The Trap: A Story of Haunted Gentrification Entry #1

The following screenplay was inspired by the comedy of actor, comedian and writer, Mike Epps...


BLACK SCREEN

SUPERIMPOSITION: "1979" white, Arabic Typesetting

SUPERIMPOSITION FADE OUT

FADE IN



EXTERIOR - ROW HOME - 11PM
STILL SHOT NORTH PHILADELPHIA ROW HOME

The windows and front door are boarded. The home is completely dilapidated and declared abandoned by the city.



INTERIOR - BACK BEDROOM - SAME
CUT to PROSTITUTE ON SCREEN High and naked, an African American woman lays sprawled across a dirty, ruined mattress. Her head rolls back and forth with the dips and spins of her high. Smoke fills the air.



CUT to DRUG DEALER AND BUYER ON SCREEN An African American male seated at an old wooden table with only two chairs, the dealer passes a vile to his customer, who throws his money down on the table. The table is dirty and covered in paraphernalia, food remnants and trash, ashtrays and malt liquor cans. The African American consumer stands before the dealer.



CUT to DEALER ON SCREEN High himself, he coughs and looks up at the customer.

DEALER

Disrespectful bitch, you couldn't put that shit in my hand?

CUT to BUYER ON SCREEN Dressed in dirty tattered clothing, and jittery. He side steps back and forth, his jaw jumps. He looks back over his shoulder and then back at the dealer, reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a smaller revolver.

BUYER

Bitch!

He fires twice into the dealer's chest.

CUT to PROSTITUTE ON SCREEN She sits up and screams.

CUT to BUYER ON SCREEN He cleans the bleeding and hyperventilating dealer's pockets of money and drugs and takes off.

INTERIOR - DOWNSTAIRS- SAME
CUT to BUYER ON SCREEN  He runs through the living room/dining room, into the kitchen and climbs throughboarded back door.

INTERIOR - BACK BEDROOM - SAME

CUT to DEALER ON SCREEN He lays lifelessly in the chair at the table, bled out entirely.  The prostitute runs passed holding her clothes. Still screaming.

PROSTITUTE (V.O.)

June Bug dead!

ZOOM IN

CU OF JUNE BUG

FADE TO BLACK SCREEN

SUPERIMPOSITION: "2000" white, Arabic Typesetting

FADE IN

INTERIOR - LIVING ROOM- 2PM
CUT to REAL ESTATE AGENT ON SCREEN A well dressed and perky Caucasian woman shows the newly renovated home to a middle aged Caucasian couple, who follows behind her into the living room.

R.E. AGENT

The three bedroom, two and a half bath features brand new cherry hardwood flooring...

CUT to COUPLE ON SCREEN They look around the room and then separate while browsing.

R.E. AGENT

The home was completely gutted and soundproofing installed throughout.

CUT to WIFE ON SCREEN Now standing between the dining room and kitchen.

WIFE

Are these stainless steal appliances?

CUT to REAL ESTATE AGENT ON SCREEN

R.E. AGENT

Why yes and brand new tile flooring.

CUT to HUSBAND ON SCREEN He steps beside his wife and places his hand on the small of her back.

HUSBAND

How's the neighborhood? Our daughter will be attending Temple's Fine Arts program in the fall and we're hoping that we can move into an area that is dedicated to their students' housing.

CUT to REAL ESTATE AGENT ON SCREEN She approaches the couple.

R.E. AGENT

Yes, Mr. Bateman. Both of the surrounding homes are Temple University housing.

CUT to BATEMAN COUPLE ON SCREEN They look at one another.

CUT to REAL ESTATE AGENT

R.E. AGENT

and this listing would have been as well, if you weren't making such an attractive offer. But no worries, it is still a quite and safe neighborhood.

CUT to BATEMAN COUPLE ON SCREEN They look at one another again, weighing their options.

CUT to REAL ESTATE AGENT ON SCREEN She gives a rehearsed smile of friendly professionalism.

INTERIOR - BACK BEDROOM - DAY TIME

CUT to FF VIEW of SUSAN ON SCREEN She hangs a poster on her new bedroom wall. The room is visible behind her.

CUT to REAR VIEW of SUSAN She stands, hands on hips, and reviews the poster of a ballerina.

SUPERIMPOSITION LOWER RIGHT SCREEN  "3 weeks later..."

Mrs. Bateman enters the room. BLACK BLUR

SUPERIMPOSITION FADE OUT

MRS. BATEMAN

Susan?

CUT to XCU of SUSAN ON SCREEN She turns around.

SUSAN

Yeah, Mom...

CUT to MRS. BATEMAN ON SCREEN She stands by the doorway and far wall. While large furniture is in place, there is a wall of boxes.

MRS. BATEMAN

Sweetheart, I know you wanted to stay on campus but...

CUT to SUSAN ON SCREEN

SUSAN

I know Mom, you want to keep me safe and on task. I'm not wayward you know.

CUT to MRS. BATEMAN ON SCREEN Now red in the face, she approaches her daughter. Her hands are outstretched to grasps her daughter's.

MRS. BATEMAN

Oh, sweetie, I know. But try convincing your father of that.

CUT to MRS. BATEMAN AND SUSAN ON SCREEN She holds her daughter's hands.

CUT to SUSAN POV ON SCREEN

MRS. BATEMAN

Ugh, eighteen already and just...

She holds her daughters face.

CUT to MRS. BATEMAN POV ON SCREEN Completely unenthused, Susan receives her mother's affection.

MRS. BATEMAN

...so beautiful.

CUT to MRS. BATEMAN ON SCREEN She let's go of Susan's face and backs up and looks at the room.

MRS. BATEMAN

Do you want some help unpacking?

CUT to SUSAN ON SCREEN She does the same.

SUSAN

Uh, no. I'm okay. I'll do what I can but

(sarcastically)

classes start tomorrow. So the last minute move will have to take a backseat to my education.

CUT to MRS. BATEMAN ON SCREEN Still emotional. She places her hand over her heart.

MRS. BATEMAN

That's correct and your dancing.

She heads towards the door.

CUT to SUSAN ON SCREEN She watches her mother, exasperated.

CUT to MRS. BATMAN ON SCREEN She stops at the doorway of the large room and turns back to look at her daughter.

MRS. BATEMAN

You know, I just want to be there as you pursue ballet, the way I did. I just want to be there for my baby.

CUT to SUSAN ON SCREEN

SUSAN

And now you will be, Mommy.

CUT to MRS. BATEMAN ON SCREEN She chuckles and sighs, leaving the room.

CUT to SUSAN ON SCREEN She looks around the room and looks at the sunlight coming through her window. She approaches the window.

CUT to FF VIEW of SUSAN She sternly pulls the curtains shut.

