Author: thelighthousetve

by Harper Smith

I am a girl who is a witch.

No one has ever told me I am a witch but no one has had to,

for I can feel it in my chest as though it is a second heart that beats. 

I live in a world where no one is kind to witches unless they are good.

A good witch is a thing of legend, 

the kindly woman down the road with her healing touch,

the strange little girl in the woods who guided you home as a child,

the birds that seem to sing a little sweeter when you are sad. 

A good witch is something to be revered, to be treasured and loved as if she was your own grandmother, 

But that kind witch is often rare. 

More common is that of the hag, the moss maiden, the beldam, the crone. 

a witch of the dark parts of the forest, a witch of the night, a creature of nightmares and of song, something that is not human but is instead 

Fear, the fear of men and of children, the fear of the shadows on your wall, the fear of the night and the things it will bring, the fear of loss and of losing, 

and the secret hope inside of the chest of all women. 

Witches are vile, evil creatures, 

they told me, 

you better stay away from those woods.  

Such a 

p r e t t y  y o u n g 

      t                       

  h

i

     n 

             g

will do no good against something so evil as that. 

I am not a good witch. 

I know this because they have told me, with their eyes and their smiles and the prickly hardtightcrushing way they grip my shoulder when I speak too loudly or too much.

I have no family left, so I am an orphan. 

(they tell me this with pity in their eyes like I do not already know)

I have no husband, so I am a spinstress. 

(they tell me this with sympathy in their voice, as though talking to a child, or a very elderly woman)

I have a strange, off-color to my eyes, so I am an abnormality. 

(they do not tell me this but I hear them whisper.) 

They do not care about me or they would have offered me help,

when my father left six years ago, 

when my mom disappeared into those woods, 

when my brother was stolen by those forest creatures of the night, 

when this creature of the night was made to be all I had left, 

but yet they whisper anyway,  

as if they do care,

as if my state of being is somehow as important to them as their own child’s when they have given nothing to me that they would give their own–

It is not enough to be a witch. I must be an outsider, too. 

I have tried to be a good witch. In my younger years it was all I tried to do,

To mold myself to be better,

To dull the sharp edges of my weary heart,

To take what is broken in me and make it whole.

But I am angry, so much so that I sometimes feel I am

n 

o 

t 

h 

i 

n 

g 

except this anger, this burning hot fire in my chest.

angry at

my father, 

my mother, 

angry at those creatures and the monster sister they left me, 

angry at this town and the whole world, 

angry at myself. 

A good witch cannot be fueled by hatred, they say,

she can only bring light. 

She uses her magic only for others, 

brightening their lives at their beck and call, 

wanting nothing for herself but the smiles on their faces and filling her heart with the happiness and the full cup of others. 

I cannot be that way.

I have tried, oh I have tried, but how

can I gorge myself on the joy of my fellows if I seem to bring them none?

I cannot seem to wash away the stains of their disapproval more than I can wash myself of my sins, of the magic and rage that fester deep in my body.

Sometimes, 

the fire of that anger sparks too close to that arcane magic

and it catches,

and there is no hope of putting it out until I have let go. 

So I must, indulging the 

brilliant 

blinding 

beautiful 

magic inside me, 

freeing it so watch it spark through the air, 

dance its way upwards to the rafters,

and God it is gorgeous, 

and I finally feel free.

Sometimes, when I am feeling particularly trite,

I will allow it to blaze a stack of hay into smoke.

I am a not a good witch, 

but my magic is my own. They can never take it from me.

They have taken so much, and those who have not taken have given 

nothing all the same,

but I am my own. 

One day they will fear me. I know this to be true.

I will earn my name among the crones who burned and stole and pillaged through the night, 

the Blacked Dawn, the Faceless Woman, Lilith herself, 

I will be one of them in time, and they will all hate me, 

and use my stories to scare their children into soft sweet terrified sleep.

I will be all that (and more, more, please i want to be more) someday,

but for now–

for now I am only Melissa. 

