passionfru it A LABOUR OF LOVE
CONTENTS
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Letter from the Editor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . barefootchild, Hannah Reinhardt . . . . . . . . . . . Communications with my Ancestors, Martha Crijns . . . A Woodland Walk, Rowan K . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Evening Walks Mixtape, VB . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Remember, Tom Reed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Poem 238, John Rutherford . . . . . . . . . . . . . . It Gets Easier, S.J. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Summer Smoothies, Hannah McKee . . . . . . . . . . . Beach Diary, Xan Shian . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . How to make Mead, Rachel Ambrose . . . . . . . . . . Angry Mixtape, Ishani Jasmin . . . . . . . . . . . . Summer Scavenger Hunt, Hannah McDowell . . . . . . . Deer, Sahaj . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Wood Art, Anne Agnes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Orchids, Jacob Welch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . On Winemaking, Andy Meyer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Faces of Mother Earth, Imogen Dent . . . . . . . . . Self Portrait, Aiden Layer . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Burial of the Dead, Heleen de Boever . . . . . . Hyperspace Bypasses Can Wait, ECM . . . . . . . . . . One Line Tear, CP Harrison . . . . . . . . . . . . . Terrariums, Rachael Taube . . . . . . . . . . . . . . How to Cast a Circie, Imogen Dent . . . . . . . . . . Sunbathing and Dreaming Mixtape, Vivienne C . . . . . Cat Sketch, Moiz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . It Takes Time, Sylvia Morris . . . . . . . . . . . . Passion Fruit Wet, Dylan Fotopoulos . . . . . . . . . Autumn Journal Entry, Vivian C . . . . . . . . . . . Summertime Mixtape, Anna Mahrer . . . . . . . . . . . Nature Diary, Sunnie L . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . My Finca, Andrew Maben . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Summer In Pain, Brianna Hernanzez . . . . . . . . . . Ode to Persephone, Kathryn Jackson . . . . . . . . . Mt. Kuma, Yuki Sambongi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Adventures of Robot & Turtle, Michelle Norton . . Touch Me Lithely, Luis Utrera . . . . . . . . . . . . March 25, Hobson, Mary Kate McGrath . . . . . . . . . Inner Peace Spell, Kelley O’Brian . . . . . . . . . . Nature Diary, Shannon King. . . . . . . . . . . . . . `
p.6 p.8 p.14 p.18 p.20 p.21 p.23 p.24 p.25 p.26 p.28 p.31 p.32 p.34 p.35 p.38 p.40 p.41 p.46 p.48 p.50 p.52 p.54 p.55 p.58 p.59 p.60 p.61 p.62 p.63 p.64 p.66 p.68 p.69 p.70 p.71 p.72 p.73 p.74 p.75
CONTRIBUTORS William bortz Jimmie costello
xan shian kelley o’brian
rachael taube Hannah Reinhardt Alex w.
Rowan k. s.J. Brianna hernandez
sunnie L Martha crijns
luis utrera hannah mckee
dylan fotopoulos heleen de boever
Aiden layer andrew maben
Moiz ECM
Rachel Ambrose
hannah mcdowell mary kate mcgrath sylvia morris
Jacob Welch Anne Agnes cp harrison yuki sambongi
michelle denise norton
K. a. edwards janyn
VB anna mahrer
shannon king
vivian c Ishani Jasmin
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Letter from the Editor I’ve been thinking about this a lot for a couple of days. I’ve been thinking about starting a zine again since I stopped working on my last one, to be honest; I want to work with other people, and I think this is a really fun and great way to do it. So, welcome to the first edition of PASSIONFRUIT (it’s kind of a dumb title, but I think it’s cute). In this letter, I guess I should address the point of this whole thing. Here goes. I want to have a conversation that never ends or maybe sometimes does with readers and contributors — if love makes the world go round, I want to hear about people’s loves. The things that we spend our time doing, the little things that keep us going and how we let them fill our lives. I want this to be a labour of love, about love, fuelled by love. And maybe I’m channelling my inner Jenna Rink, but I want this to be think that that’s a good way to start, and I think my intentions are pure. I’ve been spending a lot of time with friends lately, in parks and on walks. I want more of it, but it’s not summer yet, and I am desperately looking for summer, but British weather is kinda bringing me down. I know I’m romanticising it a little bit because my summer is the one after I finish my BA which means a lot of work shifts, crashing at friends’ houses at weekends to get my fill of social time, hours on trains, short visits and heartache. I hope I get to fill my heart up, and I hope you do too. This summer is a period of transition, and I wanted to figure out a way to ground ourselves during that, which is why I figured, hey! DOWN TO EARTH.
