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A Small Town Witch Makes Do
micro truth
She meets her coven—Kayla P, Cayla G, and Caila K—in the parking lot of the First Baptist Church after Tuesday night choir practice. She’s sure the hymns they rehearse send a vibratory magic into the ether and open the portal to possibility. Invocation is just another word for prayer. She’s a rising senior, and she dreams of riding the prom queen’s float, of hiking the Alps, of bushwhacking a jungle, feeding the hungry, winning an Oscar.
She understands that Forever is a serious thing, and demons of change are always trying to steal your treasures. Tonight’s ritual will guard her and her BFFs against the dark magic that dissolves and disperses. Her black-handled paring knife and Yeti mug were sanctified in the kitchen where once upon a time her mother warmed formula, hid vegetables in spaghetti sauce, baked brownies for band fundraisers. Grandma’s cast iron pot holds a potent brew of McCormick’s spices: black pepper for clearing energy, anise seed to bind, and cloves to guarantee their friendship continues.
On a full moon night in July, in the company of her tribe, beneath the warm glow of a security light, she shivers. Her blood already knows what she’s doomed to learn.