Melting Point by Lauren Tivey

A block of beeswax, dull as butter, beginning its slow sweat in the double-boiler. A gentle heat to 143° Fahrenheit; it mustn’t be left alone, for fear of flashpoint. Better to coax into liquid, better the watched pot. Lavender and calendula oils, infused weeks ago in the sun, swirl in a molten dance, tenderly fusing with the prize of the honeycomb, until all is aqueous gold; the transmutation of elements into emollience. This is the point where you sob. This is how grief metamorphoses. This is the alchemy of the kitchen, which she never lived long enough to learn. 

Lauren Tivey lives on the edge of a moss-laden Florida swamp, where she entertains spirits over moonlit tea ceremonies, and dotes on her familiar, a little black cat named Poppet. She is the author of four chapbooks, most recently Moroccan Holiday, which won The Poetry Box Chapbook Prize 2019. Her work has appeared in such places as Connotation Press, Split Lip Magazine, and Jersey Devil Press, among dozens of others. She teaches English and Creative Writing at Flagler College.

Three Poems from Hieronymus Brunschwig, 1561 by Ian U Lockaby

for Headake of Melancoly/
Headacke of colde ayer

“A wounderfull experience for the headacke.

Set a dish or platter of tynne upon the bare head filled with water, putte…
two ounces of molten leade therin, whyle he hath it upon the head. Or els
make a garland of Vervayne, and wear it daye and night, that helpeth wounderfully.”

-  Hieronymus Brunschwig, in A most excellent and perfecte homish apothecarye or
homely physic[k] booke/for all the grefes and diseases of the bodye. (1561)

*

take the ashes burnt    little frogges/                     /wash
the head          

If         a head that can not be healed/
        in the evening and              the wekes

      /that the head may be                    the 

                                                corruption.

                        make   the skin stronge/          and also cleane

  the heades of herbe          Nigella/     burne them to ashes/ put
swynes grese

   Or els                         a penny/
        half an ounce   swines        butter/ anoynte

                                                                   awaye
the rootes

            But if       summer   harvest/
    the juice of them:
      

Or els       a little piece of the clothe

                                                                        and it may be kepte

 *

---

On Hieronymus Brunschwig

Hieronymus wore the Vervayne dressing gracefully, but would inevitably trip up in the long tails of that cure. Once, during his daily burning of frogge and herb, his garland caught fire and he ran from the house, carrying with him only the fire. A miracle, that the molten lead that he wore on his head, never spilled over edge of the tynne plate. Though the water did, and eventually the little frogges began to live and spawn in the puddles, in the little time before their ash was up.
What was it Hieronymus could have known better? A Most excellent and perfecte attempt in life. To cure the headacke. Nay, to have a most wounderfull experience of the headacke. For the headacke. A fullness of wounds in the acke (of life).
Hieronymus wore the Vervayne garlands every day after like a tethered pheonix, his daughter later wrote. A tethered ashy bird rising from spawny puddles of the little frogges. An ashy bird with wilting garlands about his crown. He left behind little, she said. But for his body, these books. These pages: a fabric of a life, she said. Or els a little piece of the clothe and it may be kept.
Much of it has since burned, by various accidents, she wrote. ·       

Vervayne

---

To forget the cure

Or take beaten Cinnamon / or    Cinnamon unbeaten

   by a                 burnt   little pyre        
of  saintly frogges

            lyfe would be to longe   to drye in the sun
not   to sometimes                            /  mask the scent

of them  pyre

Ian U Lockaby’s poems and translations have recently appeared, or are soon to appear, in APARTMENT, CutBank, Timber, DATABLEED, Sink Review, and elsewhere. He currently serves as Editor in Chief and Translations Editor at New Delta Review, and he lives in New Orleans.

Recipes by S. Preston Duncan

Upon Reading “Eminemental: Playing Hip-Hop to Cheese Produces the Funkiest Flavour, Say Scientists” by Will Lavin

In the notebook with the Top Secret gaff tape cover there are four recipes:
Pork Rub 1
Pork Rub 2
Brisket Rub
Death.

Between them are variations of powder and oil I read aloud in the kitchen. They come out red, draped in salt. Like a bugle yelping under the heel of medical terminology. People walk out like children and come back with no hair. Shatter across monologues that can no longer feel the floor. Across sad linoleum decades like loose change. Like bad theatre. Like a block print of fireworks.

