In that moment which I am now writing about, the world had been leaking, wounded and sour, and my witch had been fallen down on her knees, and had been pleading once more with the one who owned her witching heart. And of the many words that could have left her lips in that moment, it only were those she would have never wanted to stand between them both that she spit out into the burning spring afternoon.
„I wish that you had let me die“, she said, thinking about having been found by him all those years ago. „I wish that I had jumped right out of the window instead of finding your heart made of stone!“
He was wearing hos coat, his terrible mask bound around his belt, and he was ready to leave into a world so cruel, while she was standing in front of him, wearing a dress she had loved to feel his eyes on.
And she was not done yet.
„You are a cruel and heartless monster“, she continued with a shaking voice. „I wish to die right here in front of you, to see if any pain could even reach you, but I doubt it would!“
And all of these words of darkness spit into the rose flavoured dusk were only meant to tell how much she feared the next moment in which he would walk out of the door and begin his next adventure saving the world, and risking never coming back to her.
Would she ever get a chance to say another word to him?
Would she ever smell his hair again?
Would she ever find out if he was able to comprehend her pain?
„Sometimes, we don‘t get any of the answers we wish to“, Layla tells me, „Because the universe will send another plague, a war, or whatever else good and humble, or even honorable reason to die for right into our way.“
And now my fury is burning up once more.
„I fucking hate you!“, I scream at her. „You fucking robot!“
How can she so easily accept the pain we shared?
And why couldn‘t our hearts be saved as well?
I wish I’d told you all my stories.
I want to tell you all my storiesIt’s not that they would changeIt’s just that I would likeTo see themFormA new expressionOn your face I need to tell you all my storiesI am not sureIf they makeSenseThe way I thoughtThey do. I will tell you all my storiesThey frighten meI’m sure you won’t endureI see…
Dealing with darkness in writing
This spring afternoon is glowing pink and tastes like strong tea. It feels much too familiar, and I begin to open up.I feel far away from myself as I start to talk, to babble on about my novel. About all the things I’ve been reading about in the past 5 years. About the 17th century,…
Radical witching novel rewrites at 4 AM!
I wore the same night dress my witch used to wear to get drunk on my windowsill, when I suddenly had an idea at 4 AM. Great ideas always happen at 4 AM, remember? This one however, kept me awake for at least a week, debating it back and forth. At some point my witch…
Mistress witch writes 