Welcome my friends, leave your broomsticks at the door, I've already swept ;) but go on, sit down in a comfy chair, I'll fetch you a bubbly potion... yes it is champers, I finished the last of the pineapple juice otherwise I could have made you a zombie... Now... Did I tell you I was at the sales the other day? Well... actually, I'll leave the telling of it up to my other guest...
WITCH V BITCH
– A TITANIC CLASH OF CULTURES AT A HANDBAG SALES TABLE
Witch sees bag. Bitch sees bag.
Bitch sees witch see bag. Witch sees bitch see witch see bag.
Witch and bitch grab bag.
“I saw it first!” insists the bitch with a twist. A grimace, trying hard to find its way to the surface, is eventually choked off in the limbo where botox stops and ella bache kicks in.
But the witch holds firm, it was Mimco after all and 75% off, almost a steal. Although it wasn’t really appropriate use of her centuries old arcane power, she was already working on her spell. Drawing in her mind a clockwise flaming pentangle between the bitch and the bag – this was usually sufficient to secure parking spaces, stop dogs growling, keep the seats either side empty at the cinema.
The bitch just set her jaw. “Do you mind?”
The witch, still holding, twitched. Was the bitch actually aware she had tried to mess with her mind, or was this still Mimco related?
“Indeed I do,” said the witch evenly.
The bitch glared at the witch. An entirely appropriate use of her hard acquired powers, she had used the death stare often – to secure parking spaces, silence dogs and ensure elbow room in cinemas.
Wasn’t working on Mimco tho.
Accepting the glare, with a thoughtful stare, the witch had stepped it up. Her spare hand reached out and stroked the ouroboros talisman she wore around her neck – used by Gnostic mystics to unite the chthonian earth energies with the celestial spirit, the cyclic feedback formed by the snake swallowing its own tail allowed the talisman to store vast amounts of spiritual energy. Three strokes, each with a different finger (pointer last), clockwise (“ouroboros awaken”), anticlockwise (“ouroboros feed”), clockwise (“ouroboros release”) and out with a flick in the direction of the bitch.
The bitch blinked – or was it a wink – but did not release in the least. If anything she tightened her grip on the Mimco.
She too was stepping up. If Billy Blanks had taught her anything, it was that glutes were the powerhouse of the body. You set your feet, shoulder width apart, clench and wrench and anything you want, will be yours – not magic exactly, more the raw power of positivity and relentless self belief.
The witch, using magic actually, saw it coming. She had the bitch outweighed and called Mars down into her, grounding herself to the very core of the planet. The bitch could have all the pilates toning in the city, but it was like shifting a tectonic plate.
The bitch recovered quickly, her strong and supple core, quickly compensated for the momentary shift in her axis and brought her back to focus before the witch could make her own play on the bag.
“I’ve got all day,” sneered the bitch.
“I have many lifetimes,” replied the witch.
Witch took in the bitch, bitch looked down on the witch.
“Poor woman,” they both thought, “I wonder where it all started to go wrong for her.”
“This item,” said the witch, “No matter how potentially powerful it may become, is simply not worth it… I will let you have it on one condition.”
“Hah!”
“I require a lock of your hair.”
“You think the scary old goth queen scares me? You think you’re gonna cast a spell on someone like me? You gotta deal sister, now let go of my Mimco.”
The witch knew it was a wig – there was little of the bitch that had not been altered, augmented or affected. Clearly the powers of witchcraft made no impact on such bitchcraft – bit of an eye opener really, but then again… Her powers relied on self reflection not reflection of self.
What she was really interested in was the Mimco – she worked a fibre loose and got a tight grip as the bitch whipped her trophy out of her grasp. It came away in her fingers and disappeared into a pocket.
No, she could not curse the soulless any more than she could hex the brainless. But the bag, now that was another story – that purse, those car keys might be going in, but there wasn’t anything coming out of that bag. Not ever.
Did that make her a bad witch? Nah. A bit grey maybe, but who wasn’t these days? She accepted the lock with what she hoped was a mock evil sneer.
The bitch answered back with a self satisfied leer.
Witch watches bag go. Bitch watches witch go.
Bitch smiles.
Witch smiles.
Well...There you have the story... finished your bubbly? I guess you have to be on your way to visit the other party guests, but before you go, let me know what you think of the tale written by my favourite soul surfer Fraser Wilson, I have 3 special prizes in my 'grab bag' so please leave a few words at each blog entry I post over the celebration & abracadabra a prize could be yours... Everyone leaving precious feedback goes in the draw... Here's my first door prize to help Magaly celebrate her 'Witches in Fiction' Blog Party...
This little witch is a SunshineShelle (that's me) original 4 x 6 inches (10 x 15 cms) in acrylics gesso & pastels on a piece of recycled board ;)
Remember, come on back, I'll be cooking up something special in the cauldron for next time...
