Blogging from A to Z: W is for Witch Hunter



34139402_sFrom time to time, the townspeople have sent one.

It’s why we live the way we do—closer to the Goddess, farther from bigotry.

You know what they all say, what they think…

Witches, not women.

As if our humanity and sex were immaterial.

The truth is, it’s always been incredibly important. I’ve learned so many things about life and love from my sisters.

Yet I’ve more to learn from her—this woman and warrior whose purpose the people so greatly misunderstood.

My beautiful witch hunter.


Blogging from A to Z: V is for Vampire


“Meet me for a bite around the corner,” he said.

She hadn’t understood the implication.

She hadn’t envisioned herself pressed tightly against a back wall in the alley, her legs splayed wide, her skirt riding high on her thighs.

Her heart threatened to burst from the fear when he drank from her.

He told her to hold on for as long as she could and, as long as she did, he rewarded her with pleasure.

—It was a lovely way to die.




Blogging from A to Z: T is for Titania


Oberon planned it all; sly Puck set the game in motion.

My husband dared to blame poor Puck—a hilarious and desperate notion.

Truth be told, the ancient trickster   followed orders perfectly.

“Make my Queen love a human laborer. The most common of men,  ridiculous and obscene.”

So Puck ventured into the other world and picked for me. He chose a coarse, hard-working human with a lovely, muscled frame to bear the braying, long-eared head of a burdened beast.

The prankster worked his magic, and the once proud Titania fell from grace.

I spent my evenings in the forest, singing praise to a mindless fool until Oberon felt that I had learned my place.

That might have been the end, you see.

It should have been, but, becoming himself again, the man remembered his blushing Fairy Queen.

He returned with the face of an angel and, oh, my stars, he did such wicked, dirty things. The man stripped me bare, there, in the meadow; he tied me down and did his best to make me blush, and writhe, and sing. And, then, we shared the sweetest kisses ’til I fell in love again. He does the same thing every evening, now, and Puck wanders by and joins in.

Puck also loves to make me blush, and writhe, and sing.

His final joke, it seems, was on the Fairy King.






Blogging from A to Z: R is for Ruthless


A woman once asked Aphra how she could be comfortable, living that close to the trade route alone. When her father had died, the townspeople just assumed she’d move closer and marry. After all, there were too many dangers on the road for an innocent girl alone—bandits, gypsies, and soldiers afoot these days. Didn’t she worry?

Aphra just smiled and replied that, no, she’d never felt the need.

The truth was, she preferred them to hard-working, haggard farmers with mended shoes and chunks of earth beneath their jagged fingernails. With her lithe legs, fine-boned features, and a river of flaxen hair, she’d been designed to draw them in, those dangerous men.

The ruffians and blackguards would all spy her cottage and knock at the door with hardened muscles and cunning smiles. They would set eyes on her, pretty little thing, and invariably think (with the rods between their legs) they saw a challenge.

Whether big or small, gentle or rough, every last one sought to woo her. Ply the woman with gifts, they thought, convince her of their worth. Persuade the maid to spread her meadow-scented thighs and let them in so they could teach her the ways of the world—make her gasp and moan, and show her paradise.

Little did they know, she was the one who had invented the game.