Messing with the machinations of mortals was fun, until it got you stuck with them in a stolen fishing boat in the middle of the Ionian Sea.
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How many hyperactive, irresponsible boys did it take to mess up Rachel Garrett’s immaculate kitchen in five and a half hours? Jessica would say… two. The first being her eleven-year-old twin brother, and the second? Her forty-two year old uncle.
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How peculiar your way of referring to death. As if death in itself was the unique boundary of life, the sole state in which life is life no longer. You could reference the quietude of a heart, the coldness of a body, the emptiness of a gaze, yet that only reminds me of the heaviness in my chest, the blackness of my dreams, the numbness of my mind. Aren’t these too manifestations of lifelessness? I lack a doctor’s expertise, but I feel confident when I say I have barely ever been alive.
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“Only the wounded truly understand the healing power of other people.” This is what I tell my daughter as I brush her hair back from her face. She had been crying in her sleep, hands clenched around the sheets in front of her chest as though she were scared her heart might be trying to leap from it.
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Sometimes you look out the car window and see them – running alongside you.
You aren’t sure what they are exactly, these strange beings, but you only see them when you least expect it, when your guard is down and then they slip out from the shadows of the trees along the tarmac road and follow the car down the highway.
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It was wet. Unformed. The oats swam apart in the milk, drowning piece by piece. They were small islands in a vast sea, bobbing up and down as they floated apart and then back together.
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She trusts Will. She trusts him more than anyone else.
She picks up a shrivelled looking mushroom and takes the leap. The earthy fragrance consumes her whole mouth. Her whole being.
“Try not to have a bad trip,” says Will.
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It had never crossed Professor Dinklebert’s mind that the students of his Ancient History lectures would not appreciate him repeatedly being five minutes late, because he hated them all.
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It was a Tuesday evening, and he’d forgotten to let the dog out again. He must have. Why else would Juniper be sat, panting at the backdoor, lolling her head around to stare at him every few minutes?
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“How about here? The lady I was chatting to on the plane said that if you’re not going to try food fresh from the sea, then there’s no point coming.”
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Wit. Wit. My love, my heart, where are you? You have left me to die? To rot? To mourn?
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It has always been so easy for people to forsake witches as wicked.
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