 A blue pact of pale dinners, skin conditions, vistas with compromises convenes on Tuesdays (how appropriate) and reconvenes when someone has died. Sometimes there is wine and cheese. “The cheese aged with Mozart has a relaxed flavor when compared to non-musical cheese. Already people have called requesting cheese that has listened to the blues, Balkan music, and ACDC.” I can no longer comment on the wine.

 Last week we had a statue of fire /shivering with bacteria/ frantically wipe laughter from the mouths of wizards hiding behind her dress, apologize for them by names they hadn't formed, say Love is the angriest I've ever been. She worked full time and couldn't afford to drink.

The key to a good recipe is C.
The key to a good recipe is narrative.

I have one about a highway obstructed by axillary blooms. Subplots of lowing oil rigs, automatic doorways, fatal flaws with lipstick. You’ve been hearing this your whole life - an alarm swallows a dream. There is turmeric. Ginger. A speech that steps backward like a mirror covered in black cloth. A candle by an open window. A woman with a torch points out a clock stopped between numbers to people you cannot see. 

The notebook is lost. There is no secret. If you find it, there’s an address on the inside.  I’ll be in the kitchen at the top of the stairs, setting clocks back without music. Cooking something flavorless. Typing it all out. Every letter on this keyboard is the same.

S. Preston Duncan is a death doula and BBQist in rural orbit around Richmond, VA. He is the author of poetry collection and EP, THE SOUND IN THIS TIME OF BEING (BIG WRK, 2020). His work has been nominated for Best of the Net, commissioned by The Peace Studio, and translated into Chinese by Poetry Lab Shanghai. Recent publications include [PANK], Levee Magazine, Circle Show, The New Southern Fugitives, Atlas and Alice, and various anthologies.

Spell to Translate Dusk by Ann DeVilbiss

Past the fallen sun,
the magnolia are
black as rubber.
One drips
a cup of night into
my outstretched palm.
It tastes of petrichor, brass.
Makes of my mouth
a velvet horn.
I can talk with owls, and
the name of every star sits easy
beneath my tongue.
I can speak a window
of moonlight into
any lonesome room
where waking women
number the lost
as if quilting a map.
I can whisper
a silence that glows
like a lantern,
place that flame
in the moon’s
graying heart.
Walk a straight line
around a globe and you end
where you started.
Sitting still
inside this night,
I’ll remind you:
the moon only leaves
so it can come back
brighter.

Ann V. DeVilbiss has had work in BOAAT Journal, Crab Orchard Review, The Maine Review, Pangyrus, and elsewhere, with work forthcoming in Painted Bride Quarterly. Her chapbook, When the Wolves Stay Quiet, is available from dancing girl press. She lives and works in Louisville, Kentucky, and you can find more of her at anndevilbiss.com.

Spell for a Headache by Becca Klaver

warm saltwater cut

with baking powder

forced through

your face holes or

little, blue, different

or yogic inversions or

water then wine

or sometimes

you spend all day learning

the ritual is just

sit

wait

let the weather roll through

Becca Klaver is the author of two collections of poetry—LA Liminal (Kore Press) and Empire Wasted (Bloof Books)—and several chapbooks. Her third book, Ready for the World, will be out with Black Lawrence Press in 2020. She was a founding editor of Switchback Books and is currently coediting, with Arielle Greenberg, the multimedia anthology Electric Gurlesque. Her poems have appeared in The American Poetry Review, Fence, jubilat, and elsewhere. Born and raised in Milwaukee, she is a graduate of the University of Southern California, Columbia College Chicago, and Rutgers University, and lives in Iowa City.



Birdmaking by Ellen Huang

Ellen Huang is a cloak-wearing writer of fairy tales, children's lit, and horror. She loves swimming in the ocean, burning things into pyrography, celebrating Halloween, directing skits, and reenacting movie scenes. She has pieces initiated into briars lit, Bleached Butterfly, Apparition Lit, Sirens Call, South Broadway Ghost Society, Awkward Mermaid, Ink & Nebula, Between the Lines, The Folks, and Perfume River Poetry Review, among others. She is also one of the spirits behind Whale Road Review. Follow her creative work here: worrydollsandfloatinglights.wordpress.com

Love Spell Number Two by Jessica Drake-Thomas

If you love someone
who has left you,
try this spell.
You’ll need
an entire bottle
of wine.
Drink this
out of a mug,
an extra large one,
which reads:
I <3 MY DOG. 
All good love spells
require libations
to the goddess
that is you.

