. “I mean, it’s the news. You’re reporting what happened, not writing fiction.” Saskia’s stomach flipped over. “Exactly,” she said, her gritted teeth betraying her frustration. “Reporting. Not creating. The writers of fiction, as you call it, get to build things. All I do is mimic what’s already there.” “What do you mean, fiction, as I call it?” “Look, don’t you think I wish I got that kind of freedom? Those writers – ” she gestured at the television, still blaring – “can write anything into existence. If they say so, their characters can make vines sprout from the floor with a wave of their hand.” She waved her hand. Vines didn’t sprout from the floor. “It’s like saying ‘Imagine if this happened’, except you don’t say ‘imagine if’, you just say it happened. Just a couple of keystrokes and they create trees, buildings, entire new countries, people with whole lives. Whatever they want, it materialises out of thin air. They get to call that fiction. I do that and it’s called lying. Don’t you think I wish I had that kind of power? To make whatever I want happen just by saying so? I wake up every morning wishing I could. If I were writing our story, I could give it any ending I want. If you got sick, I could write you well – actually, I wouldn’t need to, because I’m the one who decides whether you get sick or not. I could add any number of zeroes I want to the sum in our bank account, and we’d be out of this shitty flat, somewhere an adoption agency would actually consider fit for human habitation, and they’d let us have a kid. Or actually, scrap the adoption bit, I could just write you pregnant. We’d have our own damn baby. It wouldn’t matter that we can’t reproduce, because if I wrote so, we could, and nobody could tell me otherwise. I could write any number of endings to our story. It could turn out however I like. If I were the one writing it.” Saskia’s tirade stopped abruptly, replaced by heavy breathing. Hannah stared at her, a mixture of anger at having been shouted at and bewilderment at what had been shouted spreading across her face. “But you aren’t,” she said, finally. Saskia seethed. “I know damn fucking well I’m not. If I were I would write that I could click my fucking fingers and we’d be in Istanbul, or conversing with Napoleon, or that cancer didn’t exist or whatever. You realise they get to transcend time and space? What I wouldn’t give…” Hannah’s expression started to shift into concern. “Babe, is this the dissociation talking?” Saskia’s nostrils flared as she exhaled furiously. “Don’t patronise me like that, Hannah. Please.” Canned laughter from the television set cut through the silence, rendering it if anything even more uncomfortable. Saskia stared Hannah directly in the eye for ten minutes without blinking. Is that possible? Finally, Hannah looked away, shuffling on the sofa and turning back to the television, which the two of them pretended to watch for the next hour or so until Hannah announced it was time for bed. “ I’ll come and join you in a bit, pumpkin,” Saskia told her as she moved back to the counter where her laptop still lay. “I’m just gonna do a little writing.”

***

In the morning Saskia was awakened by a beam of golden light, falling on the white bedsheets between herself and Hannah, whose hair was a spreading pool of ink across her face and the pristine pillow. Saskia wrapped her arm around Hannah’s waist and pulled her closer until their bodies touched in a complete line from Saskia’s forehead to Hannah’s heel. Saskia whispered in Hannah’s ear: sweet nothings, unspecified words of love. They lay in a tight embrace for fifteen rosy minutes, until the doorbell rang. Hannah got up to answer it. “That’ll be the social worker,” she smiled, popping the button through the cuff of her powder- blue blouse. Saskia lay in bed as her wife went to let in their visitor. The notes of their greetings floated through to her like the song of far-away birds. She stretched out, grabbing handfuls of the soft linen, then slid out of bed into the skirt suit she’d laid out in readiness for the social worker’s

