Violet Magic

by M.A. Scott

Some magic builds a cloying nest in the mouth. Have you ever risked it all to taste a wild berry off the vine? Violet magic peers through a scrim of a gelatinous tadpole sac at the iridescent hypnosis of pigeon-bellies. But don’t think it’s all lollipops and mermaid hair. Think reliquaried bones of ecstatic saints. Think crones dancing moon-naked in a circle of crocuses. How many licks does it take to get to the center? Violet magic opens a liminal crawlspace by calling you from a number that’s been out of service since 1978. Go ahead, wrap yourself in a luxe velvet smoking jacket, and uncork that lacrimatory of Victorian tears. Violet magic urges you to raise your petticoats, spread your petals, expose what is naughty, tender, ready.

Blue Magic

by M.A. Scott

Blue magic is the magic of poor choices, cathode tubes, and Christmas without you. That tiny man in a tiny rowboat that sparkles your toilet tank. Disguised, blue magic knocks on your door wearing a horse skull to ask you three riddles. Blue magic almost dropped acid at a party once, but chickened out, now sticks to Booberry cereal and oxygen shots in hipster bars. Blue magic asks for nudes, says it’s into your untamed body hair, then leaves you for someone hotter. Blue magic speaks fluent jazz, always has an alibi, and is trying too hard to prove how butch it is. Don’t be fooled, blue magic can’t replace your therapist. When blue magic has something to tell you, the words whistle through a gap in its teeth at a pitch only gods can hear.

M.A. Scott is the author of Hunger, little sister, forthcoming from Kissing Dynamite. Her work has recently appeared in Cease, Cows, The Westchester Review, and DMQ Review. She grew up in Rhode Island, currently lives in the Hudson Valley, and likes to spend time with trees.