Do this on the night
of the crescent moon.
The moon, too, is
only a slim piece of herself.
She mourns your loss
with you.

But she, like you,
will either become whole
or reborn again
soon.

There will be
other people.

The moon, like you,
is hungry.

There is another name
for this spell.
It is “To Cure A Bad Habit.”
Pull nine hairs
from your own head.
Make sure this hurts,
but only a little.

Wrap the hairs
around a nail.
Hammer the nail
into a wall.

Your pain will
go away when
the nail rusts
and your hairs
fall away.

The hole will remain,
but, like a freckle,
you will forget
that it is there. 

Spell inspired by “To Cure A Bad Habit” from The Good Spell Book: Love Charms, Magical Cures, and Other Practical Sorcery by Gillian Kemp

Jessica Drake-Thomas is a poet, tarot reader, freelance writer, and former college professor. She is the author of the chapbook, Possession, from dancing girl press, and dog mom to Mia. Twitter: @IAMBADWITCH

Guided Meditation with Inner Mother by Sarah Lyn Rogers

You’re not surprised that she’s a witch
chopping ginger and garlic, rosemary
and honey, lemon and vinegar whenever
you might get sick (and then don’t).
Her hands are oddly warm, magnetic
with her palms flat on your skin. She
needs space a certain way, particular
with smells, the way a room is lit,
the blankets taut. She could pay more
attention, tends to be absorbed in many
projects, needs just one more minute,
doesn’t notice when you’re tired
or wired when you should be
at rest. Wrap your hand around
one of her fingers, even if it’s
holding a pen, papers fanned
around her. Tell her what
you need. Ask and you
shall receive. She is soft
but not to be crossed,
will let none cross you
either, like a gate of
roses—thorns and salt
and sage encircling
you always.

Sarah Lyn Rogers is an NYC-based writer from the San Francisco Bay Area, a contributing editor for Catapult, and the former fiction editor for The Rumpus. She is the author of Inevitable What, a poetry chapbook on magic and rituals. A collaborative poem Sarah wrote with Isobel O'Hare appears in the Black Lawrence Press anthology They Said: A Multi-Genre Anthology of Contemporary Collaborative Writing. For more of Sarah's work, visit sarahlynrogers.com.

Hexencraft by Virginia M Mohlere

To weaken the vicious

Write the name of the vicious one on strips of paper using green and black ink mixed together (use a multiple of 3). Fold each strip in half with the name on the inside.

Pierce each strip with a nail, being sure to go through the name.

Place the nails in an old, cheaply made pot. Cover with vinegar and bring to a boil. Boil for 9 minutes.

Set the pot in a dark, hot place and leave it to corrode.

To foil a hypocrite

Gather printed evidence of hypocrisy: divide these into piles, one for each side of conflicting statements or actions.

Take clay and mold a human-shaped figure around each pile of paper.

Under a new moon, gather the clay dolls and mash them together. Wind the heads together, then split them lengthwise with a pencil or the side of a ruler, as if splitting with an axe. Wrap the arms around each other, sticking the "hands" of each doll to the other side. Wind the legs together and bind with red string.

Drop the smashed-together dolls on the ground and kick them into the corner of a fence. Wedge a stone in front to keep them from moving.

Leave outside to weather away. If no rain is called for, collect dirty water from washing dishes and throw this over the dolls every few days. Every time you do this (or after rain), watch closely and observe how the clay degrades and the papers are exposed and weathered.

To expose the wicked

Find a small, dark, jagged stone. Write on it, in black marker, the name of the wicked one over and over, overlapping.

Make a hole in the root end of an onion with a knife. Shove the small stone up inside the onion. Let the effort this takes focus your intent.

Wrap the onion tightly in plastic wrap and set aside for at least 3 days.

Take the onion outside into bright sun. Unwrap the plastic. Peel the skin off the onion. Remove the onion layers, one at a time, until the stone is exposed. Hold the stone in the palm of your hand, in the sun, for 9 breaths. Leave the onion guts outside to rot.

Keep the stone in a place where it will spend much time in the sun, or throw it into clean, brightly lit running water.