Ishani x 6
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Hannah  Reinhardt
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12
When I was 8 or 9, me and my best friend went an entire summer without wearing shoes. Ever since then I find it hard to keep my shoes on when the sun rises high and with it the temperatures, when a warm breeze strays through my hair and I can feel a longing for the seaside or the mountains softly tugging at the strings of my heart, a strange wanderlust for nowhere in particular, a leftover from when I was still in school and summer meant holidays and holidays meant traveling with my family, sleeping in tents and having mosquito bites all over, lazy days on a crowded beach or seemingly endless hikes on abandoned trails, until the blank mirror of a mountain lake was in front of us and we dipped our toes into the ice cold water, sending ripples over the sky that was reflected on its surface. So every now and then I go on walks, through fields and meadows and woods (whatever I can find, living in the city now makes that habit a little harder to pursue), and I take my shoes off, digging my toes into the dirt, feeling small stones and twigs and pebbles trying to attack my soles, but I don't mind, it doesn't really hurt if I just keep walking. And it seems like nature approves of my need to feel it directly under my feet – I never get hurt, I've never stepped into broken glass or any insects that would sting me while I'd take it's life, I don't pay much attention to where I place my steps, I'm trusting my luck and it's rewarding my faith. And when I get home, I rinse off the dust and dirt that I've collected, leaving a brown trail down the drain of my shower, and I feel a strange sense of inner contentment and ease and peacefulness, all just from walking barefoot for a short while and waking the memories from that one summer when we refused to wear shoes.
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16
A walk with Rowan K
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1. Cavern’s Dark - Forest Moon 2. Waves - Bahamas 3. Warm Foothills - Alt J 4. Supersymmetry - Arcade Fire 5. I Hope That I Don’t Fall In Love With You - Tom Waits 6. Lost Cause - Beck 7. Come Talk To Me - Bon Iver 8. Daughters of the Soho Riots - The National 9. The Moderately Talented Yet Attractive Young Woman vs. The Exceptionally Talented Yet Not So Attractive Middle Aged Man - Sun Kil Moon 10. Back At The Boneyard - Stonetrotter 11. Outro With Bees - Neko Case 12. Child - Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes 13. These Days - Nico 14. Cactus Tree - Joni Mitchell 15. St. Jude - Florence and the Machine 16. Ontario Gothic - Foxes in Fiction 17. Almanac - Volcano Choir
William Bortz & VB
Remember i write this in patterns. i write of the trees, on the trees. they spiral in my mind, their roots tangling in memory. as you read this, years from now, you remember this, yes? you must, you must. remember how the sunlight grabbed at the branches? how the moon danced slow with the grieving lichen? i never was any good at dancing, my feet tripping over each other, my arms shaking, wavering. but the forest didn't care. it was all about the patterns. there was a pattern to my missteps, a pattern to how the wind touched the glorious leaves. do you remember? can you see it now? the seed of all of this was hidden under the moss, the petrichor. have its vines started spilling yet from your mouth?
Alex W & Tom Reed
Jimmie Costello & Tom Rutherford
poem 238 I used to come here for solitude, but I'm not alone anymore. My place behind the Crape Myrtle tree has gathered some new friends, ants, a wasp, and the pig in the neighbor's yard, and in the spring there is no silence in the place I held more sacred than any church. This is why I like the winter, and why I bid farewell to it so bitterly, I prefer the solemnity of the death of the year, something I can understand, but life, that's a foreign concept to me, and I'm not sure I'll ever get it enough to find solitude in spring.
