The Honey Witch

by Sydney J. Shields

The springtime buds that decorate the earth remind her of childhood when she wanted to grow up to be a flower. She had told her mother, “One day, I will be a rose. And I will plant myself somewhere so beautiful that I will never want to leave.”

She adjusts her corset as much as she can without breaking a rib

Why would you break your ribs by wearing a corset?

am guessing you are a fan of sweets?” he says with a bewildered laugh. She nods as the excitement falls from her face, replaced by embarrassment. “Eating sweets is perhaps my only talent.”

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

Her mother loves to remind her of her age, as if it is a reason to stop believing in magic. 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?

brought a handwoven blue blanket. This day marks four whole months since her grandmother’s death. Marigold’s grief moves with the seasons. It blooms and rots and shrinks and grows, and just like the winter, it cannot last forever.

“My question for you is: Why are you alone?” Her lips part as she straightens her posture. “I’m not alone. I’m here with the two of you.” “You know what I mean. We’re guests. Customers. We’re not constants in your life.” Each word is a knife wound. A blade to her heart, her stomach, her ribs. Lottie’s gaze does not leave her when she says, “What about when we’re gone?” That sentence is a blade across her throat. She is bleeding down her dress, into the fabric of the couch, watching it drip onto the floor, tap tap tapping like raindrops. “When you are gone,” she says, her voice hardly a whisper, “I will be lonely again.”