Virginia M Mohlere owns too many fountain pens and heckles her members of Congress on Twitter. She fills her notebooks with scratch paper, which is totally confusing when she uses old drafts of her own work. She talks to trees. Sometimes they answer. Her work has been seen in Cicada, Mythic Delirium, Strange Horizons, and Through the Gate, among others. 

33 Suns/Sagittarius Spell by Alex Hall

i.

If Halloween should fall on a Monday, put on pantyhose and a blond bob on Friday. In an alleyway, after sun down, draw a pentagram in chalk with three friends (2 of whom are now specters ignored in the aisles of the lcbo and Walmart). A body dressed in sitcom drag for each sacred corner. Chant “bees!”, “dead dove” and “I’d rather be dead California than...” while a garage door opens and releases a bulldog and its small Portuguese owner. Scatter back to your house for more wine. 6 months later, bring her cauldron of soggy fruit salad to a queer bar on Dundas West. It will close a few months later. Curses like her rarely die. You will sit in an actual communist daughter’s home library holding a board game we should’ve turned into a makeshift ouija. Modernized spirit photography will capture the moment in a profile picture archived on Facebook. Drink old Milwaukee as healing tincture: on the loading dock behind a high school, on a porch rammed with bicycles and theatre props, at the back of the Henhouse while waiting for Popeyes. Go for endless shrimp with your four corners before belting out KoRn at XOXO gayraoke. You & I will puke a little in our mouths. This will signal the beginning of the end of _______. One long summer of torrential rains (God`s colonic turning into a tsunami of (un)holy stank water) and we’re left singing Madonna’s ‘frozen’ in the basement of my old house. Our bellies will be bubbling seas of a stripmall buffet, we spelled good riddance in deep fried chicken wings and torpedo shrimp. Throw the fortune cookie out with the fire (island) & brimstone (butches), our gay community is eroding.

ii.

If, 6 years later, Halloween should fall again on a Monday - buy pantyhose, 2 for $1 from Honest Ed’s and cut a new friend’s wig on Saturday. This will ensure synthetic platinum shards will trail the city for years to come. Unlike glitter, finding wig hair in January under a thick layer of ice or couch is the best kind of omen. Tan in its glow.

Alex Hall received her BA in Cinema Studies from the University of Toronto. Her poems have appeared in Waccamaw Journal, Underblong Journal and Dyke Queen Zine/Hello Mr Magazine. She lives and works as a dog walker in Toronto, Ontario.

when you can't say it, cast this spell by Maya Ramakrishnan

Measure yourself inch by inch, until you find your mother’s grief hidden in your kneecaps. When you do, build with it a marionette. Breathe into it your clumsy confession. You’ll need strings; I recommend those warm soft hairs at the back of your scalp. Pull them and make it dance. Watch the way its feet turn out and the way its shoulders slump. Look familiar yet?  Give it your own name, or call it “twin.” Write and rewrite its origin story in the only language you know, this one that makes turmeric of haldi and cumin of jeera. When it’s never enough, call it lost in translation. Do not apologize. Ask the marionette what language your mother, who you’ve never once called amma, dreams in and it will tell you, mostly English, mostly loss.

Maya Ramakrishnan is a law student living and writing in Seattle, Washington. She is a graduate of Colby College, where she concentrated in creative writing and received the Katherine Rogers Murphy Prize for Original Poetry. She can be found in the New England Review of Books and elsewhere, including on Twitter at @maya_ramak.

Three Spells by Ava Hofmann

Ava Hofmann was born and raised in Oxford, Ohio and is currently an MFA candidate in poetry at Louisiana State University. She has work published or forthcoming in cahoodahoodaling, Palimpsest, and Be About It! zine. Her poems try to extract radical-queer/trans-femme imaginary archives from the weird, forgotten, and broken depths of literary history. You can follow her intermittent activity on her twitter, @st_somatic

Darning Spell by Anne Vetter

Light palo santo until it smokes, hold
the wood in your hand and write your
own name in the air above your bed.

Play Stevie Nicks.

Gather bumblebee jasper (for palm-
sureness), rose quartz (for the heart that’s
not muscle), calcite (for clarity like

skylights). Burn sweetgrass.