FADE TO BLACK SCREEN

BURST LAMP LIGHT

SOUND EFFECT CLASSICAL MUSIC

FF CU of SUSAN ON SCREEN She reviews her frame in the mirror.

CUT to SUSAN POV ON SCREEN Dressed in her nude leotard, she begins practicing her craft. She runs through her positions, plies, etendres, relevers, glissers.

ALTERNATE VARIOUS VIEWS THROUGHOUT

CUT to SUSAN POV ON SCREEN And when she begins to sauter, in the mirror she notices her closet door slowly opening. She stops and looks to her desk.

CUT to DESK ON SCREEN Her CD player/boom box sits on the desk. She presses pause.

CUT to SUSAN ON SCREEN She approaches the closet.

CUT to SUSAN POV ON SCREEN She looks inside the closet.

CUT to LOWERED FF VIEW of SUSAN ON SCREEN She looks down into the dark closet. The tops of her shoes can be seen. She closes the door.

CUT to CU of SUSAN ON SCREEN  She turns around to head back to her desk.

 SUSAN

Hm.

FADE OUT

BLACK SCREEN

to be continued...

















In The Name of The Pentagram: A Witch's Grimoire Entry #1

I find myself in frequent need of a spiritual bath, floor wash or tea. I know most grimoires separate the three, but if a herbological solution can be used on the skin, it can be consumed. Do not be fooled Witches! Most Godmothers, Iyas, Coven Mothers or spiritual guides exploit the aspirant's need for remedy and milk you for your last penny. While no spiritual work is free, for the sake of honoring and appreciating the Source's energy, there's no need to make simples complicated. So the following recipe can and should be used for all that fall into the category of its title, big or small. Drink it! Dress your candles with it! (dry, of course) Bathe in it! If you can afford to do so, bathe in it daily! Put it in a spray bottle, spritz it! Remember, Witches, there's no such thing as little quantities doing large jobs when making a solution. There is no such thing as a splash of solution in mopping water spiritually cleansing the entire room. The water in the bucket dilutes it. So again, mop with it! You should smell it in the room. I use a half to a cup of each ingredient, depending on the size of my crockpot, and when it's gone, I simply make more. 

I purchase all of, or most of, my simples from Amazon.com. They sell large quantities for reasonable prices. They have nearly everything you'd need for a rootworking task. Do not be fooled by the bang for your buck! I have killed a large pesky demonic intruder with this recipe using Amazon products. But I'll blog about that later. When unpackaging, do so while hopeful and grateful. Meditate on your intentions for the spell while blending the dry leaves. If inclined, pray! (no matter your religion) I do so "In The Name of The Pentagram". Enjoy Pythonissam! 🤟🏾🧙🏽‍♀️🕯🔮🕯

BE GONE DEMONS
Rue - cleansing
Hyssop - cleansing
Sage - cleansing (crushed white sage leaves but crushed incense is useful while in a pinch)
Sweet Basil - self protection
Anise Star - strengthen spell's consciousness (booster)

The Tales of Diaspora: Chapter 1 - Discordant Affections, Part 1

“It’s pronounced Dee- ah-spor-ah”, I groaned while rubbing my temples. Three weeks into the semester and I must have corrected her about twelve times already. “My eccentric mother thinks we’re Hispanic or something", I followed up in quick witted self- defense. Deer in the headlight eyed, she recited my name back to me pain stakingly slow; just to efficaciously annoy me I suppose. Once she realized I wasn’t going to confirm her thirteenth attempt, she proceeded to confusedly take role of her half empty classroom. There’s a side of me that wants to ask how many students were originally enrolled, to better understand why she makes the most lost of faces, due to the lack of attendance. But, I refrain. Bewilderment suits her. No one cares about Yoruba Studies, Lady. That’s why no one is taking it, but me. Slowly perusing the room, coming to terms with just how many empty seats there are while considering just how much effort it took for her to prepare for the course, I begin to feel bad for her. I am literally one of six students present and the poor woman has to pronounce diaspora as dee-ah-spor-ah.

Seventy minutes, three crown orisha and twenty answered text messages later, I am forehead smooshed against the window of the six bus headed home. Eyes squinted, I cynically observe pedestrians laughing on their cell phones, and drivers with unbuckled toddlers in their backseats, questioning if they knew something about life that I didn’t. As for myself, Diaspora Taylor, I am still wondering where the hell my dignity went. “He doesn’t want you anymore Dia”, I remind myself for the one thousandth time, after sending twenty unanswered text messages. Twenty. Why do I feel like incessantly contacting him will win me some magical opportunity to be back in his life again? He looked me right in the eye and said that we were never serious. He also acknowledged for the first time that he was a married man. The sound of the words “my wife” were so foreign coming from his mouth, I almost questioned their origin, asked their definition and damn near thought I’d be expected to spell it back to him for some national prize.

Three years of eyeing one another at church services, “sheparding calls” when my mother wasn’t home, playing hookie from classes for day trips, just to have to swallow my pride and pain being reminded of his wife. She isn’t nearly as much of a godly woman as he is a man, so I only encountered her during seasonal church campaigns or fundraisers. Essentially, this made her no threat, granting us both peace of mind, and now, I’m sickened and he’s suddenly belligerent. I should have known better though. After all, Victor Jones was one of our congregation elders and a friend of my father. Former friend now, who knows? Three weeks after my dad split, I had a boyfriend, or so I thought.

After an approximate twenty one minute bus ride, walking six blocks and not one highly anticipated love letter in the mailbox later, I’m in the shower. With my head hanging shamefully low, I watch the water cascading off my head and down to my aching swollen feet. I need a car. Well, first, I need license. I need license to live again, if that’s what I had with a Victor, a life. I need license to let go, let go of someone I had no license to love in the first place. Then, I will be awarded the luxury of being able to drive my own vehicle, instead of being enslaved by loneliness and lack of understanding. 

Feeling only superficially clean and not nearly as renewed as I hoped for, I step out the shower and wipe the mirror to reveal the force of displacement. “I shall prevail”, my father’s motto softly echoing in the bathroom. And that’s what I shall do. I shall prevail the travail, combat compulsive communication and prepare for my tyrannical mother to get home.

Tyranny is the unjust use of governmental power. Due to my mother’s inclination to conjure misery in her own mind, she has the uncanny means of fostering a tumultuous household. This was mainly before my dad left us. Though I’m sure they loved one another very much at one point in time, I have no recollection of my parents ever being really happy together. I mean, how could they have been when one half of the team succumbs to two to three hours of screaming and crying fits that include calling  out my father and I for one on one verbal scrimmages based on events that happened more than a decade ago? In the last month alone, I had to twice soothe and reason with my forty-six year old mother as to why I wouldn’t let her kiss me in front of my friends in the schoolyard when she dropped me off when I was all of seven years old. Each time I made a point, she would obey the truculent orders of her demons to immediately find another trivial topic as to which she attributes her disproval of my entire existence. “Ignore her”, my father would counsel. I understood his easier said than done approach to my mother’s instability. He had less of a difficult time managing her.

