The witch had her cauldron ready.
It was ready, when eyes could not see.
It was hidden from a world that had forgotten to dream.
When the sun was rising reluctantly.
When the rain did not drum.
When the wind did not sing,
but scream.
When the void was forming.
When the shape was ready,
and it fit a lost someone.
When land had burned.
When bodies had failed.
When there was no way back,
but in dreams.
Then, the witch was pouring all over it,
was stirring it around,
holding on to the spoon.
The witch was summoning days this world had forgotten about.
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 
One thought on “Tale about summoning”