The Honey Witch

by Sydney J. Shields

Her mother laughed. “And what if someone wants to pluck you?” “That is what the thorns are for,” she said.

Love

Rain whispers in the twilight, waiting for the perfect moment to fall. Dark clouds swirl in the distance, reaching for the maroon sun.

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. Wild women are their own kind of magic.

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

It is better to be lost in a beautiful daydream than trapped in a dim reality.

love is one thing, but finding your soulmate is another.

Oh well, ruining it was worth it—being a witch is so much more fun than being a wife.

Time seems to pass differently here—it is not a line or a circle. It moves like a memory, a mirror, a door.

Althea told Mr. Benny yesterday that he would need to come back today—her grandmother knew then that her time was almost done, and in this moment, Marigold has never been more grateful to not be alone.

Marigold’s grief moves with the seasons. It blooms and rots and shrinks and grows, and just like the winter, it cannot last forever.

“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.”

Together, they are fire and wind, desire and grace, seduction and fear.

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

She vows now to herself in the mirror to build up her walls, to no longer be flesh and blood, but a girl of ice and stone.