Stand in front of the mirror and find
your own eyes like you’re looking for
love coming off a train. Hold

your gaze—

If you cry, allow it. No need to collect the
saltwater, but sip it from your cheeks (a
tonic for sleeplessness and headaches).

Say aloud to your own face:

I’m molten silver over coals, I am
the whole gulf stream current, I am
every raspberry in June, I am

my own shrine.

Anne Vetter uses photography, video, and poetry to tell stories about queerness, intimacy, and Jewishness. She graduated from Colby College with a BA in Anthropology and Art. She is a published poet, with work forthcoming in The Lascaux Review and elsewhere. Anne currently lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. More art and writing can be found at acvetter.com. 

A Girl's Guide to Easy Love Spells by Andrea L. Hackbarth*

Part 1

First, you must cultivate belief in words
and the magic of repetition.  Then choose a boy
and write his name in combination with yours
across eleven notebook covers.  Employ

your girlish powers of design to your future
initials—repeat them until you love the change,
until becoming another becomes your second nature.
Then, before someone sees your heart on the page

rip it out, crumple it up, and burn it well.
Give up that boy and write another’s name
with yours. Repeat. Each time it will be quicker
to take his as your own. Keep faith in spells—
repeat repeat repeat each name the same
till one becomes your final moniker.

Part 2

You’ll find that incantations fail. Or maybe
you did—lost the rhythm, gave up each boy’s name
too soon.  Now then, 
                        it’s time. Give in to body—

the way it falls and rises, molds itself
like damp spring soil in his hands.     
Sink your faltering belief
into the divinity of flesh
and flesh together, wrapped
in sweat-drenched sheets, stuck
like plastic wrap to slabs of meat.

Dig deep your stone-sharp nails
in the communal pleasure of skin and
focus only there.  Lie back—watch the smolder
of a half-smoked Kamel Red in the ashtray
beside your fallow dirt-caked bed.

Try to catch the glimmer of moonlight
                                                streaming through.

Part 3

You will grow tired of a body unsupported
by words.        You too will have your fill
of lust alone & the moon, still             out of reach
But reach you will—up and out of the sordid

earth.  Stand now: Wring out
                                    your sweat-logged skin
and give it breath again.           Resurrect
the fallen rhythms of your fruitless school-girl
incantations—             rearrange their rhymes

into fluid lines more honest to a heart
well-traveled.   Speak aloud of what (you fear)

does not exist.  Call out the absence
of a name.  Give words to your imperfect wants
and what you don’t expect from his response.

Repeat at least three times, then listen: A voice

will join with yours—body bound, yet rising.

* Parts 1 and 2 previously appeared in Mezzo Cammin 11.1.

Andrea L. Hackbarth lives in Palmer, Alaska. Her poems have appeared in Flyover Country Review, Gargoyle Magazine, Gravel, Mezzo Cammin, Temenos Journal, The Doctor T.J. Eckleburg Review.

Three Spells by Jacklyn Janeksela

jacklyn janeksela is a wolf and a raven, a cluster of stars, & a direct descent of the divine feminine. she can be found @ Thought Catalog, Luna Luna,  DumDum, Anti-Heroin Chic, Pank, Split Lip, Landfill, Yes Poetry, feelings, Heavy Feather, The Opiate, Potluck, Vending Machine Press, Entropy; A Shadow Map (CCM) &  Rooted anthology (Outpost 19); & elsewhere. she is in a post-punk band called the velblouds. her baby @ femalefilet. her chapbook fitting a witch // hexing the stitch forthcoming (The Operating System, 2017). she is an energy. find her @ hermetic hare for herbal astrology readings.

Spell for the Transmutation of Bad Faith by Candice Wuehle

1.

Meet the dove with the empty mouth at your own door. Plant one olive tree. Wait three years.

2.

Meditate on the inner workings of one eyeball, and then, the other. Now your sight is clear.
Visualize your body spread across a leathern sheet. Imagine your feet are stitched to the floor

black X

x
 

black X.
Imagine the earth is entering through your back and feel the weight of antlers burst from your own head.

3.

Imagine the body of your enemy in a shallow pool of water. Imagine a green thorn tapped and untapped into each of your enemy’s heels. Watch the fluid draining from the enemy’s feet stain the pool arsenic.

Cup your hands as if you are holding a heart in each. Allow the energy of your hands to scoop the liquid from the pool. Continue until the pool is empty. Now you and your enemy are equally grounded.

