There’s a line of scales running down your back, gills opening like wounds on your sides. You are human, apparently, you are human, you thought, you are not, not, not.

(What is this? A curse? Or is it just something that was waiting in your blood?)

“We think of ourselves as endless,” says the void-born god “As immortal.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Anything can be unmade if you cut it thin enough.” xir voice is as empty as the vacuum xe lives in “There are things much worse than death, on the precipice of existence.”

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 something beat hungry behind your ribcage- you walk in shadows and darkness and there is blood beneath your fingernails. Find the chosen one, and bring xir to ruin this you know, you know but you will not carry out (who says the chosen one is human? who says the chosen one isnt you, with your human-stained teeth and vicious eyes? you will be better)