Tag: witch

Witch’s Kit Bag (10-9-18)

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Her gnarled and wrinkled hands, long fingers like spider’s legs, nails like daggers, clutched the black leather bag and its two handles. It had served her well for centuries; larger on the inside than it appeared on the outside, and only ever weighing hardly anything. It sat aerodynamically upon the tail of her broom and always match her dress. She set the bag down and unclasped its buckle, rummaging through its contents for the supplies she needed for her spell work. It contained innumerable items, both ancient and modern, used for purposes both good and sinister. 


Reference books and spell books and her book of shadows. Crystals and metals and minerals and gems. A portable iron cauldron, a broom repair kit, and charged water from a Solstice. Various bundles and satchels and jars of both fresh and dried, medicinal and poisonous, herbs and plants. Salt and honey and the powdered wood of various trees. Holy symbols and statues and effigies of Gods and Goddesses. Candles of beeswax in every color conceivable. A corn dolly, a voodoo doll, and figures formed of clay. Bottles of ink, and feather quills, and parchment for notes. Ancient rune stones, tea leaves, tarot cards, and a crystal ball. A curved boline, an athame, an axe, and a wand. Burlap sacks, a wicker basket, pruning shears, a mortar and pestle, Alchemist’s refining tools, and grain alcohol. 


These items and so much more. Each one having numerous uses, each one gathered and well-used in her travels. Some fear her, some love her, but most know her work by name. So many years. So many people. So many spells and remedies and ceremonies. Her old hands find each item where it should be, and she lays them out, preparing her workspace, and centering her mind. A witch’s work is never done it seems.

Coffee Shop Coven [7-27-20]

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I should start a coffee shop coven; girls only, no boys allowed.

We could have themed aesthetic outfits:

Weekends black and gothic and macabre,

Tuesdays and Thursdays for whimsical floral dresses and sun-kissed skin.

Mondays and Wednesdays for battle armor and weapons of war.

Fancy Fridays for formal wear, also known as the

“I poisoned my second husband for his money” outfit.

We could gather and talk and plot and laugh and scheme and cry and debate.

We could meet at midday and dance in the sunlight,

Or meet at midnight and kiss under the full moon.

We’d trace sigils in our cappuccino cream with our spoons,

And build tiny replicas of the pyres they’ll burn us on with our wooden stir sticks.

By day we’d pick herbs and make men love us.  

By night we’d have séances and kill our enemies.

By day the right hand, by night the left.

You need coffee for both; long days and long nights.

Steaming Kettle [7-27-20]

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I gather pinches of the various dried herbs and flowers from their various jars and pouches. My mood today is out of body; distant and detached. I open the tap, filling the fat hollow of my kettle with the cool water of the well. My days have been blending together. I have cravings that can’t be satisfied. I smell my earthy fragrant mixture, stimulating something in my memory. Lavender blossom, chamomile, raspberry leaf, rose hip. Valerian root, orange peel, sage, and mint. Most from my own garden. I need something; a physical touch, intimacy, violent passion, and passionate violence. I watch the honey drip from my spoon and pool in the bottom of my mug, which reads “Pretend this is the skull of my enemy”. Gods what it would feel like to be a warrior again, to know the feel of a man again, and to bathe in blood instead of the crisp waters of spring. I use an old short sword to stoke the embers inside the wood-burner as my kettle begins to whistle and scream. The boiling water in my mug, causing intense clouds of scented floral vapors, the taste of which does something to clear the fog of my mind.