Oël
Jun 30, 2025
Oël is a British teacher and writer living in Amsterdam, Netherlands. Known on the Amsterdam spoken word scene for her gripping, dreamlike performance style, Oël's other work has appeared under other names in CommuterLit and The Pre-Raphaelite Society Review.
none left to tell
the story goes that in ancient scythia the enarei would cook kettles of mare’s piss down to phosphorescent dust. this they would stir into tea, bake into cakes, comb through their hair till they themselves shone moongreen in the dark, the magic of their third and exalted sex visible in an oestrogenic glow. it’s a myth, and a young one: a new branch grafted to our history. in the nineteen-nineties they made little red pills from pregnant mare’s urine that could transfigure the body into something outside its common bounds. in the twenty-somethings some romantically minded young enarei seized upon the idea for a blog post. who can blame her? the whole idea sings with magic. you can almost see the priestess agleam -- soft, coarse-voiced, beautiful. downy hair glitters over her belly. the air about her is touched with vulgar sweetness. this is the story we want: once upon a time we sisters of delayed unnatural birth mastered the chemistry of
our blood. once you did not have to collect yourself from the pharmacy. once the place where we laved our hands was made an altar and we lifted our chins and did not shrink from searching eyes. i could lie to you. i could tell you, 'it may be true.’ it is as good a history as i can imagine, to fill the space where we should have been. but there is no evidence left to speak of what we did or did not do. only this -- one day, who knows when, the enarei were chased from their temples, their washrooms and their mothers' houses and were never permitted to return.
none left to tell
the story goes that in ancient scythia the enarei would cook kettles of mare’s piss down to phosphorescent dust. this they would stir into tea, bake into cakes, comb through their hair till they themselves shone moongreen in the dark, the magic of their third and exalted sex visible in an oestrogenic glow. it’s a myth, and a young one: a new branch grafted to our history. in the nineteen-nineties they made little red pills from pregnant mare’s urine that could transfigure the body into something outside its common bounds. in the twenty-somethings some romantically minded young enarei seized upon the idea for a blog post. who can blame her? the whole idea sings with magic. you can almost see the priestess agleam -- soft, coarse-voiced, beautiful. downy hair glitters over her belly. the air about her is touched with vulgar sweetness. this is the story we want: once upon a time we sisters of delayed unnatural birth mastered the chemistry of
our blood. once you did not have to collect yourself from the pharmacy. once the place where we laved our hands was made an altar and we lifted our chins and did not shrink from searching eyes. i could lie to you. i could tell you, 'it may be true.’ it is as good a history as i can imagine, to fill the space where we should have been. but there is no evidence left to speak of what we did or did not do. only this -- one day, who knows when, the enarei were chased from their temples, their washrooms and their mothers' houses and were never permitted to return.
none left to tell
the story goes that in ancient scythia the enarei would cook kettles of mare’s piss down to phosphorescent dust. this they would stir into tea, bake into cakes, comb through their hair till they themselves shone moongreen in the dark, the magic of their third and exalted sex visible in an oestrogenic glow. it’s a myth, and a young one: a new branch grafted to our history. in the nineteen-nineties they made little red pills from pregnant mare’s urine that could transfigure the body into something outside its common bounds. in the twenty-somethings some romantically minded young enarei seized upon the idea for a blog post. who can blame her? the whole idea sings with magic. you can almost see the priestess agleam -- soft, coarse-voiced, beautiful. downy hair glitters over her belly. the air about her is touched with vulgar sweetness. this is the story we want: once upon a time we sisters of delayed unnatural birth mastered the chemistry of
our blood. once you did not have to collect yourself from the pharmacy. once the place where we laved our hands was made an altar and we lifted our chins and did not shrink from searching eyes. i could lie to you. i could tell you, 'it may be true.’ it is as good a history as i can imagine, to fill the space where we should have been. but there is no evidence left to speak of what we did or did not do. only this -- one day, who knows when, the enarei were chased from their temples, their washrooms and their mothers' houses and were never permitted to return.