OPEN POST: Witches and 3 Questions!
You can sense them at the beginning of October, a discordant hum behind the noise, a racing pulse beneath the grind.
Circe walks the shoreline once again, her hair smelling of salt, her breath exhaling defiance.
Tituba laughs a melody in the wind that weaves through the pines.
La Voisin stirs her cauldron in a Parisian graveyard, cologne, herbs, and poison mixing in the heavy air.
Morticia sharpens her rapier wit. Stevie tunes her chords to longing and heartache.
Tituba laughs a melody in the wind that weaves through the pines.
La Voisin stirs her cauldron in a Parisian graveyard, cologne, herbs, and poison mixing in the heavy air.
Morticia sharpens her rapier wit. Stevie tunes her chords to longing and heartache.
The witches wake, not from breathless slumber, but from airlessness and patience.
They never go, only watch, waiting for the universe to honor power when it is whispering, prodding, and certain.
Many called them monsters, sirens, sinners, sluts, whores, vixens, crones, anything to keep from admitting their survival.
Many called them monsters, sirens, sinners, sluts, whores, vixens, crones, anything to keep from admitting their survival.
But they were resilient and kept the fire smoldering in kitchens and back bedrooms, in girls who refused to shrink.
Through the centuries, they moved in characters, subterfuge, and disguise as midwives, muses, mothers, madwomen, rewriting rules in secret ink.
Through the centuries, they moved in characters, subterfuge, and disguise as midwives, muses, mothers, madwomen, rewriting rules in secret ink.
They heal, they write, they lead, they disappear whenever they please.
They no longer beg the village for understanding; they build a coven and light their own brilliant sky.
They no longer beg the village for understanding; they build a coven and light their own brilliant sky.
October belongs to them, to us.
The flight is real.
We caress with the same hand that once drew circles in the dirt.
We cast spells with contracts, with food, with songs, with silence.
We are awake long after dusk because the night listens.
The flight is real.
We caress with the same hand that once drew circles in the dirt.
We cast spells with contracts, with food, with songs, with silence.
We are awake long after dusk because the night listens.
Have you ever been called too much, too sharp, too proud, too strange? You are already part of the ritual.
Our power recognizes its own.
Our power recognizes its own.
Let the pumpkins rot and the curtain fall closed.
We will still be here when the veil fades to quiet again.
We are the thunder and the storms that remember their name.
We are the thunder and the storms that remember their name.
The witches wake. We were never asleep.
----by M.Fleurette
The Pre-Raphaelites were drawn to images of fallen women, "bad" women, goddesses, and witches.
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| John William Waterhouse, The Magic Circle, 1886 |
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| John William Waterhouse, Circe offering the Cup to Ulysses, 1891 |
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| Bella Donna Stevie Nicks:"I'm not a witch, but I'm in tune with the moon". She has also stated, "I've always believed in good witches-not bad witches-and fairies and angels" |
SQs: If you could cast only one spell on another person, who would it be? What would it be?
What is your favorite movie about witches?
Name your favorite witch.
photos: Getty
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