That is the only name I know, 

and it is a name of anger and fire and impurity and imperfection,

but it is mine.

I do not have to be a good witch for it to be mine.

a sequel short story, by guest author Jonathan David

As we walk through the woods,
we try with all our might
to make memory of this beautiful night.
For we stand under the stars of the sky.
We talk til day has come,
and sun has risen.
As we walk through the woods,
I can’t help but grieve.
For it is a time of sorrow,
a time of loss,
a time of death,
a time to mourn with what’s left.
But the war is over,
the war is won.
We have battled the last battle
and we have won!
Peace has fallen,
ground is regained.
Plants regrown,
buildings rebuilt,
as we walk through the woods.
I can’t help but think about these times,
after the war, many have lost.
Many are injured,
and many are gone.
Many are stuck, in words of anger.
Others in poverty,
Still more in grief.
And I look to the stars,
for in the sky we can find the everlasting beauty,
The moon, the stars, and the planets,
All in one place.
Orian and Casspiera.
Usar and lio, and their minors.
Scorpios and teacup,
And bootes too.
Oh the wonders you can find.
Mercury and Jupiter and Venus and Mars and
Polaris and Vega and Sirius and Arcutus.

But the sun comes up, and the earth goes round,
And the stars stay the same.
Through the night, through the day.
Through a month, through a year.
As we walk through the woods.
A Sequel, By Guest Author Jonathan David

*please note that teacup isn’t a official constellation

by Lydia I. Martinov

Can’t think. Can’t make out an intelligible thought. Yet, at the same time, thoughts are racing. One after the other. From the back of this terrified mind to the front. Trying to compete for first place at the tip of this head. A bead of sweat rolled down this burning, horrified face. How could it calmly make its way down in a time like this? Shaky hands, but they won’t budge. Won’t move. They must find their way to the backpack, but they won’t listen. Won’t do something so simple as removing the straps off this aching back. “W-what-”. I hear a voice. Who is it? It sounds awfully familiar…”What do I do-” This should be a question. But there is no rise in pitch at the end. Not like a question. More like a statement. Only now, I remember why I recognize this voice. It came from no lips but my own. Trembling and barely able to speak. Suddenly, it was as if my very source of breath had been swept away from my body. An awful wave of nausea comes over me. This head of mine becomes light. Lighter than air. Like it could just float away. Up, free into the sky. As the pounding of my heart grows louder, like a pair of cymbals turning into a gong, it feels as if my ears are ringing. A high pitched, constant sound that implants itself into my mind. I struggle to inhale. It feels like a giant machine pushing through thousands of years of growing forest. Air pushing through to my lungs. I finally manage to inhale. Exhale. Once, twice. 

Now it’s manageable. I haven’t been breathing. I open my eyes, not even realizing that they were closed in the first place. In front of me is a massive rock, wearing moss as if it is a fashionable outfit chosen just for the spring. All around are mossy, green giants. The bark appears red underneath, but the layer of moss makes it hard to tell. The branches reach up toward the top of the canopy, made of leaves and all kinds of life. Though entranced by the beauty and tranquility of the forest, I still must remain silent, and allow my head to clear. The reason I wandered off in the first place was the beauty of the forest drawing me in, making me lose myself, with the same effect of a siren song for a few minutes…or seconds…maybe hours? I lost track. Now I can’t find the path. Perhaps my longing to capture one of the largest, most wild forests has brought me to an impossible position. A grave mistake. Though, when I heard about a beautiful place that remains untouched by man, I knew it was my duty as a journalist to photograph and share with the world the beauty of this seemingly magical place. Now, here I am, trapped in the middle of the dense, endless, lush woodland. Though my pounding heart is still clouding my ears, I have regained enough of myself to once again make decisions. I don’t know which way the path is, so I need to summon my inner knowledge from those nature documentaries.

