Romance and more, your way. Enjoy!

www.myqueersapphfic.com/deals-even/

#sapphicfiction #lesfic #wlw #EmilyBanting #RebaBale #LMBennett #SamSkyborne #GraceParkes

It should be noted, Ms. Banting has contacted me and wants me to use the name she currently publishes under – Emily C. Banting. I shall begin to try to comply with her wishes
#EmilyCBanting
AKA
#EmilyBanting

It should be noted, Ms. Banting has contacted me and wants me to use the name she currently publishes under – Emily C. Banting. I shall begin to try to comply with her wishes #EmilyCBanting AKA #EmilyBanting

In August swelter, when sun provokes sweat and swoon, the witch picks plants to ease the burning temperatures of the coming ice-hardened months. She an instinctual makes link between summer and winter fevers. In that connection, cure. – #EmilyBanting, 1982 #WitchSky

In the fox light enjoyed towards the ending of an August day, invisible spirits dance upon barn roofs and long shadows stretch the fields. The coming of harvest is felt as a holiness, as ritual resolution of our relationship to the land. Fuses are in our blood. – #EmilyBanting

Today I shall pull on the green cloak of the wood, make pilgrimage along brook to the water's source. My skin will wear the wild dappling of summer shadows. I shall walk and talk with spirits that speak in the rasp of stream across stone. I shall be blessed. – #EmilyBanting

The salt-hag may know the secret paths to occulted coves, but that does not mean she has to walk them. For a large part of the wisdom of the witch is in knowing which thresholds to cross and which to stand and watch from. - #EmilyBanting, 1982 #WitchSky

For I am a brackish witch. For I am a salt-hag. The turning tide pulls me across the land. I flow towards the sea like a stream from the high moors. In my walking to waves, a wake of the land's magic follows me as I go to make saline spells. #EmilyBanting, 1982 #WitchSky

There's a spot on the flowered hills outside Pakeford where you can feel the estuary salt riding the wind. Feel it offering your skin tidal kisses. As a brackish witch, this place sings to me. A call and response between land and sea. – #EmilyBanting, 1982 #WitchSky

The salt-hag climbs cliffs that are never likely to be part of any official coastal path. She walks with the wind. Listens to the waves bring her news from far shores, the deep palaces of below. She needs no broom to touch the sky. – #EmilyBanting, 1982 #WitchSky

The witch-walk is a navigation of thresholds. We know the power in thin moment between farmed field and feral edge. Know the delicious magical tension between blue sky and the bruising of oncoming storm clouds. The brink is an engine to us. – #EmilyBanting, 1982 #WitchSky

A salt-hag knows coves and cliffs. She knows where to harvest wind-bullied herbs and tide-tossed omens. The rough-wooed lips of the land are home to her magics. She merely needs to stand still to hear augury in gull cry, whispers from the waves. – #EmilyBanting, 1981 #Witchcraft

If anyone gives me an odd look when I say some of my best friends are trees, I merely arch my eyebrows and retort "What! You mean you don't have any special trees as friends?" – #EmilyBanting, 1982 #Trees

We must be honest as witches. There are days when we find nothing but sour omens. Our cloud-telling offers no comfort, our walking of field edges harvests no harbingers of happiness. Not all witch-walking can be a navigation towards joy. – #EmilyBanting, 1981 #Witchcraft #Witchsky

Some advocate witch-walking as a mental exercise, little more than a guided meditation. Not I. Witch-walking should put mud on your boots. Witch-walking should deepen relationships with the spirits of place, allow you to harvest wild omens. – #EmilyBanting, 1982 #Witchcraft #WitchSky

Witchcraft requires much. It demands patience as you repeatedly return to a site till the spirits of the place accept you. It demands a silencing of self till you can hear the spirts talk to you. Witchcraft alway involves witch-graft. – #EmilyBanting, 1982 #WitchSky

I have no interest in a Book of Shadows written by men such as Gardner or Sanders. Give me the wild teaching of land. Give me a Library of Shadows gifted by the woods, by standing stones. I'll let no-man write my way through magic for me. – #EmilyBanting, 1982 #Witchcraft

A coven using the land's green temples pays no hire for village hall or room above pub. It never gets double-booked with a bridge club. A coven using a green temple needs no diary of festivals to remember where in the turning of the year it is. – #EmilyBanting #Witchcraft

When I walk the woods I can gather omens through rhabdomancy – the scattering of twigs on my path; through phyllomancy – the shapes and distribution of leaves; through dendromancy – tomorrow told in the twists of trees. The witch is never omen poor. – #EmilyBanting #Witchcraft

A witchcraft focussing exclusively on darkness is a flawed as the view that the workings of the witch may deal only with the light. As witches we embrace our shade and shadows without making them a fetish for those need tepid polarities. – #EmilyBanting, 1982 #Witchcraft

The witch's wanderance isn't just a harvesting of herbs and roots for tincture, a healing of future fevers. Our wanderance isn't only a gathering of omens and feral magics from the way. Our wanderance is a conversation with the land itself. – #EmilyBanting, 1982 #Witchcraft

I am a salt-hag on the rocks and sand of shore. A salt-hag on the high cliffs, on all the occulted paths falling to the sea. A salt-hag in estuary's brackish water, at the last border of overhead gull gossip. Miles inland, the tide tugs my blood. – #EmilyBanting #Witchcraft

The witch knows the subtle ways through the wood. The Fox Bride carved paths, the occulted tracks revealed only through the songs of the land itself. Her wooded way is a weaving of place and its spirits. Rare is her need for straightness. – #EmilyBanting, 1982 #Witchcraft

Paths harden under the sun's swelling. The witch's steps scuff their dust, scuff the stories embedded in the ghost soil. Our bone knives are busy, our garnering bags become full. Every walk a lesson from the land. – #EmilyBanting, 1981 #Witchcraft

The witch inhabits a landscape crowded with genii locorum. Landmarks speak to her. Landmarks sing to her. She is in constant conversation with place. Tell me again that her magics are not natural and hear even the trees laugh at your idiocy. – #EmilyBanting, 1981 #Witchcraft

We don't talk enough about the manners of magic. The import of asking permission before harvesting hedge or meadow. The need to thank swan for its gift of feathers for our cloaked workings. An ill-mannered witch devalues her relationships. – #EmilyBanting, 1982 #Witchcraft

Trees pull on their green gowns. Glades give flowering bounty. The spirits of place sing in the living temples of the witch. Sometimes part of our core magical relationship to the land is just being within it. – #EmilyBanting, 1982 #Witchcraft

Paths harden under the sun's swelling. The witch's steps scuff their dust, scuff the stories embedded in the ghost soil. Our bone knives are busy, our garnering bags become full. Every walk a lesson from the land. – #EmilyBanting, 1981 #Witchcraft

I am a salt-hag. My temple is the rock I choose to stand upon to say the secret, summoning names of witch-winds. My temple is whichever rock I stand upon to listen to the gossip of gulls, news from distant shores whispered to me by the waves. – #EmilyBanting, 1982 #Witchcraft

A witch's altars are often peculiar, particular and an intimate reflection of her relationship with the spirits of place. A fallen tree or post of a long-vanished gate are as powerful as any over-candled table dressed with a gaudy cloth. – #EmilyBanting, 1982 #Witchcraft