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If I wished hard enough, do you think the fae would steal me away with a wink?

Call Down the Hawk, Maggie Stiefvater // C. S. Lewis // St. Lucy’s Home for Girls Raised by Wolves, Karen Russell // vintage print, Cicely Mary Barker // “Plea” by me // the Cottingly Fairy hoax picture // “Plea” // vintage postcard // Anne of Avonlea, L.M. Montgomery // “Plea”

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If I wished hard enough, do you think the fae would steal me away with a wink?

Call Down the Hawk, Maggie Stiefvater // C. S. Lewis // St. Lucy’s Home for Girls Raised by Wolves, Karen Russell // vintage print, Cicely Mary Barker // “Plea” by me // the Cottingly Fairy hoax picture // “Plea” // vintage postcard // Anne of Avonlea, L.M. Montgomery // “Plea”

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May you wake up with pointed ears, curled horns, sharp fangs, pitch black eyes, and whatever other inhuman parts you would like to have.

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Paris, la ville d'amour

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mutuals this winter we are all doing this

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‘I’ve been lost but I’m here now. You’re the only person who has ever been able to find me.’

1.Sappho | 2.Ron Hicks | 3.Sappho | 4.Käthe Butcher | 5.Vita Sackville-West | 6.Helena Janecic | 7.Sue Zhao | 8.Helena Janecic | 9,10.Sappho | 11.Helena Janecic | 12.Sylvia Plath | 13.Milt Kobayashi | 14.Elliot Wake | 15.Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema | 16.Julie Anne Peters | 17.Käthe Butcher | 18. Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu | 19.Patricia Highsmith | 20.Helena Janecic | 21.Virginia Woolf | 22.Patricia Highsmith

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There is a cafe in the forest. Its lights are bright, it should not be there.

Something chimes. You don’t remember opening the door that swings closed behind you. You’re out of breath. Have you been running? Your brow furrows. There is mud on your boots. Clumps of dirt that dry and crack then fall away as you stand there, staring.

“May I have your name?” 

You look up. Your neck strains as if it hasn’t moved in days. Blink, flex your hands. Needles race up your arms like stabbing insects. The barista stands before you with limbs that are too long and a smile that reaches their eyes in more ways than one. 

“May I have your name?” They say again, like a name is a thing to be taken. 

Maybe it is. You are struck with the notion that you do not want them to have yours. With great effort you pause the words forming on your lips. When did you open your mouth? It doesn’t matter. You give them a name.

The barista’s smile widens, if that is possible. Their skin is ashen gray and the apron they wear shifts in a way that blinds you. “That isn’t your name.”

You shake your head. No, it isn’t. 

You are seated at a table. (Is wood supposed to bleed?) The menu is soggy in your hands. Syllables jerk twisted and raw from your mouth as you pick an order at random and read. A mockery of language, you don’t recognise your own voice. 

The barista nods slowly, “will that be all?”

“Yes,” you find yourself saying. “that will be all.”

They turn away and you are left with yourself. Roll a corner of the menu between your finger and thumb, yellow liquid oozing from its fibers. Your hand is shaking.

Something chimes, slams. A man stands in the doorway- He has mud on his boots, though he doesn't stop to watch it dry. He sees you and you remember then why you went running in the woods at night. Ordinary fear; of abuse and fists and gaslit-rage. You cringe in your seat. 

He is an animal made of popping veins and flying spittle. He stalks towards you and then-

“May I have your name?” 

Was the barista always there? You don’t remember them arriving, you don’t remember them being there a moment ago. They stand with a smile that is still too wide, hands outstretched in a beckoning motion. The man doesn’t notice, or perhaps he is too caught in his own rage to care. He shoves the barista, but he may as well be shoving at a pillar, or a mountain. They make the beckoning motion again and you’re not sure which of them to warn of danger.

“May I have your name?” 

The man scowls, giving it offhandedly as he moves to step past. Then he stops. You stare, transfixed as the colour drains from his face. His legs seem rooted to the floor. You steel yourself to meet his gaze but it's… hollow. The eyes you meet are that of a shell- a vacant, breathing corpse. 