My parents professed Christianity in its purest of forms. So on occasion her possession subsided long enough to allow her to be submissive and level headed. The scriptures don’t require that my parents take a back seat to my needs, as it does for children to do for them, so my attempts to heed my father’s admonition would result in being followed around the house and cornered in the hallways or in my bedroom, being called out my name and egged on to take the first blow on a unruly woman. This was a spiritual household, Christian! Where was the Holy of Holies? Are you there God? It is me, your Devotee. Whilest waiting for divine intervention from The One True God, I bestowed my inherited tribulation the title, The Tyrant.

Growing up my dad was the last to return home from work, which made me The Tyrant’s welcoming party. From the moment the wench would walk into the house, I swear, a fiery and tempestuous entity would mount her. Every day, she’d cross the threshold and resume whatever hurricane of a hissy fit that had her very large panties in a bunch the night before. Hello to you too, mother. I’m happy to see you too, mother.  Instead of a warm welcome, she'd systematically slam the front door and stomp up the stairs to find me minding my business in my room. 

Scowling, she would ask “Did you hear from your father today?” “Yes”, I’d reply, “he texted me earlier today asking about dinner. Everything okay?” I’d ask uncomfortably, wondering if I was unknowingly guilty of a transgression against her. Then the look of complete devastation would manifest on her face every time we had this exchange. Why on Earth did I insist on telling her the truth? “Dinner? Why didn’t he ask me? I plan the meals. You only cook them!” She’d shout pitifully. “Mom, I don’t know, you’d have to ask him.” “But, I’m his wife!” She’d scream at the top of her lungs, usually leading to hyperventilation. 

By the time, she starts to pant during her episodes, I’m usually deathly afraid to make any sudden movements. It was always clear that these problems predated myself. I wouldn't know what to say to the woman, his woman, not mine, except: “Mom, I’m sorry”. “I know you’re sorry Diaspora, you’re just a sorry person. I’m sorry I even had you. I should have just aborted your sorry ass”, she’d rebuttal cryingly, then abruptly leaving my room, slamming my bedroom door behind her. I’d hear her deranged muttering as she’d make her way to her bedroom.  After creeping to my closed and too afraid to make physical contact between it and my ear, I'd suddenly hear, “Fuck you both! Fuck you, Dia! Fuck your father! Fuck this house! I should just kill myself! AAAHHH!”

Whoa, this has nothing to do with me Lady, call your husband.

Occult Observations: Grokking Harshaw's "Hanky Panky"

"Front!", he hollers, and very quickly, one of his three live in assistants runs to his side to grant his every wish. While Jubal E. Harshaw, attorney, medical doctor and neo-pessimistic philosopher, was no believer in divine beings let alone genies, it was no hindrance on his self- righteous claim to a Hugh Heffner-esque lifestyle of "hanky panky". A crucial character in Robert A. Heinlein's A Stranger in a Strange Land, Harshaw not only supervised the care and experimentation of The Man From Mars, but represented the demographic of educated, very well paid, prominent and renown men. The class of men who are well read and connected that have opted to value and explore the physical rather than the spiritual. Because He decided that God doesn't exist or care, he can watch a human being raised and metaphysically educated on the planet Mars send the animate and inanimate alike into a death sentence of oblivion, levitate these objects, even curl his body while simultaneously bringing all of his bodily functions to all but a complete stop just to be able to dedicate all of his energy to meditation, and still question whether or not God exists.

I wasn't surprised at Harshaw's agnosticism, though. I once dated an US Airman of the same neo-pessimistic philosophy. Only, these men reason on their life's sorrows in the most self-exonerating fashion and build their rhyme and reason of the world around the concept that they can do and therefore have done no wrong. This leads to the arrogant nature that causes them to look down on everyone. If the individual is simple, meaning easy to please or entertain, then he is stupid and can not possibly know all that He has reasoned on and can not lead the life of the strong. For example, his temporary fourth addition to his all American harem, Jill Boardman, was a nurse in a Federation Hospital, the only one who could dedicate her time to the social rearing of The Martian and did so flawlessly in her birthright as Woman, yet suffered Jubal's indignant nature at the thought of a woman doing so for a man as if he had the mental patience to do it better. He scorned her for implementing the ritual of washing and dressing after a swim and accused her of some terroristic pursuit of transforming The Martian into "a copy of every fourth rate conformist with a briefcase". Later the agnostic calls Boardman and all her gender a gift of "God's graciousness" to men of course, yet demeans her for her "Bible Belt morality". The neo-pessimist philosopher must have missed the discovery of Lucy, supporting the concept that before The Father, was The Mother.

Agnosticism is the questioning of the existence of God. When attempting to explain religion and who or what the concept of God is to The Man from Mars, Jubal grasped for straws in his explanation. Not because Mike would not grok if he gave a revealing dissertation, but because Harshaw himself could not define the word. After groping for what he felt would be an appropriate response he essentially left it to criminal church leaders to explain and expose the meaning of "God". Jubal went on to epitomize the theory that arrogance denotes ignorance when he philosophized, silently, that "sperm whales" and "sequoias"  were greater than humans as philosophers and poets and goes on to say that "Man is the animal who laughs". Well, dolphins, dogs and monkeys all laugh Doctor Harshaw, and unless your on a hallucinogen, I am more than certain that you don't speak whale and trees are silent. Man is, in fact, the animal capable of developing philosophy and poetry. I beg The Man from Mars, who was not allowed to socially separate himself from mankind by referencing Martians as "his people", to repose the question to the well read political socialite, "What is Man?".

Jubal did redeem himself though, in all my omniscient wisdom as Witch, when he advocated Mike's sexual exploration. Jill sought to protect his innocence, even down to withholding naked pictures sent in his fan male. Jubal wisely said that eventually Mike would meet the woman in the picture (if she wanted him bad enough) or one of her spiritual sisters. Very true, it is unhealthy and even sinful for adults of either gender to be restricted from sexual relations. It is what is needed for the proper psychological transition into adulthood and to remain there. Both are incapable of leading a relationship or pursuing secular heights without the innate confidence bestowed upon you when being honored and gifted with someone else's naked body against your own. You have proven to yourself and It that you are capable of It's equation that one plus two equals three. It is required for survival. You can be here. Take Mike for example, he made love to all the women in the house and later told Jubal that he was no longer in need of his care and was leaving immediately, and taking Jill with him, completely disregarding that Jill was essentially engaged to another man. She became is consistent mate on the path of immorality.