visit. As Saskia made her way down the carpeted stairs, the sound of pleasant conversation and laughter rose to meet her. Hannah wasserving the social worker, a youngish, tall woman with a pencil-skirt and cornrows, orange juice from a jug that glinted in the sunlight streaming through the bay window. Saskia caught the end of the conversation. “…yes, well, obviously it would be nice to have a baby that looks a bit more like us, but how likely is it that there’ll be a baby with South Asian and white heritage at the exact right time, you know?” Hannah was saying. “You never know,” replied the social worker. “My husband and I got lucky; you could too. It’s a big city, there are a lot of kids waiting to be adopted.” At this moment, Saskia reached the bottom of the stairs. The social worker’s back was to the stairs; Hannah was facing Saskia, and she beamed as their eyes met. The sun shone in through the window behind her, crowning her head in its rays like a halo. Saskia imagined a matching pair of wings for her, and almost fancied she could see them. “This is my wife, Saskia,” said Hannah to the social worker, gesturing to her prospective co-parent. “She’s a writer.” The pride in Hannah’s eyes on uttering this statement was palpable. “Saskia, this is Rose.” “Lovely to meet you, Saskia,” said Rose, setting her glass down on a nearby table so she could offer her right hand to Saskia, her left clutching a clipboard. “I was just saying to Hannah what a beautiful home you two have.” “Thank you,” replied Saskia, taking the proffered hand, shaking it and smiling. “Well, everything seems to be fine.” Rose looked from Saskia to Hannah and back again. “I’m sure you’ll be hearing from us soon. I hope everything goes well for you – I’m sure it will.” Hannah showed her out. Once the door had closed, she turned to Saskia, with a smile so wide her face looked in danger of splitting in two. She bounced up and down on her toes, her hands balled into fists and shaking with delight. “It’s gonna happen!” she cried, ecstatic. “It’s really gonna happen, Saskia!” Saskia smiled. For the split second before their eyes met, Hannah’s looked oddly waxy in her otherwise exuberant face. Then contact was made, Saskia was floored once again, and whatever was clouding them seemed to pass, like condensation on a pair of glasses as they adjust to the temperature of the room. “Wasn’t the doorbell broken, hon?” asked Hannah, an expression of mild confusion crinkling her forehead. “How did she ring the bell?” Saskia laughed. “She must not have rung the bell then, silly.” Hannah looked positively suspicious now. “Of course she rang the bell,” she replied, laughing too, but with a touch of audible irritation. “That’s what got us up, remember? How else would we even have known she was here?” She didn’t say that. She didn’t look suspicious. Yes she did. “Well, then it must not have been broken,” responded Saskia. “It was definitely broken. When my mum came over last week it was broken and she had to call me to let her in.” “Well, I don’t remember that.” “I do. I could show you the call history on my phone.” She pulled it out and started scrolling through. Saskia couldn’t see the screen but she knew Hannah wouldn’t find what she was looking for. After a few seconds she looked up, her expression one of mixed confusion and frustration. “It’s not there,” she admitted. “Maybe I deleted the history.” “Hmm.” Or maybe someone else did. “She did call me,” said Hannah, defiantly. Defiantly? Not defiantly, that sounds like there’s some subjugation to defy. How about playfully. She said it playfully. Did she? Well, she did now. Saskia moved to the sofa and sat down. She beckoned for Hannah to join her, which she did, nestling into Saskia’s shoulder. Stretched out along the length of the sofa and resting her head on Saskia, Hannah put a hand on the leather and rubbed it thoughtfully with her palm. Her brow furrowed. “Cream,” she said. Saskia could hear her furrowed brow in her voice. “That’s kind of a weird choice. Won’t it mark?” “What do you mean, babe?” “I mean, cream leather, you know, won’t it mark? Odd decision.” “You were there when we bought it,” laughed Saskia, squeezing Hannah’s shoulder. Hannah turned her head to face Saskia’s. Her brow was indeed furrowed. “Was I?” Her tone was hard to write. To read. “Oh. Just doesn’t seem like the kind of thing I’d have signed off on.” Neither of them said anything for some time, but Saskia was reassured that the silence wasn’t uncomfortable by Hannah burrowing further into her shoulder and wrapping her arm around her waist. Saskia closed her eyes and began to drift off as the rise and fall of their two bodies in breath gradually synchronised. Just as she reached the edge of sleep, Hannah broke the silence and Saskia’s reverie. “You know, I’m really hungry. I really fancy a meringue. Actually, a piece of pavlova. With cream. And mounds of strawberries. Mmm.” She closed her eyes and smiled, imagining it. “Go check the fridge, babe,” said Saskia. Hannah looked her dead in the eye, then got up and walked to the refrigerator. She opened the door and pulled out an enormous glass serving dish piled high with the world’s largest pavlova, ringed with blueberries like so many strings of beads and strawberries and raspberries set into the cream like jewels in a crown. Hannah didn’t look happy. Her lip trembled. “If I try to throw this against the wall, will it disappear into a puff of smoke?” she asked. “Or will my hands just not move?” I swallowed. Saskia swallowed. “I’m surprised I can even still talk. Tell me, will you let me walk out the door? Is that door even real?” “What do you mean, hon?” Saskia’s voice was calm and not at all strained. Hannah set the pavlova down on the counter. “I won’t say you can’t control me, because I’m sure you can. But I don’t want to live like this, in a world of your creation where I can have whatever I want but it’s all just made of words on some page somewhere. So I’m leaving while you’ll still let me.” And she walked out of the door, or off the page. However you want to put it.

