Weyward

by Emilia Hart

But, as Violet reflected, knowing a rule was not the same as understanding it.

Could you die, Violet wondered, from longing?

Fiction became a friend as well as a safe harbor; a cocoon to protect her from the outside world and its dangers.

Really, it wasn’t death I feared. It was dying. The process of it, the pain.

The physician spoke with confidence. He was a man, after all. He had no reason to think he would not be believed.

We never thought of ourselves as witches, my mother and I. For this was a word invented by men, a word that brings power to those who speak it, not those it describes. A word that builds gallows and pyres, turns breathing women into corpses.

If I hoped for a future with anyone, it was with her.

A great many things look different from a distance. Truth is like ugliness: you need to be close to see it.

Perhaps one day, she said, there would be a safer time. When women could walk the earth, shining bright with power, and yet live.

perhaps being different wasn’t such a bad thing after all. Perhaps it was something to be proud of.

Sight is a funny thing. Sometimes it shows us what is before our eyes. But sometimes it shows us what has already happened, or will yet come to pass.

fuck this is so sad why am i crying

why is it so easy for me to cry over something like this

The connections between and among women are the most feared, the most problematic, and the most potentially transforming force on the planet. —Adrienne Rich

When I was seventeen, finishing my final year of high school, my English teacher took me aside. “Whatever you do,” she said, eyes bright with passion, “promise me you’ll keep writing.”