by M. Lynn Johnson

She wove a web to bind us
And muttered spells to blind us
White fingers in white wool
Spinning round and round,
The spindleÌs whorl
The earthÌs twirl.
Clockwise, counter-clockwise
Round her cottage now we go
Trundling through our dreams.
Plague of destinies, a spiderÌs spies
Who knew her tales were nothing but lies?

M. Lynn Johnson lives in Bellingham, WA, where she spins yarn of many colors and often knits it into … Read entire article »

by Amanda Downum

Dusk tarnishes the light when I find the faerie woman, caught in brambles at the edge of the forest. Thorns snag her wine-dark velvet cloak, tangle in russet curls. Her eyes widen as eye approach.

A wood-wife, foolish enough to wander too near a witch’s snare. She flinches away from my iron, my sweat and blood-stained leather. Death hangs over my shoulders, a pall I have yet to … Read entire article »

by Patricia Russo

The beasts were of every sort, with deep fur and shy tongues, shimmery feathers and speeding hearts, soft skin and timid feet. All of them gave heat. Even the snakes were warm, their bunching muscles slow and easy under my hand. My fingers fell in love first, then my palms, then the insides of my wrists. I did not choose them; they chose me. They came because I … Read entire article »

by Leah Bobet

They go out for coffee on Saturdays
the princesses, thirtyish, crowns askew,
in sweaters they knitted themselves, on Saturdays,
between talking shop, pass the sugar, shoot the shit.

There comes a point in a woman’s life
where the dragons just get smaller
or don’t come by, smoke-sniffing, anymore
or you realize they’ve all been seen

And instead there are nephews
and good books, and good works
and walks in the sunshine, … Read entire article »

by JoSelle Vanderhooft

Before her foliate nativity, her crèche was the cedar breaks
the sweep of robin wings, the limbic
pulse of shock-headed polycephalum and great dog stinkhorns
blossoming like dark tulips in the hot bed where she rose—
tall-headed, green and spindly as a question mark
drinking light as through a straw.

Then she was single, nutrients and coil bound up with Self,
a tiny verdant sprite; spiral of hair, breasts, feet, … Read entire article »

by Donna Quattrone

Wasn’t it thoughtful
Of your mama
To make such a pretty
Red cap.

I can see you strolling
Through meadow and trees;
Down path well trodden,
You come singing,
Knowing I await you.

We start off the same way;
“Once upon a time,”
And then, after few moments of polite chit-chat,
Off I dash to Grandmother’s house.
I have to get there first, of course.

Her dressing gown rips
When … Read entire article »