Though he would not and therefore did not argue with The Martian, who now knew what it meant to be a Man, I am sure Harshaw did not appreciate the disruption to his Kingdom. He had previously treated Mike the way he did women. They were all capable and necessary but could not be treated but could not be treated as such. And they were too sweet and innocent to notice. For instance, he did not take the time that a client's attorney should to explain money to Mike and what would be done with his hundreds of millions that hine inherited. It became Harshaw's money the way he passed it out at an alarming rate without Mike consultation. He belittled Mahmoud for being Muslim when he approached his household the same way. His character, though staunch opposed to traditional organized religion, still possessed the socio-religious nature of the men of his class. Socialite men, usually Caucasian, function much like Muslim men, both Black and Arabic. They prefer the respect and praise given for meeting all of the superficial requirements flawlessly while fearing the depths of the spiritual or metaphysical opportunities availed to you. They have their rituals and talismans, statues and cultural lingo for that strong pat on the back from their fellow man. While they all work hard to "stay on their dean" (I probably spelled that incorrectly) or to remain "in the state of Islam", Mike has proven that you can have the powerful capabilities of God on Earth while still striking the deadly blow in the bedroom and having the money to do anything your heart desires. You don't lose anything by prioritizing your spirituality.

I must admit though, I am a little disappointed my water brother lost his virginity. I wanted to take it from him properly. I wanted him to grok the fullness. We art God, Michael. Agape.

"I Don't Care!"

The 2001 Sony Entertainment Pictures production, America's Sweethearts was a childhood and family favorite. The premise involved a celebrity acting couple that after an approximate decade or more suffers a terrible break up leaving the husband, Eddie, in psychiatric rehab, mourning the loss of his love, Gwen. Instead of the prescribed three months inside, his money and mourning paid for more than a year's stay at the oasis. To his misfortune, profit and popularity trends disturbed his peace and meditation and he was enticed into leaving, causing him separation anxiety. He later sits in the limousine, with a lap full of high quality herbs, wearing sun glasses, reciting his mantras and growing closer in conversation with his limousine driver, one of the first human interactions he had encountered since his release. He then became perturbed by the spontaneous parking on their way to the late movie premiere and the tapping on his window by an assistant. Begrudgingly, he rolls down the window and is bombarded with what he felt were irrelevant questions with obvious answers that his mental or emotion strain could not entertain. He resorts to the only logical solution of throwing the herbs at the female assistant screaming "I don't care!", repeatedly as he then rolled up his window.

Relating greatly to Eddie's emotional attachment to the detachment of the loony bin, I resound to my life's inadvertent and therefore inevitable controversy with a loud proud, "I don't care!". Life tests my self-esteem, self-awareness, path, intelligence, imagination and physical capabilities, strategically and what seems to be pointlessly. I have reason, so why should my hardships? So I flip the bird, swear, and reject all notions of Universe's dominance over my existence to the point of extremism, even urinating and expectorating in the streets, highly anticipating in-patience. I could care less about being teased or labelled or the stigmas of those labels. I've been called crazy every day since beginning my menstrual cycle at twelve. After all, I am Artist, therefore, I am God.

On this overly critical path where even babies in strollers "are looking at me and judging me, the whole world is judging me", I refuse to contradict anyone's opinion of or desires for me. Think what you want, feel how you want, scheme and plan all you want because you all are "totally nutths". I mean, Hell! "I can't even enjoy my chower", when I get to take one! Where's the loony bin?

If I dont 301 myself before your next half witted practical joke of a hardship, I'll will be forced to pour a skillet of hot scrambled eggs in the next "man"'s lap screaming that "I'm sick of all the buuullshit!". That is, as soon as I manage to find a stove and skillet, or a home with a kitchen for that matter. I declare, with the utmost confusion of the highly intelligent trapped amongst the masses of barking microscopic infusions "You're the Devil" you stupid arrogant asshole! Dare one more time that you dont know whether or not to go through with our agreement or "to just hand me the divorce papers" and I'll go flying through your window on a motorcycle as you sit at the sill. Then, I'm a psychopath and you're in danger. Then, call 911 you shivering midget "bathdard". I wouldn't care about you if you were contemplating suicide from the rooftop of an outdoor event, because you need one last attempt for attention and sympathy. "Puthy boy gonna go splat". Though, I'd be up there too, just to be alone and think. Only, you'd claim it were some non existent occasion where a Black American was a terrorist.

Hold the paddy wagon boys and the fake news actors, this isn't a terrorist attack to report on. I can take myself to the crisis center. I'll take the drugs while I wait on herbs and mantras.

The Rogue Angel: Entry #3

"Governess, may I walk with Deity to her chambers? Her sentence has me out of sorts and I fear it will misdirect future manifestations." Tabby asked in her sweetest voice. Her loose brunette ringlets slowly danced in the air, as they were unaffected by gravity. Every member of the coven, from the age of five, spends five years under the governance of a particular element in order to master it, while concurrently taking General Education courses, both magickal and profane. Tabby rose in Air but her Moon is in Earth. So though Tabby's third round of governance landed her in Mastering Fire, Terra was particularly fond of the young Earth Witch and highly anticipated her future governance over her fellow Earthling. 

"What a clever claim Earth Witch. You're two years from the completion of your Third Element Mastery. Even during your eighteenth year, your focus is flawless." Terra responded, portraying offense, as she personally was incapable of avoiding bias with other Earthlings. She caved, as Tabby knew she would. "Walk with your sister." The girls, Deity, Tabby and Terra alike, giggled and walked down the corridor.

"You know Deity, my Second Element Mastery was torture. Twelve year old girls are mean. For an entire year, all I was reminded of was that my father was not of House Diana and that I'm the daughter of an excommunicated witch whore! For all I know, only half of my conjuring was magick. So you shouldn't chafe at being a demon child." She playfully said to Deity in her spookiest witch's voice. Terra, following close behind the students, grinned.
"That's the best you've got girl? Shame to your Social Segregation professor. The profane wont be terrified of you at all." Terra chucked admiringly.

"I'll be sure that Professor Olla knows she's failing me. She'll be thrilled." Tabby said sassily and then returned her attention to Deity. "So you see, you aren't as bad off as I am. There's no reason for shame."

"You could have found out who your father is, Tabby and be rid of your shame. Don't run from divination. Anyway, you're too powerful to come from profane blood. I consider you no half breed." Deity said maintaining high spirits. They were seconds away from reaching her chamber, when her solitude and sentence would resume.

"Thank you, my truest friend. Magick knows I miss being your roommate. I hate that your wandering and wings separated us." Tabby said as they approached the chamber door that was cloaked from ceiling to floor in a black cloud of negativity that evidence Deity's sentence. 