I throw off my backpack, and my sore, aching back thanks me by reminding me of how heavy my things are. I take a look inside to double check my inventory. I have no idea how long I will remain here. A shiver runs down my spine at the very thought. I pull out my pen and notebook to document my journey, because, if this is truly happening, I should at least bring home an incredible story. I write about my current situation, and take notes of everything in my bag. I have half a liter left in my water bottle. I should probably conserve it, along with the ham and swiss sandwich and snack packs. Continuing to rummage through my bag, I find a light jacket, and…a radio? I forgot that it was there! I feel a grin take over my face, and my heart pounds harder. A tear of relief falls down my cheek as I take the radio out and open the antennae. I switch it on, and press the button to speak. “Hello?” I say. “Anyone out there?” I let go of the button, and listen. There is no voice. No static. No sound. I look at the radio, and see a flashing red light. The dead battery indicator. My tear of relief turns to a tear of disappointment and despair. I hear a whimper escape my lips, and feel my bottom lip begin to quiver. “No,” I command myself. I will not cry. I need to keep myself together, because emotions won’t get me home. I look at the sky. “The sun rises in the east, and sets in the west.” I say to myself. I should travel in one direction, and I can use the sun to guide me. I decide to walk west, because that is where the sun currently is…because it will soon set. I should walk until I find civilization, or at least a river I can follow downstream. I pick up my backpack, ignoring the cracks my back gives me in response, and begin walking. 

It has been a few hours, and I can hardly move my legs. My feet are aching so much, and my back feels ready to collapse. The sun is setting, and I realize that once it gets dark, I will no longer have it to guide me. I could begin traveling in circles. My body is exhausted, and the creepers will soon begin coming out. I hear a twig snap in the distance, and I go silent. A howl. Does that mean…wolves? I can hear the “clickety-click-click” of my chattering teeth. The swishing of fabric as my knees shake in my khaki colored hiking pants. The “fight-or-flight” instinct hits me in an instant. I must find shelter. I tip-toe forward and look left and right. The uneven ground rises into a small, eroded cliff. It has a hole inside big enough for me to fit, and just deep enough to lie down. I get to work. Throwing my backpack into the hole, I grab any sticks or small logs within a fifteen foot radius. Then, I climb into the hole and build a wall at the entrance to keep out any unwanted visitors. The sun has nearly set, and the stars are somewhat visible through the canopy of leaves. I lay down, using my backpack as a pillow, and gaze through the holes between the sticks. Hearing a twig break nearby, my eyes dart toward the noise. I see a massive, yet beautiful wolf casually striding through his territory. He doesn’t appear to notice me, and I can’t take my eyes off him. I am entranced by his magnificence. So much so that I am no longer trembling. After a few minutes, my face finds my makeshift pillow, and my eyelids collapse, no longer able to handle the weight of this burden.

A rustling sound awakens me, and I feel sore, yet alert. My branch barricade seems to have fallen down, and I find myself nose to nose with…the most adorable creature I have ever laid my eyes on. Its innocent eyes are staring as if into my soul, like black beads with a story to tell. Its long, fuzzy ears are sticking straight up into the air, scouting for danger. Its curious little nose twitching to inspect mine. Suddenly, the rabbit turns its head, as it appears to have heard something, and quickly hops away. I sit up, and look around, recalling the events of the evening. The sun is up, yet hidden above the sheltering canopy. I hear a low grumbling sound. “Calm down,” I say to my stomach. It growls in response, more than ready for a big meal. I take my backpack, and look inside. Wrappers are loose and broken, and the sandwich has disappeared. I sigh deeply with disappointment. Some critters must have ransacked my scraps. Though I know nothing about finding food in the woods, I will certainly try. If  I continue my travels west, then maybe I will eventually find berries, or fruit along the way. I pick up my water bottle and shake it. Thank goodness there is still a bit of water left inside. I take a sip, throw on my backpack, and return on my path to…well…a path. After walking for about half an hour, I am disappointed to have found nothing that appears edible. Just as my heart gives up on my stomach, I see a group of mushrooms on the ground. They appear normal, given their brownish color and small size. I pick one up. It isn’t the red poisonous one, which is good. Though, on the other hand, it could be the infamous “magic mushroom” which causes hallucinations. I’m ninety percent sure that it is safe. My stomach loudly growls, desperate for any kind of meal. I close my eyes, and stuff two mushrooms into my mouth. I need more. I quickly consume another five, and put the rest in my backpack, continuing my journey. I walk for another few minutes until, suddenly, I feel really…dizzy…