\ Sarah Simpson (she/her) is a young queer woman from Aberdeen. She has an academic background, having recently completed a Masters in Hispanic Studies; as such, Sarah is particularly influenced by Latin American writers of the fantastic like Julio Cortázar and Amparo Dávila. You can find her Instagram here. The Princeling and the Maiden-Wolf by Scarlett Mueller

Dedicated my real life Faerie Princeling Alex

In a realm yet past the river past the fields and past the wood, Lived a princeling of the faerie green as spring leaves was their hair, So the princeling walked the forest, heard a howling where they stood, Found a creature that got tangled in a cruel hunter’s snare.

T’was howling and snarling, this creature, this beast, the princeling was frightened a little at least. They approached it very careful, very graceful and so nimble, found the creature bound by fimble. Then the princeling stood there watching, eyes so brown and oh so wide, they stepped forward quite enchanted, stood there by the creature’s side.

Oh the beast there it was wailing, yips of pain and yaps of fear, So the princeling put there gently, fairest hand on darkest fur, And the beast it paused its wailing with a hand grazing its rear, Whimpered oncemore, did the creature till both calm the two they were.

So the princeling pulled their dagger, from its scabbard crested, Cut the rope that was tangled round the wyffwulf’s furry shape, Then the two sat there together on the forest ground and rested, And the princeling wrapped the now less fearsome beast into their summer cape. And the creature thus it shifted, changed its form, right then and there, Turned from wolf-beast to a maiden and dark fur turned to skin so fair, Held the princeling now the maiden in their arms wrapped in their cloak, Sat there gazing in her eyes in the shadow of an oak.

Oaken shadow moved on quickly and the day was soon but done, Faerie princeling and the maiden stayed together from that day till ever on.

Only when the full moon rises leaves the maiden for a while, Turns into a feral creature howling in the forest wild Princeling sits inside their cottage by the window with a smile, Hears their sweetheart outside howling running in the forest wild, Maiden returns to her lover after raving for a while.

\ Scarlett Mueller (she/her) is a transfeminine nonbinary person living in southwestern Germany. She came out as transgender around 2016 and as nonbinary in 2019 but has been writing poetry, especially slam poetry since way before that. She identifies as a Butch Lesbian and is a strong believer in mutual aid and anarchist theory as well as neo-pagan spiritualism. Thbiys SIusise WNilliaom sFonairy Tale

I am privy to secrets, Discreet handshakes, sly nods, smuggled packages, hushed whispers, Hiding in plain sight, On street corners; Storytellers keeping the past alive, In a town built on lies powerful enough to turn forest to dust.

I am an awkward girl, Spying with envy, children swimming in the river, seeking respite from the desert sun, While I bake on the banks, Hood pulled low to hide my face, From deniers of the past, When tribes moved with the seasons and rain fell upon a fertile land.

I am a student of the old ways, Navigating the mysteries of my homeland, blurred lines between reality and myth, A divided people, With decimated roots, Words intended to ignite a fire, In the belly of a girl looking towards an uncertain future.

I am a frightened child, Surrounded by a miasma of fear and corruption, close enough to bring cold shivers, Shocked by the revelation of my lesson, Revealing me as the one, To change the course, To restore balance, and walk the path to emancipation.

I am a fugitive, Like an axe severing all ties with the familiar, my world cast into the abyss, Leaving nothing to cushion, Bleak fear and doubt; It was surely a grand mistake, It can’t be on awkward, frightened, desperate me that the future depends.

I am alone with my stories, Of wildlife roaming distant plains, where crickets sing out from blades of grass, Topped with shining beads of dew; Alone with an impossible quest, To be heard by spirits of the past, To call them forth, and breathe life back into the dying lands.

I am held captive, By the mysteries of my heart, as the slightest touch of another woman’s love, Brings an uncaged flutter; No longer alone, We stand together, Truthtellers, fighting for peace, for justice, looking towards a new world. \ Susie Williamson (she/her) is a writer and artist based in Exeter. She is the author of Blood Gift Chronicles, a character-driven YA fantasy adventure series featuring queer women protagonists. Set in distant but familiar lands, the series encompasses themes of wildlife & the environment, animism, social injustice and exploitation, magic, dragons and being true to one’s self. To accompany writing, she paints with acrylics on canvas, steadily filling the white washed walls of home where she lives with her life partner, Kate, and her working pal, Mia the cat. You can find her blog here. About The Team