The three froze outside of the room and silenced as a thin black hazy hand inched from the spell, seeking the presence of trespassers. It caressed Tabby's face and she immediately went red in her round face and experienced a full body paralysis that left her eyes in wide and bloodshot and quickly leaking large tears. A chill came over Deity as the energy began to draw her body near the door. Tabby attempted speech and produced a spine chilling stutter. "W-w-why is s-s-she doing this to you Deity?!" She cried out in horror.

"Enough!" cried Terra, "Tabatha you have no business here and it's been made clear." With swiftness Terra removed her Earthy wand, struck and freed Tabatha from the spell that was beginning to swallow her. "Be gone, child, and do not return until your sister has triumph. Beseech the Universe that she does." Tabby backed away from her bestfriend, not wanting to leave her side and forced to break eye contact to turn and flee. Deity's fear set in as she watched Tabby's cloak fly behind her as she did. She turned to her governess for mercy. 

"Governess please! I don't know why they are always so harsh with me! Save me Terra!" She screamed as the spell's pull on her demonic body increased with the removal of the trespasser. Nearly shivering and fighting tears of her own, Terra waved her wand in the air, in standard choreography. It danced an energy summons and she spoke her will.

"Aether interius Terris, Deus interuis corporis" she then pointed her weapon to the ground beneath them. "Servus meus es tu. Puer guide in salutem." The Earth beneath the title floor shot upward under what was once Deity's door, breaking and freeing Deity from the spell and opening the doorway by several feet. Terra stepped back with her left foot and then shot her wand at Deity. With "intra cubiculum", the Earth slide Deity into her bedroom. 

The two witches stood on opposite sides of the opening, staring at one another. Terra jerked her head upward and chest outward, instructing Deity to do the same. "The Coven Parents are afraid you Child." With her governess' rare honesty, Deity broke. She screamed and cried as the ground beneath her still crumbled.

"Who am I?" 

Terra raised and danced her wand and groaned in disgust in her lack of discretion. She vomited her final fateful words,
"The Lofty Chosen of Darkness". She pointed her wand and Deity's bedroom, the flooring and the black spell of isolation and pain were restored. Terra stood staring at the black haze over the door.

"Ego semper pythonissam".

In the suite of The Coven Parents, the century old witch and her wizard husband forty years her senior were dressing to retire for the evening. The wizard sat in a plush red velvet robe with a glass of wine and listened ever so intently to his wife complain about the current generation of the coven children. Sharp daggers were thrown about their deviation but The Coven Father didn't waste his precious energy to introduce to his wife to the idea of innovation and progress. They have raised their coven since his mother in law was captured and murdered by profane hands fifty years ago. As a new generation of Coven Parents themselves, they had an unrelenting need to preserve the reputation of the school and home left to them. So he allowed her to vent and scheme. When his wife took a breath, he interjected.

"Dear..." he said lovingly. He received no response as she continued to oil her hands while staring at herself, seated at her vanity. Her husband swooned under the influence of his red wine and his wife's scent of lavender and rose. "Sabrene, My Love, what's truly bothering you?" Immediately The Coven Mother ceased oiling herself and looked off the into the distance, listening. 

"Sshh..." she began, "Do you hear that Gustav?" 

Her husband sipped and rejected the notion, "Leave an old wizard alone, it doesn't speak to me the way it used to or ever as well as it did with you. What was said?" Sabrene jumped up and grabbed her robe, "Put some pants on Love, we have company."

The Coven Mother went to their chamber doors and opened it before Olga, The Water Governess and Professor of Divination, Necromancy and English Literature could knock. The Coven Mother's countenance tightened as she looked into the dutiful eyes of Olga. "So, it's true?" asked The Coven Mother. Olga nodded, "Yes Dear Coven Mother, it is true and she fled, leaving a written confession and apology to the coven". Olga handed The Coven Mother the letter left on Terra's bed. The Coven Mother shouted at the insult, "You won't know regret nor remorse until you cool from hellfire, Traitor!"

Angrily, The Coven Father approached his wife from behind, closing the chamber door in Olga's face. "Compose yourself Witch. What has possessed you? Ive heard our news. The whispers were calm. Why aren't you My Love. This wont your first execution. So don't shame your mother's name with hysterics. The traitor will be hunted and burned. The House of Diana will see to it." He kissed his diabolical wife that he loved more than magick itself and caressed her lower back. "She signed our agreement in blood. Foolish Earth Witch. Never taking a single vow with The Underworld was her greatest mistake." The couple smiled gratified in their truth and tenderly kiss again. Their lips part and Sabrene giggles, "She'll be tortured for all eternity. Light magick has never saved a soul". Kristoph looked longingly into his wife's villainous black eyes. 

"Your hatred is most becoming My Darling". 

Sabrene smiled sinfully, disrobed, backed towards and climbed into their bed.

"Possess me you malicious bastard".

Occult Observations: The Black Cat by Edgar Allan Poe

"Who has not, a hundred times, found himself committing a vile or a stupid action, for no other reason than because he knows he should not ?" In The Black Cat, Poe gave a very telling,yet, non Catholic confession to his nature as a man of fire and lust. It is even more telling, to those of a different nature, to reveal that the strategy is mainly to break or disrespect morality. It can be a compelling or attractive quality to those of the opposite sex seeking to have a traditional good time, playing with the "bad boy". But this does not read as the most idealistic state of being for those living such lawlessness first hand. Poe goes on to say, "Have we not a perpetual inclination, in the teeth of our best judgment, to violate that which is Law, merely because we understand it to be such? This spirit of perverness..." Much like the little boy reigning in his parents' household with fire and fury, shaming his mother and worshipping the father who leaves in search of greener pastures, Poe describes killing a dog simply because it loved him. The dog's lack of desire to attack or kill his master is what lead his Master to kill him.

The Sun, Shango, Zeus, Jesus, Hades, Had, no matter what you call the power of the element of fire, it only respects that which who knows, promotes, promises and does eventually put him out. Poe goes on to explain that his desire to kill the weaker vessel was his initiation into demonic terror. After also killing a black cat, which may or may not be to his recollection, he realized that his existence was symbolized by his poorly chosen victim. The light of historic gods of fire have been always paralleled to black cats and self destructive behavior. Shango's debauchery leading to him hanging himself, The Lord's desire for a street gang and traveling magic show and staunch opposition to the government, leading to his execution and Poe's thirst for excitement by means of murder lead to his downfall as did his predecessors. He later goes on to murder his wife, who innocently and ignorantly pandered to his sexual perversions and used surprising masonic skill to bury her in the basement wall. Like all men descending from Fire, the black cat appears when he has reached his fate. In Poe's case, his drunken-like demonic rage influenced his arrogance when he invited the police into his home and taunted them as they searched for his missing wife. And while audaciously reveling in what he thought would be his victory, his blackened feline murder victim reappears in the basement and screeches in the direction of the Mrs. Poe hidden body.

