Spells for Forgetting

by Adrienne Young

It was deep magic that ran through the blood of every woman on the island. It seeped into the earth of the orchard, its leaves unfurling every spring, falling to rot every autumn before turning back into the ground.

To me, the island had always been a stone tied around my ankles, and everything that could have been was no more than the puddle of light on the surface as I sank.

“There are spells for breaking and spells for mending. But there are no spells for forgetting,” I warned her.

I stared into the tide pool at my feet. The shape of my reflection fractured into pieces on the water’s surface and then re-formed, creating endless versions of me.