One, two, three. Tickets dispensed, potions made. Slap your hands clean, dip them in hot cauldrons, burn away the remains with poisons. Repeat. Throw in a few clients. Smile and appease, repeat.
Fiction
The Renaissance Festival
They prep for the excursion buying flasks of water, strapping a pint to their sides, weighing out their costumes. I put on my pointed hat, leathers. My outfit draws my mirror's smile. I promise myself to finally get a bowl of the ever delicious smelling mushroom soup.
Growth
Though the witch loves to conjure potions, she attempts making charms, spinning stories, and teaching others. Masters before her watch in earnest of her growth. Some smile, others scowl.
Blue and Red
The shrill sound fills the air, followed by squealing of tires. I tune my phone, listening in to the numbers, waiting to hear any news. And I think, what it would be like.
Silent Judges
They speak plainly but with a certain authority underlying their words. They watch your eyes and every response. Whatever you say may affect your chances; the rewards for risk are great. "Great. When do we start?"
Cylinders
The cylinders sit brewing their concoctions and potions. The witch waits nearby, taking in the sounds of a bustling city tavern. Music, lights, merriment. Different, but beautiful.
Blessings
It was time to leave, into a different world. But she knew the huntsman's cabin would remain. She raises her hands, casting a blessing on the surrounding forest. The trees grow tall and green. Bushes glisten with wild berries.
Woodsman
The woodsman brings the witch into his world, showing her skills, survival, and ways forgotten. He watches on quietly as she attempts to construct one of the walls to the cabin, instructing only when needed. His heart swells and nods.
Trace
She traced her finger along the tome, trying to make out the words. Ink blots and chicken scratch concealed their knowledge. Her past wont give up secrets so easily. She snaps the book closed with resounding boom through the halls, knowing someone who would.
Houses
Pounding the stakes into the earth, you lay your foundations. Chopping wood, you blister your hands if only to give you shelter from the cold. And you can feel it; the storm is coming.