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SJ
Hannah’s summer smoothie you can alter amounts depending on what flavours you want to be prevalent! this is a real simple recipe, you just blend everything up! combine the following and enjoy: apple juice plum peach kiwi rock melon pineapple passion fruit
Xan  Shian
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rachel’s secret recipe ‘What's mead?’ you ask. You've probably never heard of it before, or if you have, you've come across it at a renaissance festival or in a RPG of some kind. Mead is magical stuff! You might even say it's bee-yootiful. It's sweet as honey, because it's made from honey. It's honeywine! And I'm going to teach you how to make it in your very own house.
WHAt you need for mead 3-4 pounds of honey (locally obtained is best)
Two one-gallon carboys (a carboy is a big glass jug, but any food-safe container will work) Three-quarters of a gallon of water One packet of yeast One airlock One rubber stopper with a hole in it Sanitizer A big pot A siphon (for racking your mead)
*A few words about yeast: there are a ton of different types and strains, and each will lend its own characteristic to your finished mead. I like to use champagne yeast. This often results in a dry mead, though, so if you like sweet meads, stick to ale yeast or beer yeast. You can find all of these available for purchase online! IMPORTANT YEAST INFO: yeast is a fickle beast, and doesn't like to live in too warm or too cold of an environment. So it's very important that you let your honey-water mixture cool down to room temperature (or just above) before putting your pitched yeast in. Now, you don't *have* to pitch your yeast. In fact, most yeast packaging is helpful and tells you whether or not to pitch. But I always do.
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to start off
You need the sanitizer because you really want the carboy, airlock, and stopper to be sterile when you're first putting the honey-water into contact with them. Fermentation is a messy process and not sanitizing your tools properly might result in bad flavors in your mead. You can find sanitizer on Amazon or at any homebrewing store. You don't need a lot, just a tablespoon or two mixed in some warm water in a bowl. Make sure to roll your airlock and rubber stopper around in the sanitizer, rinse them off with water, and put them on a clean plate. Then pour the sanitizer into your carboy and shake it up until you've gotten the inside of your carboy nice and clean! Rinse your carboy, shake it around again, dump out the water, and you're ready to begin. Sanitize your pot, then pour in your honey - you can run the bottle under some warm water to help the honey pour faster if you like. Then fill up your carboy with water and pour that into your pot. Warm up the mixture on your stove, stirring every so often, until the honey and the water are nicely mixed together. If you want to add spices, herbs, or fruit to your mixture, now's the time to do it! I've put ginger in, I've put lemon juice and basil in, I've put raspberries and apples and cinnamon in. You can be as creative as you like! Let your inner chef go wild. Taste your mixture every so often to make sure it's yummy, and if it's not, adjust to your preferences. You're aiming for a good balance of flavors here - your fruit and spice flavors shouldn't overwhelm your honey. Now, pour your mixture into your sanitized carboy. You might want to use a funnel to make this process easier. Don't forget to sanitize that as well if you want to use it! (Note: if you don't have time to complete the process, this is a good stopping point - just don't forget to put the rubber stopper and airlock on top!)
pitching your yeast
Pitching your yeast is also known as activating it! What you do is, you warm two cups of water to just over 100 degrees Fahrenheit, then you add your yeast and wait ten to fifteen minutes. Give it a stir, then pour it into your carboy. Shake shake shake that carboy up for five minutes, taking the rubber stopper off every minute to minute and a half. This lets the honey-water and the yeast breathe and aerate, which is important for proper yeast growth. Stick the airlock back on, put the carboy in a closet or on a shelf, and let it hang out. Over the next few days, you should see and hear the water in the airlock start to bubble. It might even smell like baking bread! Don't worry, this is a good sign that your mead is happy and beginning to ferment. After two to three weeks, the bubbling should slow down and you should see a layer of sediment begin to collect on the bottom of your carboy. This means that your yeast has done its job and is now dead. (Sad.) But you don't want your mead to hang out with dead yeast. This can produce off flavors. So the next step is‌
Racking your mead Racking is basically the process of getting your mead into a clean carboy and away from the dead yeast. It's like moving apartments! Your little mead baby is growing up. Sanitize your second carboy, then siphon the mead from its first carboy into your second empty one. This can be a messy process at first, so having someone help you out is a really great idea. Try to make this process as quick as possible; the less time your mead is exposed to air, the better. And when siphoning, make sure you don't let your mead splash into your new carboy, as this can upset it. Be sure to stop siphoning your mead before you start siphoning the dead yeast. Stick a plain rubber stopper (without a hole) onto your new carboy and tuck it into a closet or any other cool dark dry place you've got. Basically, forget that you made it.
