A Witch's Tale | Teen Ink

A Witch's Tale

July 6, 2017
By Luckystar78 ELITE, London, Other
Luckystar78 ELITE, London, Other
114 articles 0 photos 97 comments

Favorite Quote:
"..though warm as summer it was fresh as spring." (Thomas Hardy) ("Far from the Madding crowd")

Brewed like green broccoli; as its hacked insides: splinter into the gold of the pot, fallen like a patterned leaf; or a stork: as it falls like rain; onto the laden steams of coriander. A fire, lit in shades of crimson: red, scorches under the cauldron, blue, a stream: as it melts its daisy-coloured, and rose flowers, into the water-bed.
Blue seal of water, spread onto the frothing: toothpaste of broccoli: that smears its white breath; like hot chocolate smearing a moustache. Add the torn shreds of petal: the shuddering smoke of metal: the strings on the harp; the music of the wooden beams: that looms above, a characteristic arch of art.
Sea-weed; ridden curls; alight in the glare of the pot: tangle down like stolen earrings: as its pearl shines: like a newborn penny, on the tooth-sharpened shore. Smattering of coins, crash onto the white beach: shimmering mirage of honey copper, seething into the cushioned sand.
From inside the little crooks; and the sailing boats: marked with a gleaming flag: and the rocks, that ravage the shore: unbind yourself like the spines of books, tear the crafted monument; like a shell scattered in the sea.
Add to the brew: your tears, unveiled by the heat of the water; as it boils your heart: your witch’s tongue, and eats the livestock alive. Pluck from the shimmering wave: the tail of a newt; honed to a mould yellow: slithered with the skin of a snake: that rises to the surface; a terror: a vision of your doom: a tiny piece of your fear; chopped up to green: painted with cracked green. Stir the mixture, with a gigantic spoon; as large as firewood; as blazing as the moon. Allow the mix to swim: uninterrupted; as lentils and seeds: as they are groomed into soup. Let the sprinkles of cake-shone colour; yellow and pink; and wilting grey: dust the bowl with the ash of the past; and sellotape a cherry: onto the gift-wrapped box: stamped with the address.
As the wrinkled fingers; long: and eaten by the feasts of time, scoop the ball of gold: look into the eye of the work: and deliver it to the cottage-wooden door: in time for supper; as it dawns with the blue of a sunset.

The author's comments:

A lyrical; old tale about a mystical figure; setting out on an unknown journey; evoking terror: and intriguing interpretations. The character in the piece; is in many ways a tragic figure; but the layer of evil stains the work; with moral complexity. It is a fable-like imagining: an old-fashioned; mystical tale.

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