Amarie Fox

Writer, Witch

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SUNS

Since the surgery, I have had a reoccurring dream that my tonsils turn into tiny golden suns.
How many years it has been, I cannot recall; long enough for me to have forgotten the operation itself, long enough for the remembrance of the pain to have receded, and yet not long enough for my mind to release it, to allow it to float away, unmoored.

Each time the surgeon is snapping on his gloves as he enters the room, sharp silver instruments jingle-jangling in his pockets. He administers the anesthesia, but I can still hear and see him, as he pries my mouth open with his fingers and scrapes at the inside of my throat until spit-blood trails trickle out of the corners of my mouth and pool onto the table. When he does finally cut them free, he holds them in his red right hand and for a moment I think they are eggs. I expect them to crack open and for some small animal to crawl into the harsh...

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Thistle Magazine Interview

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Amarie Fox is Thistle Magazine’s featured writer last Winter wherein she wrote a short story, “Salt”, for our Magic Issue. She tells us that writing, rather than a form of escape, can be an honest recognition of what is real. Read the full interview with the writer / witch below the cut.

To read the full interview, visit Thistle’s Blog.

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Magpie

Magpies gather bits of foil, aluminum wrappers, silver spoons or jewelry, all for the love of stealing. I’ve been just as bad, spending my time collecting imaginary lovers, not just as a way to forget loneliness, but because of an obsession with creation.

A fool, I convinced myself that I could care for nothing and no one that had not sprung from my own mind. So sad and selfish, I was worse than an Adam, for even the animals that he named and took ownership of came as a gift from another.


The other afternoon, I peered down at the pennies glittering on the smooth tiled bottom of the old fountain. A man in a grey suit came around, smiling at me and jiggling his pocket change in his left hand. Without really looking, he dropped it into the water. Silver and copper flashes splashed and spiraled downward. I counted the coins. Seven. He’d wasted seven wishes.
How many men, I wondered...

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