Witchy Woman

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By the brook in the dark of night, we wash the soil from our hands and spit blood from our mouths. It mixes with the cold running water so that we are with nature again, and when we kiss, we taste birth and death and wine and all those dreams they told us not to dream. When she spreads herself for me, the animals watch in secret as I get on all fours and speak to her in a language my childhood self knew all too well. When I place my lips on her sex, I’m reminded of the biscuit tin in the kitchen of my grandparent’s old house. It used to rest atop their pantry, and whenever I opened it, it was full of all kinds of delicious treats from chocolate bourbons to shortbread to Jammie Dodgers to Waggon Wheels. Especially the strawberry ones. I would eat those things all day long if I could, and as I eat her until it’s time to fall asleep, the bliss of breathing in my childish kicks is almost overwhelming. There are crickets and grasshoppers buzzing in my ear, and as I wriggle my tongue, so she gasps and digs her fingers back into the damp earth. Taking a bite out of her as she looks up to the moon, she leans back upon a blanket of leaves and cries. They aren’t tears of sadness, though, for she just feels alive, and the sight of that cold rock hanging there reminds her that she is as real as she needs to be. For how long is anyone’s guess, but in this bubble of us, she and I are atoms made aware of themselves, and not only that but atoms that feel and know love. When we’re done, we smoke a few cigarettes, and while she’s splashing water between her legs, I’m lost in my head thinking about my days in junior school, and in particular, the shed in the playing field that housed all the sports equipment. We all thought it was haunted, and every lunch time, we would peer through the cracks in the wooden doors hoping to catch a glimpse of some ghost that would prove the magic we believed in was really there.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.co.uk

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.com

12 replies »

  1. I love the old school legends. At my lower school, there was an old garage that butted against the wire fence of the playground in one corner, and you could see dusty, abandoned toys through a broken window… we were all convinced a witch lived there and the toys were to entice children. It was a dare to stand near the garage or to shout into it – and no one did.

    • I remember in the same junior school there were small, random concrete slabs in the playing fields. Now I know them to be the foundations of teaching huts from back in the 70’s, but we were convinced they were gravestones. We would spend hours trying to dig them out thinking there were bones underneath.

      • This sort of thing, to me, is the genesis of a creative spirit that would lead someone towards art or writing, etc. A combination of an overactive imagination and an inquisitive mind. And yet, I can say with some confidence, that most people from my old school haven’t gone on to become writers or artists. Which begs the question – what happened in the intervening years which led them to abandon that mindset?

      • I guess they do whatever everyone else does, which is to listen to others and grow up into proper people. They become adults. Boring, bland, successful adults. Whereas artists stay as they were, like Peter Pan, flying through the sky with no reason to let go of the magic of a childish heart.

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