ageing your mead
You can drink your mead right away after you rack it, but since it is a wine, it'll taste better the longer you let it hang out and age. Five to six months in your closet will help smooth out the flavors and make it much mellower and tastier. You can bottle your mead if you like, but it isn't necessary.
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ain’t no rest for the wicked - cage the elephant satin in a coffin - modest mouse i am a wicked child - radiohead loser - beck my doorbell - the white stripes fight for your right - beastie boys level - the raconteurs i will survive - cake i got the blues - the rolling stones
Ishani  Jasmin
Summer Scavenger Hunt
Hannah McDowell
a new favorite book a cute outfit from the thrift store something fun to get involved with in the community a good rock or shell to carry around in your pocket a new place to hang out with friends some pretty flowers to press and look at later new dancing songs for a playlist friendly neighborhood animals to pet a basic knowledge of a new language a good tv show to binge watch the perfect combination of sno-cone flavors a really good shady tree
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34
Anne  Agnes
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Anne  Agnes
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Jacob  Welch
Andy  Meyer
Mother Earth a photoseries by Imogen Dent
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43
45
46
Aiden  Layer
I. The Burial of the Dead The cruellest dead land kept us warm, A little life surprised us, coming over With a shower of rain; And went on in sunlight, I was frightened. Down we went. Much of the night beats the dead tree and the dry stone (Come in And I will show you your shadow
),
at evening.
Hyacinths your arms speak,
came back , your hair
from , I could not
knew nothing.
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Helen de Boever
‘Earth For Sale’ the sign read. earth warm soil sliding in between your fingers and out, returning to source. enough to contain a seed, roots, sapling, tree. Earth The chatter of seven billion different journeys So parallel and increasingly perpendicular Enough to dilute the silence of space. earth you take, you dig, you build, you watch as the wrath of the current carves scars in the land enough to contain the ashes of a thousand burnt forests. Earth So cold to the notion that everything is becoming warmer So bright all night it blinds us to the inevitable dark Enough to twist so many contradictions into one little truth There is too much to give, And not enough to take.
ECM
Helen de Boever
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CP Â Harrison
Rachael  Taube
CASTING CASTING A A CIRCLE CIRCLE IMOGEN DENT
I stand or sit somewhere where I can be calm and undisturbed. Often that means at home, in my room, in the evening; but some of the most potent times have been out of doors, especially in a wood near where I used to live, which was coppiced in summertime and thick with bluebells and wind-flowers in spring.
