A midwife—she reaches for the flower’s afterlife and dyes it with a puddle of St. Germain. We’re dealing in floral ghosts & flakes of paint curved over our fingertips, abalone crescents. I have been told to chant words of protection— cornstalk & eucharist. She says I’ll think...
Children! To perform this nifty trick, ask your mother for a shelled-out lemon, balled-up handkerchiefs, a vial of perfume, fire, and a pistol. “I have written this work,” writes Professor Henri Garenne, in his introduction to the 1886 edition...
  In her first memory of this life, she clutched two pecans in her small hands. Warm brown with tabby cat black stripes, dry and cool to the touch. She might have gathered an empty husk, too, its edges curled as...
Every time my writing gets stuck, I ask myself, “How would Scheherazade get out of this?” Of course, she would know what to do. That’s how she survived for 1,001 nights and beyond: by knowing when to add to a...
©Kate Leiper

Selkie

It’s not that I’m not comfortable in my own skin. It’s that I can’t ever be without it—it’s a harness in a handbag, holding me to the ocean with a hook and a thread. This is the life I wanted—a cottage, no Prince Charming but...
The realist masters have avoided the Appalachians and I have to assume that this is because fayeland is difficult to paint. What to do with the sounds of mushrooms unfolding through fallen hemlocks? How to ensure the advancement of each tiny...
Historic clothing created and modeled by Seamstress of Rohan. Photography by Helena Aguilar Mayans. Take a spoon, silver’s best, but any spoon Will do, so long as it is old. It should Be held in the left hand. Take it now, room To room...

Besom

Photography by Courtney Brooke Twenty eight broomcorn bunches in the center, seventeen on the outside, jagged bristles bound, many years ago I would have just swept up Cheerios and glitter, dirt; brooms were for cleaning. Now Besom, you’re bound for riding. Somewhen, I will cut the...
This is the way she knew he was gone: The door was open. His boots were missing. The cage where he kept a hawk was empty. He’d never said a word. The night before he went missing he’d gathered the...
Article from the Medieval Issue #41 Print // Digital Ah, young courtly love, the all-consuming, not-quite platonic, and entirely effusive adoration of a medieval knight for his liege’s wife. The troubadours, poets, and storytellers of the era invented the idea of an honorable knight’s almost...