There’s a story to be told here, you know. You’re sure of it. That student there, with the heavy backpack and the very tired eyes, maybe it’s xir story, and it’ll be your job to suss it out.

Maybe. Not sure yet. Xe could just be tired.

See here’s the thing about people like you, you don’t get to have stories, only tell them. Watching and waiting until a hero passes you by (if you’re lucky) or maybe the worlds next monster (if you’re not). 

The problem is picking out which is which, who’s who, what stories are worth telling.

(Not yours, apperently)

There’s an angel in the ditch that the school bus drives by. Xe stays there and sings to the passing by children, like xe’s trying to get them to jump out of the moving bus and come to xir.

Everyone knows by now to wear headphones, or to chatter loudly in conversation, to turn off their hearing aides when they pass by. You must not listen to the angel. You must not.

(they all know what happens if you do)

Hey there, star child. Are you listening?

Pay attention. You’re the result of a supernova, star child.  There’s cosmic death writ into your bones. You cannot escape that part of yourself.

You love. You love so deeply it aches. There’s a being of the void in your bed, and you should have never trusted xir. But you love.

Are you listening? Hey, star child. Stop ignoring me- dammit, no, let the void being sleep. I’m trying to talk to you. Hey. Hey. God. You’re so frustrating I have a point-

Breathe in. Exhale. Breathe.

Are you in here? Are you thinking? Hello, witchling. Breathe. 

Do you feel the rain? Do you feel the lightning? There is thunder behind your eyes.

Do you know what this is? Do you know where you are? Hello witchling. Hello.

This is the cry of a newborn babe, left by a rivers bed. This is the screaming of a thousand cicadas at night.

This is the endless expanse of the night sky on a dark moon.This isn’t magick. Do you know where you are?

Breathe, witchling. I am not here to harm you.

The cougar kills the deer. The moose tramples the coyote. I am here, offering you a hand. Do you know where you are?

Coil the yarn. Snip the string. Pour the wax into a candle mold. Move your hands, witchling. Breathe.

Hello witchling. Do you know where you are? Do you remember?

This is the dark of a mothers womb. This is the warmth of the heart of a star. The cold expanse of a melting tundra. This is the end. This is the beginning.

Set aside your knitting, put away your paintbrush. Look. This is the un-made, the forever end. This is not magick.

Why did you wander here, witchling? How did you find your way here? No- eyes on me. There is no way to leave this place. You have walked too far.

The chicks follow the duck. The cat eats the pigeon. You are not preparing dinner; you are here, at every beginning and at every end. This is not a magick place.

Come with me.

Breathe. Feel the air in your lungs. Feel the feathers under your skin. You are star-dust and cosmic grit. Inhale. Exhale.

You are the wind in the lungs of young lovers. You are the dirt through which green things grow. You are the sounds of a thousand crickets chirping in the darkness. Inhale. Exhale.

This is magick, witchling. Inhale. Breathe in the pattern of a thousand knitted hats. Breathe out the pain of a thousand embroidery needle pokes. This is magick, this is Craft. This is the art passed from a thousand witches to a thousand children.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Feel the sunlight on your burned skin. Feel the rain drip on sodden hope. There is kindness here. There is pain. There is balance. There is focus. 

There is me, and there is you. Inhale. Exhale.

The softness of a wolf’s fur. The gaze of a gecko’s eye. The sound of a heart ceasing to beat. This is magick. This is you.

There is an infinite amount of space below you- the ground is no longer solid, but vaporous, full of stars. You balance on a self made shelf of magick and space dust; smile at the people you speak to. They know naught of the realities fragile breaking- you are alone.

(You are never alone)

(someone is watching you)

(You can feel their greedy eyes)

(they are taking the ground away, the air away, the sky away)

(You must build your own world to stand on)

There’s an endless amount of birds in the sky- above the streetlamps but below the clouds, the air has become thick with feathers and the screaming of something frightened. Something is wrong. 

Maybe it’s you- you’ve been pushing little crystals out from your pores like blackheads, and scales have begun to edge their way across your spine. Maybe it’s your lover, who’s become soft at the edges, translucent. You can put your hands into xir belly and feel only smoke. Maybe it’s something else.

The only thing you know, the only certainty- something is frightening the birds.