One
A poet might be inspired to write poems about the magic of last night’s Halloween party. While I may be the black-clothing wearing, brooding type, I’m no poet. I think everyone who knows me is relieved about my lack of poetic interest.
Sure I can quote everyone from Shakespeare to Austen. Any smart man should read Austen to be prepared for dealing with women, especially a woman who loves to read and who also might be an English major.
I’ve had a long time to prepare.
Last night was years in the waiting.
It didn’t disappoint.
All of my Halloween highlights include Madison Bradbury.
Kissing Madison.
Revealing my true self to her and not having her run screaming from me, or giving me the “you’re crazy” look.
Kissing Madison some more.
Confessing to her I knew about her love spell and failed attempts at magic.
Making out with Madison on the beach before lighting the midnight bonfire. With my hands.
That’s right, I’m a witch.
Yes, men can be witches too. Warlock is an outdated, gendered term only used in old books. Some people are Wiccans these days. I’m all for it, but that’s not me. Horned God and Mother Goddess, pagan loving, namaste earth magic is all good. I’m from the old line, tracing my lineage back five hundred years in New England. The infamous witch trials held in Salem might have been mass hysteria, but amongst the innocent, those Puritan nets caught a few real witches.
The devil didn’t lurk in the woods around their villages; he hid himself in the familiar where no one would dare to question him.
Cloaked in boring normalcy and indignation, he spread rumors and doubt, letting others do evil unto each other.
That’s how dark magic works. It never arrives with fanfare. No, the insidious side of humanity crawls through the cracks and seeps into existence via tiny doubts and insecurity where it replicates, forcing out happy thoughts, good deeds, and kindness, leaving behind only distrust and eventually, hatred.
The same darkness is still in play today.
Devil is the simplest term, but whatever the dark power is called, the results are the same.
In other words, don’t touch the dark stuff.
Nope.
Never.
* * *
Instead of sitting around indulging in my mushy, happy feelings over Madison, I’m pushing a broom through Tate’s North Shore beach house, shoving empty Solo cups, candy wrappers, and detritus I’m too disgusted to examine closely. I should be using a shovel while wearing a hazmat suit.
“Do you think a hose would ruin the parquet floors?” I’m half-kidding as I ask Tate.
He’s pulled his blond dreadlocks into a loose ponytail and bagging up the piles of trash while trying not to gag. “The housekeeper will be here tomorrow with an extra crew. We’re only responsible for the trash and body fluids.”
Our shudders mirror each other.
I’ve volunteered to sweep the dining room turned dance floor in hopes of locating Madison’s missing heart charm necklace. Part of a kit sold mostly to gullible girls, Madison had been wearing it last night. I recognized the charm from my mother’s shop instantly. Finding out why my mother sold her an ineffective love spell will require a phone call once we’re done handling the aftermath of another Halloween at the Winthrop mansion.
With the non-business end of my broom, I knock a purple zebra pimp hat off of the eighteenth century bronze chandelier above me. It lands in the pile of soggy hell I’ve created in the middle of the room.
Tate hands me a pair of pink dishwashing gloves trimmed in polka-dot ribbons. “You’re going to want these.”
“Exactly my style.” Thanking him, I wiggle my fingers into the rubber before bagging the garbage.
My eyes scan through the array of purple confetti, popped balloons, fake cobwebs, plastic spiders, streamers, dead glo-sticks, candy, and a lone unicorn horn, but there’s no red ribbon or heart.
I’d love to return them to Madison, but I’m not about to
A poet might be inspired to write poems about the magic of last night’s Halloween party. While I may be the black-clothing wearing, brooding type, I’m no poet. I think everyone who knows me is relieved about my lack of poetic interest.
Sure I can quote everyone from Shakespeare to Austen. Any smart man should read Austen to be prepared for dealing with women, especially a woman who loves to read and who also might be an English major.
I’ve had a long time to prepare.
Last night was years in the waiting.
It didn’t disappoint.
All of my Halloween highlights include Madison Bradbury.
Kissing Madison.
Revealing my true self to her and not having her run screaming from me, or giving me the “you’re crazy” look.
Kissing Madison some more.
Confessing to her I knew about her love spell and failed attempts at magic.
Making out with Madison on the beach before lighting the midnight bonfire. With my hands.
That’s right, I’m a witch.
Yes, men can be witches too. Warlock is an outdated, gendered term only used in old books. Some people are Wiccans these days. I’m all for it, but that’s not me. Horned God and Mother Goddess, pagan loving, namaste earth magic is all good. I’m from the old line, tracing my lineage back five hundred years in New England. The infamous witch trials held in Salem might have been mass hysteria, but amongst the innocent, those Puritan nets caught a few real witches.
The devil didn’t lurk in the woods around their villages; he hid himself in the familiar where no one would dare to question him.
Cloaked in boring normalcy and indignation, he spread rumors and doubt, letting others do evil unto each other.
That’s how dark magic works. It never arrives with fanfare. No, the insidious side of humanity crawls through the cracks and seeps into existence via tiny doubts and insecurity where it replicates, forcing out happy thoughts, good deeds, and kindness, leaving behind only distrust and eventually, hatred.
The same darkness is still in play today.
Devil is the simplest term, but whatever the dark power is called, the results are the same.
In other words, don’t touch the dark stuff.
Nope.
Never.
* * *
Instead of sitting around indulging in my mushy, happy feelings over Madison, I’m pushing a broom through Tate’s North Shore beach house, shoving empty Solo cups, candy wrappers, and detritus I’m too disgusted to examine closely. I should be using a shovel while wearing a hazmat suit.
“Do you think a hose would ruin the parquet floors?” I’m half-kidding as I ask Tate.
He’s pulled his blond dreadlocks into a loose ponytail and bagging up the piles of trash while trying not to gag. “The housekeeper will be here tomorrow with an extra crew. We’re only responsible for the trash and body fluids.”
Our shudders mirror each other.
I’ve volunteered to sweep the dining room turned dance floor in hopes of locating Madison’s missing heart charm necklace. Part of a kit sold mostly to gullible girls, Madison had been wearing it last night. I recognized the charm from my mother’s shop instantly. Finding out why my mother sold her an ineffective love spell will require a phone call once we’re done handling the aftermath of another Halloween at the Winthrop mansion.
With the non-business end of my broom, I knock a purple zebra pimp hat off of the eighteenth century bronze chandelier above me. It lands in the pile of soggy hell I’ve created in the middle of the room.
Tate hands me a pair of pink dishwashing gloves trimmed in polka-dot ribbons. “You’re going to want these.”
“Exactly my style.” Thanking him, I wiggle my fingers into the rubber before bagging the garbage.
My eyes scan through the array of purple confetti, popped balloons, fake cobwebs, plastic spiders, streamers, dead glo-sticks, candy, and a lone unicorn horn, but there’s no red ribbon or heart.
I’d love to return them to Madison, but I’m not about to
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