witch - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
They say that any technology sufficiently advanced looks like magic, and you see, there is the clue to the art of magic... it's also a science, a technology. It can be used for the betterment of mankind, to promote our evolution, or to bring devastation upon us all. Those who practice the dark arts use it for power and control, for abuse and for the pleasure they feel in causing pain and death. It is for the most parts a linguistical method, hence the "spells" in literature, the sense that it is done with words... because for the most part, it is. It is often combined with fear and sometimes drugs. It works because of the way the brain is wired with words and images.
Magic can be used to make a person forget experiences, to not see what is right in front of them and to control behaviour. With words you can be paralysed or have your body controlled... yet it is possible to fight your way out of it, to resist the "spell" and I'm living proof of that. I'm the one who was never supposed to survive. For the ones that fight the spells, who emerge with memories that were supposed to be erased, there will be the drugs to induce insanity and the watchers to ensure you are living as you ought to, that even if you have memories you are too intimidated to tell them. Magic is a science and an art, it uses the entire brain... so be both too, be a scientist and an artist, use positive phrasing, be kind with your words... then the ones who aren't will stand out, or else they'll have to hide and be reduced in the ways they harm our world. And please remember, there are the good magicians too, the ones who will share their abilities and teach you how it works. So please, dear muggles, wake up, because we're trying with every ounce of strength we have to save you.
We good magicians work with and for the positive universal force, we are helped by love and made well by love. The dark arts magicians are helped by the negative force and they are poisoned by love, feeding off pain.
In that time before people were writers, when the spoken word was the way of the world, we were the wise women. They would come to us with a choice, faces of puzzlement and fear, and we would ease it. They would ask, "Which?" We would find the way of the great spirit, the one who is love, heal their worried soul and they would be happy once more. Then came the fear of the paranoid ones, and "Which?" became "Witch!" We always were your friends, we who could use simple words to heal and feel the goodness of God giving subtle directions, answering prayers in clues for eyes of the soulful. So please come again, yet feel that you say, "Which?" and we will help the best we are able.
The witch would never remove her hat, not even to wash or sleep. Without it she was three foot four inches tall and with it five feet seven. Her neck had become more muscular from the wearing of such a hat. She had had to trade her kid sized broom for an adult model when she had started wearing it a few decades earlier. If her stature was short it was nothing as compared to her temper. Her last seven assistants had been reduced to piles of ash and used to fertilize the zucchini in the garden, now for some reason the eager supply of apprentices had dried up. She was a prolific inventor of spells; she had several volumes in print and several more in disorganized parchment piled high on her dining table. The only living being she willfully tolerated was her cat, Samson. He could dissolve into shadows and bring her all manner of creatures for her potions. He would sit handsomely by the fire when visitors called, fixing them with his yellow eyes. He was a proper witch's cat to be proud of.
The witch scowled into the gloom and pulled her hat from the thatch of greying black hair on her head. The effect was to make her look more deranged. The hair had been hacked in random stabbing motions, presumably by a person with no patience and less eyesight- and indeed it had. She had tired of both its annual wash and the hour it took for the matts to dry in the summer sun and taken her axe blade to it. More than once she had almost taken her own head off, and some might argue that an improvement, but it wasn't her intention. Beneath the crude mop was a face less appealing than onion eye-drops. Over the past century her skin had become crusty, falling off in flakes the size of almond slices. Her mouth had puckered from lack of smiling and shrunk to the size of a jelly bean. She was, however, incredibly quiet - something she frequently used to her advantage when seeking subjects for her sorcery. Her victims were usually caught unawares whilst they struggled to breathe in her stench.
The witch reached for another cupcake. It was a pain to wear suburban camouflage to get into these mother's book circles but the treats were worth it. Once in she just cast a spell to have them babble nonsense at each other. After that it was open season on the sweet treats. The fruit and veggie platters she gave the distain they deserved. Once full she loaded the left overs into whatever tupperware was available in the kitchen, thanked the hose profusely, told them to host another session the same time next week and left. In the noon daylight of the family estate she was confident of her blending ability. She stalked down the pavement, broom in hand wearing jeans, an Usher t-shirt and her black pointed hat. On her feet were fluffy slippers - comfort was important after all. To passers by she would grin and nod, flashing her yellow and black teeth, hitting them with fermented fish gut fragranced breath. Then it was off to the coven with cakes and cookies, her mission accomplished.