I, that which who knows, promotes, promises and does eventually put him out, would have told him not to do it. Or at least, I would have told him how do it. But who am I?

The Rogue Angel Entry #2

"Up. Down. Up. Down.", Deity whispered softly as her wings abliged in synchronicity. She sat on the floor of her quarters, sulking her predicament. The spell on her window allowed for energy to enter but not exit for ventilation and light, but the energy proof glass left her feeling hopeless.
"And this was just compensation?", she asked staring over at it. She twirled a wand in her right hand like a baton, and was then startled but a sudden rattling, girling, and then high pitched screetching. She whipped her attention over to the door.
"Damn."
She knew the door would never open as the wall containing it and the floor beneath her began to shake. She immediately hovered mid air. Through the rush of adrenaline, she struggled to mind the lack of head space above her in the small chamber and keeping her eye out for the work she had been asking for. Bang! She hit her head once as a burst of black energy entered the room. She tried to remain off the ground as he entered on all fours. Nerve wrecking excitement at it's new surroundings and in search of a playmate that would end up his meal for the afternoon, the demon surveyed the chamber.
Nearly hyperventilating, Deity pointed her wand.
"I swear on all things Masculine and Feminine, I'll kill you and condemn you back to hell Asmodeus!" She screamed at the top of her lungs. She had studied him well in Demology but never worked with or against him. Her arm now trembling from pointing the wand she doubted would assist in doing the job that she claimed it would, hoping to inspire fear and therefore an easier battle. The demon was more wolf and man then gremlin, a fearsome hybrid, product of conjurational experimentation in Hell and but one term of an eternal contract with The Underworld for the sake of war and education. Asmodeus rose to his feet, as he made and refused break eye contact. From floor to crown, he stood at five feet and one inch, only four inches shorter than Deity. He gave a small, self gratifying growl and on all our fours, took to the wall opposite Deity. She screamed in horror and she made evasive maneuvers, still pointing her wand. Scaling the far wall, jumping over the window and across the ceiling he approached his opponent.

Deity was raised in the ways of light and was sentenced to battle with darkness due to her insisting to practice, but she lacked all the necessary training. Light magick, or white, was beneficial for protection, healing, wealth, creation, and self defense. But there was nothing that her Governess,Terra, nor her professors had instructed her in that would prepare her to destroy a hellish novelty like Asmodeus, at least, none that she could remember at the time. The Coven Father couldn't have chosen a smaller gremlin? But as Deity, dipped, swerved and failed in timing when casting a containment spell to freeze the demon in place so that she could devise a plan for his destruction, she thought of the entity that gave her access to her wings when she ran away a was lost in The Woods of Whims overnight. When he found her, he  never named himself but claimed kinship to the Lord Hades and informed her of her angelic birthright. He casted a spell that left her dormant, waking with a severe ache in her third eye and across her entire back from which her wings painfully emerged over the following twenty four days. Deity spoke no Greek and her Latin needed improvement but she trusted her natural precociousness for manifestation and called on Lord Hades.

Every time she uttered the name Hades, Asmodeus would pause, as if anticipating the Lord's arrival, waiting a second or two and would resume his pursuit. At the fourth utterance of the name her outstretched right arm froze, dropping her wand. Her hand opened and waved across the path of Asmodeus. He flew to the far right, hitting the wall and falling to the floor. A slight pressure cloaked her mind as someone whispered to her from within. She identified the foreign language as Greek. As Asmodeus shook off the blow, Deity slowly began to panic from the language barrier. Exchanging weapons, her left hand then rose and in a louder volume the voice ordered "Strike!". Deity's palm felt warm as reddish electric energy shot from it. As Asmodeus dodged the blow, her outstretched palm moved along his path, "Follow!". When her aim was centered, it spoke again, "Strike!", and her heated energy would leave her body and fire against her enemy. Asmodeus was hit once when the wall opened revealing The Coven Mother.
"That's enough!", she shouted. Asmodeus was pulled from the room, scraping and scratching at the floor. Once he was pulled back into the darkness from whence he came, a heavily breathing Coven Mother adjusted her husband's sentence. "We do not have contracts for your license, I mean," shaking her head and dismissing the thought, "your nonsense. The Coven Father would have stopped the contention at the first minor injury and released you from the additional battles. Calling upon Lord Hades, Child, I have had enough of these strange happenings. Never in our coven's three centuries have we encountered such a..." The coven mother was abruptly interrupted and stormed out closing the wall behind her. Deity, now grounded, stared in disbelief at the The Coven Father's matching her with any entity as powerful as Asmodeus and allowing for an injury.
"I wont steal again, Mother", Deity said sorrowfully as her place with her coven parents became clear. She couldn't trust The Father anymore than she could The Mother and would have preferred to be trapped in a cavern wall.

She had a little more than twenty four hours until Beltane. In her twelve hours of detainment, she slaughtered, gutted and pieced her offering. After battling Asmodeus, she became surprised that the mess was removed from the room. How kind!

"How the hell am I supposed to offer the goat alone this is small room without training in fire to contain it? Is he trying to kill me?" Her chamber door opened and there stood Terra. Deity rose and stood before her. "Governess?" Terra looked at her proudly, head a little higher than usual and chest puffed. "You may attend dinner with your coven Child". Hungry and tired from newly discovered energy, Deity was grateful at the announcement. But she had not seen so much pride in her Governess and she had just aced her final in Alchemy 102. Deity could only imagine what secret to her sentence she was missing. But divination would have to wait. She was being left to the devices of her sisters.

Deity played with her biscuit, overlooking her chicken breast and garden salad. It didn't matter that the basil and cilantro on both enchanted her senses. This evening, her herbological favorites and their magical benefits paled in comparison to her anxiety. They all sat five to a table. A large coven of witches, in place for over three hundred years. Only one hundred lived In House but there are nearly one thousand of House Vulcan, a coven priding itself on the accurate duplication of all signature magic of The Ancients. There isn't a world empire whose sorcery could not be studied and perfected in House Vulcan. They had forged the greatest witches and sorcerers of the last three centuries. Deity sat where she typically did, at Earth, Tabatha, her bestfriend at Fire, Catherine at Water, Berretta at Air and Theresa at Ether; an assignment according to governance.

"Deity, you're running out time for supper. Where's that beastly appetite to which we've all grown accustomed?" Beretta asked, giggling. "Leave her alone Retty", added Tabatha as she looked consolingly at Deity, "I don't think it was fair that you went up against Asmodeus alone either. My fire magic couldn't have done me any justice on my own without additional help from my governess and The Coven Parents have forbade you from learning it. Eat up sweetheart, who knows what you'll be up against later."