You look away and the barista descends upon what remains. 

He doesn’t scream, doesn’t make a sound at all. The wet tearing of flesh is enough to keep your eyes on the floor. The tiles are stained a dirty brown. (Smack.) They have chipped in places, little cracks running through and revealing the loose earth beneath. (Thud.) A bug crawls from the dirt. Or at least, you think it’s a bug. (Tear.) A crimson puddle seeps into view; you decide to look elsewhere.

Happy, laughing things stare at you from a poster. The figures on it are almost human, smiling renditions of men and women if they had been sculpted by a child. The only accurate features are the teeth. 

The clock on the wall has eleven numbers. The hands rotate at random, spinning and stopping in opposite directions. You watch as it falters and picks up speed, never once coming to a point where it could properly mark the passage of time.

A clink against the table pulls you from your transfixion. There stands the barista, smiling. They're different now- the slant of their chin, the colour of their eyes. Those features are new, stolen from a man who is now something different.

They have placed a cup in front of you; the muddy red liquid swirling inside almost looks like tea. You pick it up (because what else are you supposed to do?) and run a thumb along the handle’s rough surface. It’s white, with a hundred organic ridges. The liquid inside is warm and distinctly metallic. You try not to think about it.

“Would you like a sample?” They slide a tray towards you. You're not sure what the things on it are, but you know that you want them. Desires, goals. When you ask if they are free the barista says nothing. When you ask for the price a curious expression crosses their face before they give it to you.

You decide that no, you wouldn't like a sample today.

The barista steps towards you clumsily, as if putting one foot in front of the other is something they haven’t done before. They take your hand. Their fingers are hard, smooth as ice and just as cold. They run an almost-thumb down your palm, bones growing and shifting, snapping into place as their limbs change to imitate your own. You yank your arm away. The cold of their fingers has forced you to focus, pulled you back to some semblance of reality. You stand, knocking over your chair in the process. It hits the ground with a dull thud and begins to gently sink into the earth.

The barista looks at you with eyes that were his and are now yours too. You hug your chest, bile rising in your throat. You have to get away. They don’t stop you, and perhaps that is the most disturbing thing of all. Calling out a simple “come again!” before you can flee, breathless, into the night.

In the dark and cold you think for a moment that you have stumbled into another hell, so sudden is the change. But no, there are outlines of trees; leaves beneath your shoes. This is the forest once more.

You turn, expecting a building but greeted by darkness. Blink, let your eyes adjust to the night. There is a corpse at your feet. It looks like it's been there a while. Mushrooms grow from its eyes, the slant of its chin. You stumble away.

 The rumble of traffic offers a clear direction. Lights flash in the distance and you realise for the first time that your hands are caked in dry crimson. Look away, focus on the treeline and the false safety it promises. The taste of copper sits heavy on your tongue.

‘Come again!’ The call was not a request, but a promise. Not tomorrow, if you’re lucky not for years to come. But you will return one day,

To the midnight cafe.

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I Keep Coming Back, 2021, Digital | Posted Individually Here

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When I say ‘free all women’, this is what I mean:

Every woman must be in complete control of her person (right to bodily sanctity and complete reproductive control from birth until death)

Every woman must be free to pursue education (literacy)

Every woman must have the opportunity to make a living wage (and not be forced to cohabitate with violent abusive males to stave off homelessness and rape)

Every woman must be able to create, barter for, or purchase her needs

Images of degraded or dehumanized women must not be entertainment. Our oppression must no longer be masturbation fodder

Women must have unequivocal determination over who has access to our physical, emotional, and mental selfhood and labour

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Alexey Kondakov

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Jessie Arms Botke " Black Swans and Hibiscus"

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40% off all my art prints, posters and tapestries on Society6, and 20% off other print products! Click to view all my prints on Society6 ♥ (Sale ends October 1st 2019)

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I've been doing it wrong 🙃😑

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—Sylvia Plath, from The Unabridged Journals Of Sylvia Plath