witch's home - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The witch's home shivered under its thatched roof. The wind was too cold and the rain too wet. It wanted to be somewhere warmer. When the witch woke up she knew the house had been up to no good in the night. She'd fallen asleep under her thickest blankets and woken up sweating with every single cover on the floor. The light that streamed in the windows, which were larger than yesterday and somewhat more rounded, had lost the greenish hue the forest had given it. The log cabin style walls were made of beach-hut style planks and the house was humming to itself. "House! What have you done!" she shrieked, for the first time hearing the sound of crashing waves nearby...
The witch took her home from the tip of her hat and tapped it with her wand. After an overarm throw that could be beaten by the average two year old she slumped to her haunches to watch it grow. These regenerations were always tricky. The house arrived looking the same as it had before, but the personality was always different. After a few days it would reach adolescence, decide she knew nothing at all and argue about every little thing. She sighed. It had been so mature, but there was no other way to move house and the coven needed her in this woodland.
A day passed and the house was the size of a garden shed, occasionally shaking the roof tiles in futile attempts to blow raspberries and make other rude noises. Twenty-four more hours and she could walk inside the white plaster walls, watching the wooden beams stretch, the final growth spurt having begun. The house had fallen into a sulk having said she wanted to live on her own, not quite understanding he function in the world.
The house had taken to shrinking to to try to persuade the witch to leave. Her bedroom was now the size of your average broom cupboard and she could barely squeeze through the doorway. It hadn't done it all at once, it was as patient as the stones that made it. Over the course of months the witch felt that she must be getting fatter and cut back her portions of owl stew. But she soon found out what millions of humans already know, diets make you tetchy. And when a witch gets tetchy it's time to move out of the neighbourhood. The house though was gleefully oblivious to the misfortunes of the locals and continued to get smaller. Then one day the game was up, the witch came home to find the house having a stretch in the spring sunshine, suddenly feet larger in every direction. It froze. She froze. The jig was up. The house withered a little under her stare but didn't dare shrink. She was caught between a burning desire to blow the roof off go inside to stretch out in her bed.
It was brick house in suburbia, the witch was done with living way out in the forest. She sat back on her overly soft armchair and thought about her old home covered in ivy and falling apart, she liked that thought. Living on the outskirts of a city had more advantages than she could have previously imagined. Plus the new house was less trouble. It didn't think for itself at all, which had made her lonely at first. She hadn't realized what a pleasure it had been to bully the old one. Where was the fun in upsetting something inanimate? She had consoled herself with kicking the cats a little more often; who had quickly adopted the habit of sitting five in a row on top of the slate-tile roof like a lot of bizarre chimney pots. The walls were an assortment of brick colours and the garden was under orders not to grow. The neighbours never noticed that her garden grew as much as synthetic plants and bloomed only black petals, a basic defensive spell took care of that.
The house was feeling a bit depressed. The witch had scorched its fine cream walls with another potion and it just wanted it all to stop. It was choked up with fumes sufficiently noxious to send the black cats fleeing the warm heath rug. Now they sat in the forest with dank and ruffled fur hissing at icy rain drops. It considered its options and consulted with ground spirits, perhaps it was time for a new witch. So the house turned bubble-gum pink and the earth began to smell of roses. The furniture became chintz the table sprouted lace doilies. When the witch returned from her regular jaunt to cast curses on the locals she stopped in mid-air, hovering. Her broom started to worry, this looked mighty bad; it sunk to the ground and rolled over like a sickly dog. The witch knew at once what the house had done and this treachery would not be tolerated. She aimed her wand at the foundations and up sprang ivy, thick and mean, growing as fast as ants up a honey tree.
Inside the Sisters' home it is every bit as gloomy as you might expect. The Sisters do not possess a vacuum cleaner. They do not realize such things have been invented. They have lived on their mountain for four hundred years, after all. Mounds of soot, layers of dust, and ropes of cobwebs cover every surface of their house in a sticky veil. Shriveled brown flowers droop from dismal vases and all is dark and dank. Even the Sister's lamps and lanterns seem to give out darkness instead of light. Smoke from the strangling fire puffs into the room and swirls about the ceiling.
Candy cane cottage, grimy mildewed shack, dank malodorous cave, rocky and mossy floor, crooked little house, ram-shackle mansion, ordinary sub-urban dwelling, broken windows, shelves of potions and ingredients in glass jars, broomstick hovers at door, ominous green mist, effluvium of repulsive cauldron concoction, human face masks hung on wall, wigs, cobwebs, spiders, slowly blinking black cat, pointy shoes.
The witch's home blushed to hear the flattery from the tree spirits. She had modelled herself on their interlocking roots, taking on the appearance of a woven tree. Her entrance was a bold green leaf, larger than the opening to keep out the drafts and her windows had the appearance of leaf skeletons. The witch had approved of her remodelling efforts after a brief sulk and sealed the changes with a binding spell.