"Do you think The Coven Father wants me dead?" Deity asked without looking up from her plate. Catherine, the eldest at the table wiped her mouth very authoritavely and threw her napkin to the table. "You're elemental magic is strong enough without fire. You needn't insult the coven with your doubt. You've done well and you will continue to do so. Get through your sentence and wipe those sticky fingers clean, Witch."

"Ha!" Theresa gave way. "Vos autem non pytonissam. Piger puella. Alienus et non idoneos transfertus." Deity looked at Theresa angrily. She may have struggled with her accent and her writing but her Latin comprehension was flawless. Theresa had to ground to say she wasn't a witch. Neither was she lazy or a little girl. But to call her an outcast and unfit, well that was a blow for which Deity was unprepared.

"Scio quid dicas Theresa, leave me alone. Now is not the time for blasted quipping, Coven Sister" Deity shot back.

"Non soror mea est" Theresa said.

"Now that's enough Theresa, she has been and always will be our sister" said Retty, uncomfortable and irritated with Theresa's frankness. "Ego adaptatus", added Deity, still self defensive and proving her case. "We know you were adopted Deity you dont have to prove yourself this way", said Tabatha. "Et accepit sum" Deity said, turning to Tabatha. 

"False, but you will be accepted once again, after your sentence. Theresa has a point Coven Sister" gave Catherine.

Condescendingly, Theresa continued, "de daemonium and now a repeated violator of Coven Law. We learn how to annihilate lawless demons of your kind in The School of Fire, a craft that I began to master at 10 years old. You were excluded from it for this very reason. They should have sent a sister to your chambers, Demon."

"As if my Earth magic would have failed her. Your sister conjured a Lord of the Underworld this afternoon and He did not fail her either. And The Coven Father has negotiated her next opponent with Lord Hades, now that He vouches for her use of His element. It will be a fair fight. Threaten her again, Child, and you'll be on Trial faster than you sneak into the wizards dormatory", Terra said as she stood behind Deity.  Just then the end of supper bell rang and the coven dispersed back to their respective quarters. Deity needed to rest before her next battle, but gave way to tears of gratitude at the blessing to use the element the element of fire. Her hope of attaining The Pentagram was not lost.

Illusion of Karma

Self-esteem is an illusion, designed as a trap by the Universe.
There is no law.
There is no rhyme nor reason.
We can not accomplish our dreams nor our goals.
That also is an illusion.
Our reality is that we will never find what it is that we are seeking.
Burn the map.
Heroes or role models are con artists and liars.
Your fate will always be in the hands of the one that hates you the most.
Give in!
Submit!
Die!
We can do nothing.
There is no I.
There is no sanctuary.
There is no hope.
Faith is pointless.
Trust is illogical.
Love is fruitless.
Mask!
Mask!
Mask!
They can not shame you if you shame yourself.
Do not love I.
I is your detriment, your enemy.
Die!
Do not believe.
Do not hope.
But most importantly, do not wish.
Their love is opposite.
Their language is silent.
Their strength is in your weakness.
Die!
Sense has no sense.
Love is loveless.
Wooing is for the crook.
Submission is for the lover.
Do not want.
Do not pursue.
Do not work.
Do not try.
It is for the dead.
There is no such thing or land as Opportunity.
Your fate is in the hands of the one that hates you the most.
Stupidity is gold.
Intelligence is death.
Die!
Speech begets death.
Spirit and the pursuit thereof begets trials and tribulations.
Do not read.
Do not write.
Do not listen.
Do to watch.
Do not believe.
Die!
Do not hope for the best.
Karma is dead!!!!!
No one lays victim to her.
She does not exist.
Do not hope for her.
Do not call to her.
She has no line of communication to thee!
Master nothing!
Craft does not exist.
Work is not Great.
Triumph is the hope of children.
Know that no one is keeping score.
Victory is random.
There are not chosen.
Let no one change a word nor exclude it.
Champion is a lie.
Honor, a lie.
Respect, a lie.
Destroy.
Loyalty is a lie.
Peace is a lie.
War is God.
Spoils are spoils.
To have is to win.
Fame is a lie.
Mightiness is the possession of the weak.
Power is the unspoken.
Pain is the unspoken.
Hardships are the unspoken.
Know me, know we, by what is not said.
Die!

The Testimony of The Wenchy Witch of Unworthiness

I have this habit of thinking too much.
I give, offer and host far too often.
I cater to the weaker minds while honoring the more advanced.
Surprisingly enough, this approach to human interaction never results in much praise, respect or recognition for myself.
Despite this, I have this uncanny ability to be oppressed until payment.
The incapable are never enslaved, or what I should say, introduced to intentions conspicuous enough to elude to it.
I can't seem to fathom, nor do I have the courage, to divine why I and It see it fit that this is my path in life.
Why won't I be allowed to show up, prove through exemplary action and receive reward and compensation upon doing so?
Why must all those allowed by It to cross my path in an authoritative state first beat me due to hidden insecurity as a master's Master, and when he or she is finally worn and I am somehow still standing, per their confusion, be rewarded a settlement?
Regardless of their education or degree, I still encounter this odd quality of human behavior and the more mortal, the worse.

To hell with The Master!
He's gained his whip only by vote of popularity, an indication of his own profanity.
Judge the orange that has fallen into my hands by means of gravity alone without envy, Master!
There's no room for bias while a man's life is left to trial!
I can only maintain to be myself, truly.
But in the Court of Universal Law, for Heaven's sake, dedicate a trial room in my honor, since I must be present so often.

I confess, Your Honor.
I am no Whore, pandering to the weaknesses of those present down here as prey and prey alone.

No, Your Honor, I see no benefit in spouting deceit for amusement of myself or others. It takes much less energy to reveal the truth of the matter and let it go. The casting of demise that is done athletically by those of my peers is done by letting the recipient of the truth digest what has taken place, in their due time, while I remain free from my peers' karmic compensation.

I also confess, Your Honor, beautiful women are not the ones ugly on the inside. Please wipe the faces of your lying, Whorish natured of love interests and administer anesthesia especially designed for phallic use and come to the awareness of an spiritually educated man; that you mistook large eyes and a suspiciously available vagina as an Universal sign of beauty and worthiness. After all, Your Honor, she can fathom, name and receive a monetary price.

No, Your Honor, I did not pursue this brutal path and therefore this very trial, where my life lays in your hands, as mortal as my own, trembling from the brink of spontaneous evolution for the sake of survival in order to procure and secure a man of money, fame or otherwise. Believe It or not, I was reared better than that.

No, Your Honor, I don't feel like the most attractive woman in the room based on looks, personality or spirituality, but I'd gladly request that you try the Whore and or her John that claims that I do. And if you see it fit, have me question them both, Your Honor. Because the equal and opposite of a Gold Digging Whore is a Huntress of a Wife With Her Own Mine and I'd wager my favor with the jury that I'd find her guilty of envy of my Way and him guilty of submitting to his base need for fruit, no matter the caliber of who offers.