I face north, breathe deeply and relax, holding my body in a posture that’s comfortable but upright. Then I raise my hands, palms up, and say in my mind this invocation:
The sky and the stars are above me allowing my thoughts to pass up through my body and the heavens above, out into the vastness of the universe; stars upon stars, suns upon suns, galaxies, galactic clouds, unknowable distance; a shiver passes through me at the great space, the hundreds of millions of light years of vastness in which my single consciousness is blessed with life in this place and this moment now; it’s giddying to feel this unending infinite magnitude that is still somehow contactable and can still be sensed in a single human consciousness
The sacred land and the underworld below allowing my thoughts to pass down through my body and whatever humanmade surfaces there may be beneath me, down and down, deep into the dark earth, deep through rock and magma, crystal and fire, spirit and silence; in the deepest places where all mysteries are, I feel anchored into this solid sacredness of earth, this planet’s gravity holding all that lives on her surface close to her
The living human spirit is within allowing my thoughts to turn inside me and dive again, but this time into the innermost miniscule fractions of my own being, the very nuclei of my atoms, the energy field, the inward infinity of the soul
and again I shiver, the hairs on the back of my neck starting to prickle as my consciousness stretches now, encompassing outward and inward at one and the same time; not straining, not fighting to conquer a space but expanding and flowing to the farthest I am able at present to reach or to comprehend
To the east lie the powers of air, spring and morning visualising these powers, immersing my mind and heart in them; the air, cool and fresh, bringing vital oxygen to every living thing, encircling and holding everything that is on this world; the spring, when the light grows, the air warms, the birds wake into song and leaves and flowers come forth, the year waxing, all things beginning anew; the morning, daylight too returning and turning, the start of another day’s cycle in the wheel of the year; I feel the colours and temperatures of these powers, their potent scents and tastes and the quality of their light
To the south lie the powers of fire, summer and noon visualising these powers now, all the heat and brilliant light; the sunlight of high summer beating down on my neck, wild joy of cicadas singing in a forest of resinous pines, heart-shaking perfection of crimson roses pouring perfume into the air; the magic of fire, ever changing and changing everything it touches, the destroying flame that clears the way and the flame of safety that lights our path, feeds us and illuminates our campfire circle; I feel the noonday envelop me, I feel all heat and strength, all burning and change, all transmutation, latent and potent in the powers of the south
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To the west lie the powers of water, autumn and evening visualising the cool, healing waters of the worlds’ oceans, and the eternal rain; feeling the rain on my neck, the sensation is a blissful shock on a mind and a spiritbody that were just experiencing midsummer’s heat a moment before; feeling the damp air of autumn, and the curling-back of energy, life withdrawing down the plant stem, gathering itself back into latency, dusk slowly calming the world, giving easement and muting colours, soothing weary life with the promise of renewal; thick deep scents now, of all the riches of harvest, all the riches of decomposing leaves, fungi sending forth spores, everything that came up in spring now going down, knowing its place in the cycle
To the north lie the powers of earth, winter and night visualising and feeling that darkness, that cold; the headlong blind rush into the deepest burrow of hibernation, the dive into the earth’s womb, seeking safety from the dark by going into the dark; I see blinding, whirling snowfall and myself pushing on through the blizzard, face and body stinging from the cold, heart determined no matter what to carry on; I see the road though it is hidden by night, and the moon and stars though the snow-clouds cover them; night is the most potent and the most yielding, the power that overwhelms but also gives healing and rest to our frantic minds, the power of endings, without which no more beginnings can come
Beautiful sacred earth, I dedicate myself to you visualising a circle drawing itself out around me, the curve moving out clockwise/sun-wise, starting and ending in the north
I turn slowly, pivoting at the hips only, to follow the circle as it is drawn around me, letting my hands reach out towards it as though I can almost touch it though it’s far beyond my reach even as most intimately born of me
when it passes behind I twist round quickly to “pick it up” with the other hand
Then closing my eyes I visualise a five-pointed star drawing itself inside the circle, again starting at the north; an invoking pentacle with its apex northwards, the energy moving clockwise/sun-wise once again
And as the star is completed, the whole symbol around me catches fire, glows with light and is infused with energy.
The circle is complete. I am protected and blessed. The goddess and the gods are alive and magic is afoot.
To de-invoke I give thanks to all the powers for their help.
Then with my hands I make a prayer shape before me and then part them with a little downward movement, as though shaking water from my fingers. I move my left hand, swinging it outwards, re-drawing the circle in reverse and drawing some of that energy backward to its beginning; circling round from the north, moving counter-clockwise/ widdershins. I make sure my hands touch behind my back as I swing them round so there’s no breaking of the sweep. I bring my hands together before me in thanks and say in my mind
The circle is open but ever unbroken. Blessed be. And so it is.
