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~ welcome to hyacinth noir’s premier literary issue, featuring wonderfully eerie prose and breathtaking glimpses into LGBT history ~

our literary issues can be found under the ‘literary issues‘ heading at the top of the site (scroll over to see the individual issues and contributors to each section), and will also be posted here as a blog post



~ on samhain night, a lone wanderer with a turnip jack-o-lantern stumbles through the dark mists that surround the woods and hide gateway mounds into the fae realm . . . ~

Samhain, the Celtic fire festival honouring the dead, is a night of power when the veil between the worlds is the thinnest; it is traditionally celebrated following sunset on the eve of november, or when sun enters fifteen degrees Scorpio

it is a spirit night — a night to commune with and remember the dead and to celebrate the eternal cycle of reincarnation; a night when flickering jack-o-lanterns lead the way for passing spirits finding their way through the veils; a night of divination with tarot card readings and apple magick; a night of trick-or-treating and dressing in costume

succubi by Richard Ballon

an unseen hand
parts the veil,
and I receive
the fire of your touch

… (read more)

~ . . . the rowan and oak trees stand sentential within the dark cloak of the woods, and the light from the wanderer’s jack-o-lantern falls upon a crossroads in the trail . . . she buries an apple — one sacred from apple-bobbing in hazel wood in honour of pomona — beneath the cold soil at the crossroads . . . an offering to those souls with no mortals to remember them  . . . ~ 

Rowan Tree by Shoeless Carol

All things are transient,
The rowan tree grows,
season on season.

… (read more)

Apple Child, by Cathy Bryant

She was picking apples when she cried out
and felt a warm fluid on her leg,
and a clenching inside. Her basket fell

… (read more)

~ . . . glittering lights of energy marks the fork of the crossroads that leads the wanderer further through the veil . . . into a mystical glade shadowed with the remembrance of flickering bonfires in the distance . . . into a feast honouring the ancestors and the mischievous spirits in flight on this night . . . dark wings blotting out the waning moon . . . ~ 

The Mockingbird’s Perch, by Amanda Carl

Once lissome, the girl with arms like branches.

Limbs have been severed
— replaced with the purest form
of wood.

… (read more)

Odin’s Wood, by Richard Ballon

A flicker, like eyes
still and watchful, like stars pricking holes
for the moist night to flood the forest floor

… (read more)

~ . . . the wanderer creeps through the glade in silence . . . eternally green moss of this realm grows through the cracks of a stone relic, the paint chipped away from aeons of wind and rain . . . spirits of lovers linger through the ages, their voices vibrant and still whispering beyond the veil . . . she kneels in reverence before the relic as the sound of horse hooves begin to vibrate against the ground . . . ~


Green Man before Tyranny, by Stephen Mead

Samhain - Mead - Olympus

… (see more)

Harvest Moon Shadows, by Joanna Owen

By the time he reached the washboard path that led up to the house, the mud on Remy’s face had begun to dry.  Scrunching his nose, his skin felt tight as he brushed away flakes of dirt that fell on his soiled t-shirt.  He exhaled and winced in pain, clutching at his side.

… (read more)

~ the queen of the fae, mounted on a silvery horse, greets the wanderer and offers her pomegranate seeds — slippery and red, exploding taste within her mouth . . . seven winters in one realm pass in seven minutes of another . . . ~

Borderland, by Michelle Kopp

Within the Borderland, she lingers among tombstones.

Through opaque greyness cast over the glittering vibrancy beyond the edge, children’s swings begin to calm in the bleakness of autumn breezes; amber leaves rustle through the grasses before snowfalls blankets feathery-light upon them.

… (read more)

~ . . . following many days feasting and dancing with the queen around the bonfire, she then returns to the mortal realm — white-haired and crone-like in her wisdom . . . ~

Somnambulist, by Amanda Carl 

The blank of your face is
a severe winter sky
and your eyes are the unlikely circling crows.

… (read more)

~ . . . in the village beyond the woods, where candle light flickers in the windows, the wanderer’s kin place a black-and-white photograph of a young maiden beside a plate lovingly prepared with a helping of colcannon and roast venison . . . with words passed down through the ages, they welcome her spirit in on the night of samhain ~