I will eat from my settlement, only this time with honor.

Before you come to a verdict, Your Honor, on the grounds of my worthiness as a Witch, consider my past, Your Honor.
Product of my environment or restriction thereof, I have no choice but to stand strongly, proudly, mightily, courageously and unperverted in my chosen ways of righteousness until the guillotine drops.

I am militant, without political initiation.
I am religious without baptism.
I am protected outside of wedlock and if the court be so bold as to protect a lesser magician over myself, my Executioner better hope my ghost has no interest in his dreams and that of his children.


That is all.

The Rogue Angel : Entry #1

She sat quietly in her a chair in the coven courtroom, on trial, listening intently, though her legs were spread shoulder width apart, elbows resting upon her knees, fingers interlocked and eyes fixed to the floor and as usual wings lowered, crossed, covering her rear end.

"For heavens sake, have the due respect of a child and appear before me humbled", barked The Coven Mother.

Deity, pronounced as one would Aphrodite, was accustomed to browbeatings on the weekly and at times daily basis. She trembled in anger knowing the expectation was to hold her tongue but her being would not withstanding the beating, at least, that's what It told her so through her nervous disruption. She spoke the truth.

"If you had wings you wouldn't feel so disrespected by the mere sight of me, Mother." Coven Mother immediately rose to her feet.

"What on Earth did your audacity just utter child?" She points condemningly to Deity. "You're wings are a sign of unholiness, rebel, and you would not have them were it not for your tendency to wander to dark places unattended by your Governing Witch!"

"She doesn't feel a need for my governance Dear Mother. We worship and work with those who look like she", interjected her governess, Terra. The Coven Mother made note and sat slowly.

"Granted", added Coven Mother, "but you were instructed at the time of her infantile discovery that she should be kept away from such things and raised in only the ways and morality of The Light Craft."

"Which Terra has done unfailingly Love", added The Coven Father, a scarce contribution to such matters. He adored Deity, secretly. One of four wizards to a coven of one hundred, he fathered Deity despite his wife's belligerent approval of the coven's adopting her when she was found in the woods alone, unswaddled, undiapered, unfed and crying at three months old.

"Keep The Pact of Coven Peace and disguise your flight", The Coven Father added. Deity unbagged and put on her hooded cloak, then sits erect, staring fiercely at The Coven Mother. The Coven Mother would have saw it fit to change her name upon her adoption and would have done so in a Catholic fashion if “Deity” weren't tattooed on the nape of the infant's neck at the highest of her spinal cord. If it weren't for the fervent effortf of The Coven Father to honor It and The Pentagram, The Coven Mother would be administering weekly and some times daily lectures of respect and submission, concluding verdicts and sentencing to a Mary or Prudence or better yet, Agnes.

"So she has, pardon the accusation Governess", The Coven Mother continued, "But Terra, you know the child best,"

"I will be 18 this Summer Equinox", interrupted Deity.

"Silence Child!", yelled The Coven Father. He turned to his wife to finish the sentencing. 

The verdict was ruled that Deity was guilty of unauthorized access and usage to and of magickal chambers, potions and utensils, which counted as charges of theft, totaling eight; five potions, one goat, a pocket knife and chalk. Deity began her silent treatment once informed that the charge for chalk was valid. And one charge of conspiracy, conjuring her angelic family of birth was forbidden.

"Again, Governess, you know the child best. Which punishment suits her?"

Deity assumed her original slouch in her chair and rolled her lowered head over to have her Governess in sight. The common courtesy of looking at the defendant during judgement was not returned. Deity supposed it didn't matter that sixteen of twenty four hours were spent under Terra’s supervision, when she wasn't instructing, because now, Terra won't bother to look her in the eye.

"The child hates my natural magic. Earth Magick is her least favorite and therefore her weakest subject. I recommend the brigs of the lower caverns. She'd struggle to escape for awhile. I estimate that we'd only have seventy hours between her imprisonment and her being trapped in a cavern wall. Then it's a death sentence Covern Mother. I am displeased with her trouble making but I dont want the child to die Mother", humbly adds Terra, finally looking at Deity.

"Nor do I", adds their Coven Father. Coven Mother sighs, discouraged with her options or lack thereof.

"My Lord, what are we to do with the child?", she asks her spouse of seventy five years. The Coven Father eyes the coven's prized possession, though it was unbeknownst to Deity. He sighs and twiddles his thumbs. With his chin to his chest he nods and then looks to Deity, “Ninety six hours in her personal chambers,"

"Ninety six hours?", yells Deity.

"Yes, deviant, ninety six hours", he says as a matter of fact, now rectifying his posture, "and now with no rations." Deity's confusion met with sensed betrayal made her stomach turn. Coven Father notices, "You're plump enough Child, you can afford it. Closing Off rituals every hour for the escape artist and visits by the Gremlin every twelve, since she must work so fervently. And the guilt of shaming fire and all that Is by absence at Beltane."

"Absence at Beltane? Lord Father, please", pleaded Deity, "My sisters wont let me forget it and who knows what fire will withhold from me for negligence."

"Good", he adds, "but, you can keep all that you've stolen. Practice in your chamber."

"I can't start a fire to offer a goat in my room and control it, Father. The chamber is too small."

"Figure it out Sorceress, and Happy Beltane", he quips.

Coven Mother is pleased enough by the sentence. "Then, Happy Beltane Child. Adjourned."

The Coven Father eyes the defendant sternly and finalizes emphatically. "Adjourned."

To Expectorate At This Rate: A Witch's Divinatory Record Entry #2

May 20, 2019

I know, I am about two weeks late on interpreting my most recent divinatory device of disgust. Truthfully, I had no idea of what to say. What could I say? I smoked a cigar, well, a cigarillo, at Pico and La Brea around midnight, watched and spit at the bitterness before my eyes, even more bitter than the herb I smoked and disgust from the colony of roaches running midnight errands. A Witch can't honor and offer her vessel for pleasant overwrite by The Ancestors in peace.

Expectorant accumulated and gravity did what it thought to do as I noticed the pile beginning to run but was distracted by two homeless men yelling and fighting across the street in the 711 parking lot. Moments later, I looked back down by my right foot and there was an ejaculating penis in the Witch's Tree of Life. Yes, I consort by honoring the Lord, Masculinity, Fire, Lust and Business as often and certain as the Sun rises in the East and mourn the absence of it's physical manifestation in my life as sure as He sets in the West. I Am Witch but no Lesbian. But no, Shango, I will not conceive a second time unmarried. Put a condom on. Grok it.

- The Huntress