4.

Make oil of your tree’s olives. Place the oil in a copper bowl at the intersection of you and your enemy’s roads.

x

The animal that comes to drink will be the familiar of you. Or, the animal that comes to drink will be the familiar of your enemy.
You will feel perfect fear, either way.
This isn’t a spell to ward anything off.
Touch your skin until there is a vibration of yourself above yourself. Drink rose tea until yourself is even larger. You cannot be harmed.

5.

Walk in the direction of the familiar with one hand outstretched.

Candice Wuehle is the author of the chapbooks VIBE CHECK (Garden Door Press, 2017), curse words: a guide in 19 steps for aspiring transmographs (Dancing Girl Press, 2014) and EARTH*AIR*FIRE*WATER*ÆTHER (Grey Books Press, 2015). Her work can be found in Tarpaulin Sky, The Volta, The Colorado Review, SPORK, The New Orleans Review and Prelude, among others. She is originally from Iowa City, Iowa, and is a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. Candice currently resides in Lawrence, Kansas where she is a Chancellor’s Fellow at The University of Kansas. Find her at candicewuehle.com.

Protest Spell #3: Pteridomania by Mai Ivfjäll

A spell for surviving the Trump presidency

Create a circle of ferns
larger than your body

Lie down inside the circle
with your feet facing north

Place an onyx stone
over your heart
& masturbate while meditating
on the tones
that echo
the interior architecture
of your stardust ancestry

For example:
I am the vowel sounds
that make a lilac hue

Repeat as needed

Mai Ivfjäll is a bilingual poet based in Stockholm (by way of Atlanta). A graduate of the Danish Hekseskolen, Mai’s poems have appeared in The Offing, Floret, Tidskriften Ordkonst, and elsewhere. Her tanka poetry diary can be found at 57577etc.tumblr.com 

Invocation of the Restless by Erin Marie Hall

Carve a circle in your chest with a knife your mother touched. Wash your hands in the copper river it creates. Prepare a meal of thyme and wine, to be consumed at the hour of your birth. Craft a shrine. Draw a sigil in the earth. Crush a doll with mortar and pestle while speaking the names of your childhood friends in a language you do not know. Place a candle in the window under the light of a waxing moon. Hum the tune your grandfather used to calm you in the restless night. After all of this, open wide. Devour hell and all its companions. Grind the sweet old bones between your teeth.

Erin Marie Hall is a pagan, poet, and visual artist from South Bend, IN. She earned a BA in English at Indiana University and now works as a program coordinator at the University of Notre Dame. Her work, which explores sexuality, mental illness, the body, and the apocalyptic, has appeared or is forthcoming in Unlost Journal, After the Pause, Rust + Moth, and your nightmares.

Protest Spell #2: Ritual of Silence by Christine Green

~to shut the mouths of those who speak evil, hateful rhetoric~

Carve a hole in the base of a black skull-shaped candle.  Fill it with nettles (Urtica dioca) and slippery elm bark (Ulmus rubra) and seal the hole with melted wax.

Baptize the skull with oil (olive oil will suffice) while chanting the name of your sharp-tongued enemy. If so inclined, carve the fiend’s name across the forehead of the skull. The candle is now your enemy.

Light the wick with a wooden match. This is no time for tacky plastic lighters.

Warm stick pins over the candle flame and insert them into the mouth of the skull while reciting the following three times:

“Your vile words are stuck in your throat and your curses no longer wound the innocent.”

Let the candle burn down completely while focusing on your intent. Do not doubt that justice and truth will prevail.

After the candle snuffs itself out, toss any remains on your enemy’s property.  If you do not have access to their property, dispose of it in running water or bury at a crossroads.

 Bathe in saltwater to disperse any negative energy clinging to your aura.

Christine Green is a freelance writer and newspaper columnist. She has been published in various literary journals including aaduna, Germ, The Light Ekphrastic, The Big Brick Review, Laundry, and Brain, Child. She is also a 2016 Pink Door Literary Fellow. In her free time Christine hosts a monthly literary reading, “Words on the Verge”, at A Different Path Art Gallery in Brockport, NY.

Christine is a Californian at heart and dreams of living near the beach as well as finding a decent taco in Rochester. She reps Hufflepuff and Libras everywhere.