sunbathing and dreaming a playlist for outside
leonora – the mynabirds buffalo rodeo - lana del rey another one – mac demarco take care – beach house if i don’t get on t.v. – huxlee cut dead - the jesus and mary chain terrence loves you – lana del rey side a - alohaha
Vivian C
Moiz
Sylvia  Morris
Dylan  Fotopoulos
Vivian  C
Anna
Mahrer’s Summer
Walk
Go Outside - Cults
Clementine - Sarah Jaffe Slow Down - EMBRZ
Romulus - Sufjan Stevens Lost - Chance the Rapper
Naked As We Came - Iron & Wine Vow - SALES
Diplomat's Son - Vampire Weekend Dearest - Buddy Holly
Carolina - Benjamin Gibbard Aquarium - Nosaj Thing
Her Morning Elegance - Oren Lavie Gun Shy - Widowspeak Untitled - Sea Oleena Days - The Drums
Psychic Reader - Bad Bad Hats St. Francis - Ohbijou
The Suburbs - Mr. Little Jeans Drag - Day Wave
All I Really Need - Vindata
Love At First Sight (TEEMID and Julia Cover) - Kylie Minogue Claimed by the Sea - French For Rabbits Lovers Carvings - Bibio
Mi Negrita - Devendra Banhart All My Days - Alexi Murdoch Suicide Policeman - Yuck
Falling Out of Love at This Volume - Bright Eyes Sagaba (Remix) - Blue Scholars Montezuma - Fleet Foxes
Gravity Rides Everything - Modest Mouse
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Sunnie
my finca
Andrew Maben
What inspired you to start this project? There’s along prelude, but briefly I returned to England from the U.S. in 2012, having lost everything. London was tough, and I was barely surviving, but at the end of 2013 my aunt died. To my surprise the small bequest I had expected turned out to be quite a large sum. It wasn’t enough to be much use for investment in England, but I didn’t want to just spend it either. I fell in love with Catalonia in my twenties - a love that remained unrequited and unconsummated - and hit upon the idea of looking for property here. After a year’s searching I found this finca. What about Catalonia captured you? The people. I had several brief but inspiring encounters. Then there’s the long anarchist tradition, that seems to be a part of the Catalonian cultural conscious. The Mediterranean climate and diet. Magnificent landscapes and entrancing cities, towns, villages. How did you get started with this place? Although unoccupied for most of seven years, squatted for a bit, the house was in remarkably good condition. Began by clearing up the worst of the refuse, and then set in room by room. I moved into the small bedroom, which only needed a good sweep to be habitable. Then I went to work on the kitchen, which was filthy.
Why a greenhouse as opposed to a garden? I went to Paris for the climate conference demo. The city had provided a building for meetings and presentations, and there I saw some information about myFood, who suggested it would be possible to feed a family of four with their system, which sounded very promising to me. Particularly as it’s supposed to only take 20 mins daily upkeep. Aquaponics creates a mini-ecosystem of fish and plants, and permaculture beds grow root veg. What’re you planning on growing? Tomatoes, lettuce, peppers, etc. in the greenhouse; potatoes, carrots, etc. in the permaculture beds. With two fish tanks, I think I shall try tilapia and trout to start. What do you think the first meal you’ll make with those is? I like making vegetable soups. Basically I simmer whatever is to hand with garlic, herbs, and seasoning for a couple of hours, then put it through the blender with a dash of olive oil. What’s the best part, and the worst part? Seeing the results of my efforts. Getting distracted. The worst is painting awkward spots up high. Although there’s little to show for it yet, working in the garden is the most enjoyable.
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summer in pain
With incredible conviction indicative of great bedroom pop, Jimmy Whispers has created a symphony for the heart-bruised, still sad lover. His penchant for the simplistic leaves space to fill in the blanks that keep reminding us of ‘the one that got away’. The occasional foot stomp amid a drum machine and organ are all Whispers’ needs to accompany his refreshingly honest lyrics without being trite—a feat that deserves some kind of award— in the age of melodrama and insincerity. This intimacy continues in his smart, deliberate playing; he needs to get his feelings put to sound. The quality of the organ offers something more refreshing than some guitar-plucking singer songwriter, which is so played out it hardly warrants mentioning anymore. The instrument’s presence is felt but never grating and drum machine’s simple beat on some of the tracks helps to break up the potential monotony.
