The Witch of Thessaly

By Sarah McPherson

Aglaonice calls down the moon. The moon obeys.

Whispers come creeping, sibilant: Sorceress. No, not magic; knowledge. A monthly flow as familiar as her own.

A stain crawls across it, not scarlet but rust, like dried clay or old blood. The moon bleeds and the women keen.

Shadow follows rust. There’s a hole in the sky where the moon should be.

No men here. Not tonight. They don’t trust her, preferring the ramblings of old Athenian fools. 

Aglaonice holds the moon in her hand for a moment more, then casts it back to the sky.

Sarah McPherson is a Sheffield-based writer and poet, with work published in Ellipsis Zine, Splonk, STORGY, Emerge Literary Journal, The Cabinet of Heed and elsewhere. She has been long/shortlisted in competitions including Writers’ HQ, Reflex Fiction and Cranked Anvil. She tweets as @summer_moth and blogs at https://theleadedwindow.blogspot.com/.