Eyes. Open. Close. Too bright. The sun is here. Right in front. Intending to burn anyone and anything to a crisp. She sits up. Or rather…attempts to. Prying her overworked, confused, fighting eyes open, she sees everything. Yet…nothing? Shocked, her eyes dart around. Up. Down. Left. Right. Upside down. Zoom in. Zoom out. Through dimensions. Up to space. The colors all around are blending together. Blending. Splitting. Twisting. Unraveling. One, two, three, four, thirty-six, twelve, one-hundred fourty-two, seven. There are a few too many colors to count. Too many to exist. Too many to fathom. She stands, and steps forward, the colors dancing around her as if they’re waltzing at a ball, and she’s the guest of honor. In the distance…or an inch away…is a massive, Victorian house. Putting a wobbling, altering hand out, she reaches to feel for the handle of the front door.

Suddenly, I fall forward, landing on a polished, dark, wooden floor. The colors are no longer spinning. No longer dancing. No longer blinding. The air is calm. Silent. Now, I am able to stand up with ease. What I see makes me feel…like I am going to faint.

Stepping forward, I see a massive painting. I feel a mellow familiarity. As if my heart, itself, is locked in a warm embrace. I am at ease. Calm. As if I am under my own soft covers with a pleasantly hot drink in hand, a gorgeous day visible through the windows. Sunlight swimming around the room with a certain grace. Though…even looking directly at the painting, studying its golden, twisting vine of a frame, my eyes cannot focus. The blur of the painting persists, no matter how hard I look. I fall.

I wake up on the ground, a pounding pain in my head. In an attempt to open my eyes, I see a bright light above, and close them again. Slowly, I manage to sit up, confused. My out-of-body experience has left me puzzled. I inhale deeply through my dry throat. Thirstier than I have ever been, I reach for my water bottle. It is completely empty. I will never allow another mushroom to touch my lips. It was an atrocious mistake. Behind me, I notice something that washes away the remaining feeling of fright, replacing it with relief. A small, clear river, with a width of about 5 feet, rushes on its course through the trees, racing below the shine of the sun, partly visible between the leaves. I open my water bottle, and lower it into the stream. Then, I lift it up to my lips, and take a big, slow sip, followed by a series of quick chugs and gulps, fighting to empty the entire container. Yet not fully cleared, my excruciating headache mostly subsides. I regain enough strength to stand. Though still aching, I manage to walk, continuing my journey. Now that I have found a river, although accidentally, I may continue my journey downstream. Hopefully, I will succeed in finding signs of civilization before the end. My mind still does not feel like itself. I am unsure of the experience I had within the past half hour…or few hours. I have no idea how long my mind was taken over. I pause to write about this in my notebook. It may be of use to read about it again later on to better make sense of what happened. Putting my notebook away, I resume my journey.

After about 3 hours of walking, I see a clearly man-made line of wooden stakes in the ground. I run. Faster. Faster. Faster. Until I see a campground of some sort full of small buildings. Where there are buildings, there are people. Tears flow out of my eyes, and down my cheeks as I burst into a sprint. My mind is racing. I was so afraid of what would become of this. So scared without knowing what to do, or how long I would remain beneath the canopy of the trees, being a house-guest in the den of a resentful wolf, protecting its territory. I am free from the indecision of what to consume. Free of once again falling under the curse of the waltzing colors.