The Honey Witch

by Sydney J. Shields

She sometimes wonders if she is even human, often feeling a stronger kinship with mud and rain and roots.

Every day, she does her absolute best to play a part—a loving daughter, a supportive sister, a lady of marital quality. But in her heart, she is a creature hidden beneath soft skin and pretty ribbons, and she knows that her grandmother is, too.

These are the wild women who run barefoot through the meadow, who teach new songs to the birds, who howl at the moon together. Wi...

what is so wrong about being a bitch? It is the closest a girl can be to a wolf.

“Mr. Notley, I intend to run out to the meadow barefoot and soak up the blue moonlight. I intend to sing loudly, to dance freely, maybe even scream if I wish. I intend to ruin this dress with the mud and the rain. And if I don’t go now, then I will miss the brightest hour of the blue moon, which only happens once a year. Now, if you will excuse me,”

“You are a wild creature, Miss Claude. I hope to see you again,” he calls after her. She waves goodbye and then takes off in a run, knowing that she will not allow herself to be tamed.

She rolls her eyes at the thought—yes, she is a grown woman, and is that not magical in itself? To have survived this long, despite the world’s penchant for beautiful dead girls?

how romantic to die young, unstretched, unsullied, without ever outgrowing the part of the ingenue.

But what happens when the girl keeps living, when she ages proudly and defiantly, without abandoning imagination, or stories, or that secret wish to find magic wherever it hides? Well, then the poets would call her a witch. It is better t...

I beg you, darling,” she says as she grasps Marigold’s hands. “Put away all thoughts of anyone else’s expectations. Only you have the right to decide your own fate.”

being a witch is so much more fun than being a wife.

We are power, in its truest form.” “I’d choose power in my veins over a ring on my finger any day.”

A Honey Witch provides women with choice—something they are all too often denied.

“What any woman wants for herself is not for you to decide. You would do well to remember that.”

“Even with a broken heart, I still would rather feel this loss than never have had the love at all.”

“Well, that’s how all love works,” August says. “You can’t love anyone without the fear of losing them, without the forethought of grief. There is an inherent loss in love, but that does not mean that love is not worth it.”

When Lottie gets to the door, Marigold calls her name, though she is unsure why. Perhaps it is because she has yet to see Lottie from that angle, peering back over her shoulder.

don’t have any preference when it comes to gender. I love whom I love, without question, and sometimes without logic.”

“Hey, Marigold?” Lottie says. She freezes. That is the first time she has heard Lottie say her name. It’s melodic, almost haunting, like it could lure her into the sea.

If Marigold did not know better, she would lean in farther and let their lips meet just to see what freedom tastes like.

Marigold could melt into the palm of her hand if Lottie would stop pulling it away.

It’s true that she won’t look at Lottie’s body, but not because of the scars or tattoos. She fears that if she looks too long, if she wants too much, she will break her own heart. Lottie is not hers to admire. Lottie is not hers to love. Lottie is not hers at all. And yet, she cannot stop herself from saying, “I think you are amazing.”

It ignites a protective instinct within Marigold. She will do anything to keep Lottie safe. Anything to make sure that Lottie never gets hurt again. She wants to bite her, swallow her, keep her hidden behind her heart so no one else can touch her.

“Lottie, that is so dangerous. I will not risk your safety. You did not see what I saw. You, lying on the bed, convulsing like you were being strangled. Your body looked broken.” “It is my body to break if I so wish! Please, Mari. Please do not deny me. I want to try. For you.” She wraps her arm around her waist. “For this.”

“I’m not scared,” Lottie says, tightening her arms around Marigold. “I’m yours.”

“No one has ever fought for me like that before.” “I cannot help myself. My need for you makes me wicked.” She presses her forehead to hers. “I would do anything to keep you safe, Lottie. Anything.”

“You have defied all that I know. I am starved for you.”

Is it better to have loved alone than never to have loved at all?

I am starved for you. I did not want to stop. I still want you.

“Do you touch yourself, Witch? Do you let your fingers roam over those aching parts of you when you’re all alone?” She nods slowly, and Lottie grins. “Show me.”

“I’ll show you how I touch myself if you do the same.”

“I’ll imagine that this is your hand. You’re trailing your fingers down my body. You’re tracing my tattoos. I can feel your breath against my skin.”

“Say my name.” She moves her fingers in and out, whimpering, “Lottie.”

“I love my name in your mouth, Marigold.”

“I love imagining your mouth on me,”

Althea and I were both so lonely. People think of loneliness as a feeling, but it’s a presence. It’s a living thing that takes the shape of the company you wish you had. For me, loneliness grew into the shape of her, but I didn’t recognize it until it was too late.

She was the moon and I was the sea, and we were always reaching for each other.

Fates—grant them a daughter of honey and ash, a girl with star-shaped freckles and strawberry blond hair. A perfect family in a perfect home where no one ever celebrates birthdays alone.