Brianna Hernandez
He often talks himself into playing the way any of us might before doing an activity to crawl away from impending depression. “Okay, gotta change the fuckin’ feeling, how hard is this…” he utters before beginning “I Get Lost In You In The Summertime,” a sweet, light hearted love song with all the sentiment that makes you wish he was getting lost in you in the summertime. The whole album is like peeking through a keyhole to the bedroom of a person that needs to be known, of someone who truly understands affection, loss and misery but hasn’t given up hope somehow.
Ode to Persephone She smells of honeysuckle, sweet and pleasant. That smell that fills the cavern of your mouth, that lulls you into a nap during the middle of the day. A day filled with sunshine and the warm breeze laced with fragrant flowers and mild sweat. Springtime waning to summer.
Her hair is held in tight curls, coiled atop her head by olive green vines and pale yellow asphodel. A stark contrast against her dark brown hair. The hair that stretches towards the sun, the color of rich soil with her mother's lush garden threaded through the ringlets. Her skin is a russet brown, like dark amber, while her eyes are the color of carnelians. She wears swathes of fabric -- in purples, blues, pinks -- all eye-catching. Cotton. Satin. Silk. Spilled over like a river across her feet, painting her toes in whorls of red and black. They chant: Kore, Kore, Kore. Her hands smell like lilac and lavender evenings. Her teas are infused with lemon summer afternoons. On days that it rains, with a fawn in her lap. The sweet smell their foreheads like a baptism by nature.
oils for cool spring and chamomile for hot she sits cross-legged of rainwater hitting
And from that sprinkling, golden rays of grain erupt from the earth like brilliant torches. They cloud her carnelian eyes, blazing them in a film of tawny. She can't help but smile as the smell of dirt hits her nose, mud oozing beneath her thighs and smearing across the fawn's spotted brown back. She knows there is a storm coming. To replenish the earth. To carry on the cycle of life, death, rebirth. She bleeds, her menstrual cycle, feeding, feeding, feeding... They chant: Geosmin, Petrichor, Ichor. Her ichor is gold. Fermenting and sweetened with honey. It is forbidden to consume it; poisonous to gluttonous mortals. Left out in the sun too long and it turns to mushrooms. Glossy, fragrant sponges emerging from the ground. She tastes pomegranates on the back of her tongue, a heavy flavor from a season ago. It fills her palate with a tang of memories. Visions of living underground, surrounded by hard earth. Visions of monsters chained, imprisoned within cold rock. She misses it, the thickness of the air, the stifling warmth and the quiet chilly breeze. She dreams of the dead, but yearns for the fruit. They chant: Earth, Earth, Rebirth.
Janyn  &  K.A.  Edwards
Yuki Sambongi
Adventures of Robot and Turtle
Michelle  Denise  Norton
the world is as soft as you make it from the constant drifts of snow hitting the window panes fro and fro as the candle in the kitchen makes a play with all that is outside inside and on every corner that light can touch to the rivers in the lakes underneath the currents pushing the sand debris and fishes to their next and next location as the forests that encompass them make noises farther and wider some not even a bat can hear some not even god will touch it is all a garden in the making and a garden that is crumbling touch me before one of us goes and forgets the other ever existed
Luis Utrera & Mary Kate McGrath
25 March, Hobson
Mary Kate McGrath
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inner peace spell Supplies: Jar, satchel, or something else to keep everything in -
Dried lavender for tranquility
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Dried rose petals for self-love
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Dried rosemary for stability
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Cinnamon for peace
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Dried ginger for healing
A small piece of rose quartz for selflove or smoky quartz for grounding, or both -
A lit candle
Being mixing putting your ingredients into your jar. If your jar has a cork stopper, either pour the wax on top of it or dip the cork in the wax, and quickly put it back in the bottle. If your jar doesn’t have a cork, you can still pour the candle wax on top of it if you’d like. The wax isn’t as important as your intentions when you put the ingredients together. The great think about this is that you can substitute ingredients if you don’t have something or if you feel personally connected to something more than you do to another ingredient. There is no wrong way to do a self-love spell!
Shannon King & Kelley O’Brian
75
Shannon  King
77