PErmodruycesr Mordin

Emrys (they/them) lives in Aberdeenshire, Scotland with their partner and two cats. A proud non binary lesbian with a background in community activism, Emrys' current work encompasses communities, theatre and writing. With a strong focus on bringing people together, they use arts as a tool for radical change. Emrys founded Sapphic Writers in April 2020 and is proud to work alongside such an excellent team of creative sapphics. When not working, they can be found curled up with a cat, a hot chocolate and a good book. Image description: A photo of Emrys, a fat, white person Catch up with their work on who is smiling at the camera. They are wearing a purple Instagram, Facebook and their website. blazer, purple shirt and purple dungarees. They have a lesbian bow-tie and a wooden necklace with a rainbow sun

on it. Their hair is pink and rainbow. They wear purple glasses.

Communities & Jess Magnan Communications Organizer Jess (they/them) is a freelance writer and editor during the week and retires to queer blogging each weekend. Their work at ALesbianAndHerLaptop.com aims to bring a diverse palette of queer stories to the world and help other LGBTQ people feel understood. You can find Jess in their vegetable garden, rotating through crafty hobbies, or rambling on Twitter @koalatygay.

Image description. A photo of Jess. They are white with ginger and dyed pink hair and are smiling at the camera. They wear large, round glasses. The top of their blue dungarees and maroon sweater are visible in the photo. Julia DaSilva Community Coordinator

Julia (she/her) is a writer and climate justice organizer whose poetry has appeared in Eclectica, Rat’s Ass Review, Lychee Rind zine, the University of Toronto journals The Spectatorial, The Strand, Hardwire, and The Voice, as well as upcoming issues of Storm of Blue Press Magazine, and Cathexis. She writes fantasy as well as poetry, with a novel and Image description: A photo of Julia, a white person with a collection of short stories in progress and short brown hair who is looking to the side and smiling. a particular interest in the politics of magic She is leaning against a wall with the word, ‘GIRL’ in systems. She is a guest in pink. She wears a denim jacket, a blue shirt, Tkaronto/Toronto on Dish With One Spoon green/yellow trousers, and black boots. territory.

Courtney Morris Zine & Admin Officer

Courtney (she/her) is an English to Speakers of Other Languages (ESOL) teacher hoping to move to South Korea in the near future. Her main genres of writing include novels, short stories, and monologues. Along with being a founding member of Sapphic Writers, she also enjoys making Sapphic themed art and enjoys a pint with friends when she’s got some free time on her hands.

Image description: A photo of Courtney, who is a white person smiling to the side. She has long brown hair and black glasses and is wearing a denim jacket. Madelyn Mahoney Podcast & Community Coordinator

Madelyn (she/her) is a novelist attempting to inject LGBTQ+ characters into as many cis-hetero-dominated genres as possible. If she isn't gaying up the sci-fi and fantasy world, she is probably begging her cat for attention or hiking.

Image description: A photo of Madelyn, a white person who has a big smile and is looking at the camera. She has ginger hair and face-paint of a trans flag on her face. She also has a nose piercing and part of her white t-shirt is visible. Meet our new core team members! Chyna Deveroux New Member

Chyna (they/them) is a freelance writer and screenwriter. They are working to introduce more LGBTQ characters to people's screens that break the mold and tell the stories of black and brown people. You can find them on Twitter @chynadeveroux yelling about television, film, and black queer people.

Image description: A photo of Chyna, a Black person who is smiling widely and looking to their left. They have very curly black hair and are wearing big black glasses and a black t-shirt with a red design. Anissa Praquin New Member Anissa (they/them) is a writer and performer whose poetry is somehow always about food, sex, or sadness. They have a passion for interactive performance, and want to use art to encourage playfulness and celebration. In summer you can most likely find them dancing in a field wearing a costume they built out of scraps. Image description: A photo of Anissa, a Black person who is smiling at the camera. Anissa wears a bright yellow coat and big orange sunflowers in their black hair. They also have red glasses, glitter all over their face, and multiple piercings.

Melissa Shode New Member Melissa (she/her) is a Digital Marketing Assistant from Hull. She is also a poet writing about her experiences as a black bisexual woman growing up in the North. Her poetry is powerful, political and punk. In her spare time she loves to go to festivals (pre-Covid), listen to records and unwind with a bottle of vino, and connect with Mother Earth on nature walks. Most people are 70% water but she’s 70% black girl magic. Image description: A photo of Melissa, a Black person who is looking at the camera with a slight smile on her face. She has a septum piercing and a black t-shirt with a colourful design on it, and short black hair. A zine by the Sapphic Writers Collective