Sempia Hogden's skin was as gnarled as the bark on the woodland trees and her hair contained just as many bugs. Her lips were large and leathery, her nose a bumpy collection of warts and her eyes narrowed to a squint so close that it was impossible to tell their colour. She had one graced almost six foot, quite a giant amongst the young witches, but now she was in the tidewater of her eighth decade and had a pronounced hunch-back. Whilst her body decayed her mind remained sharp. There were many in the coven who sort to displace her as head-witch, but none had bested her in magic or political posturing. She was quite adept at knowing the intentions of her "sisters" before they were fully aware of it themselves. Then it was a simple matter of planting new ideas or thwarting them directly with enough magic to humiliate them. Either way was good for Sempia; both got her something she wanted.
...the Sisters have decided that humans are no good for anything but firewood. Few trees can grow on mountaintops, so firewood that generously hauls itself up the mountain and walks through your front door is terrifically useful.
Listen over the shriek of the wind.
"Throw another human on the fire, there's a dear."
What was the point in being a witch if you couldn't break a few rules? The line-up for the cup cake store snaked down the sidewalk. Somehow when she stepped into the front of the queue everyone forgot she hadn't been there all along. The server gave her a round dozen in a box and when she turned to the person behind her they offered to pay her bill. It was just like magic. She smirked to herself. Then it was off to the butcher for a free ham and a packet of chips.
Helga narrowed her black eyes at the figurines. They'd been rearranging themselves again. She knew they did it just to gaul her. Instead of the painful grimace and fighting stances she'd left them in they were now blowing kisses at one another. She felt her guts twist in protest, she always was allergic to romance. Her long-fingered hands raised to her hips as she tapped her shoe on the floor. The glare from her eyes could have killed a human in seconds, the glass figures began to wilt. Slowly they moved into combat poses and their dopey expressions became fierce. Helga gave a swift nod and departed to find her cat. She'd left him a note last night ordering three rats, a toad and a newt. She had no doubt he'd have them, disappointment was not an emotion she wore well.
The witch scowled at her reflection. Baby smooth skin. She spat yellow green saliva over her image and folded her arms tightly over her loosely hanging black garment. She'd tried infecting her face with the verruca that grew on her aunt's foot. She had rubbed it with poison ivy. She had soaked it overnight with pads of salt-water. No matter what she did her face stayed stubbornly looking like a sixteen year old goody-two-shoes. Even her eyes were a bright hazel instead of the yellow-amber her mothers had been. How on earth was she going to rise to power in the coven looking like a common villager? Even her roots were already growing in auburn. She flicked her wand at the stolen looking-glass and it melted off the wall, forming a glassy puddle at her feet.
There stood a witch; her skin was like molten lava, wrinkled and as dry as a bone. Teeth, well what was left of them, were rotted out to the core of yellow and mottled. Her snake-like eyes glared at me and her misshapen, raven nose stuck out making her face even more world weary.
The witch had pitch black eyes that reminded me of coal. Her hair was long and string-like. her hat was crumpled and it looked as if she never took it off. She held a long old fashioned broom which had only a few bristles left. I wanted to cry out in terror at the things on the wall. It looked like skulls and various organs. On the trees there were stick figures like the ones you would see from 'The Blair Witch Project'...
Three and a half foot tall, stooped, hunched back, warty hands and face, hair growing from warts, dull grey skin, matted black hair streaked with silver, thick black woollen dress covered in cat hair, muddy and scuffed black pointed boots, crumpled fraying black hat with wide brim that flops down almost hiding her eyes, wicked grin, sly eyes, magic wand, human-sized lead cauldron, black cat with piercing yellow eyes flick's his tail in malcontent.
“I thought you might have as well as forsaken me.” Clusters of dust scatters as I stride in. The sweet aroma of herbs gets into my nose quickly as she was drinking from a cup of tea, it is possibly jasmine. She is sitting by the fireplace, her literally empty face boring into me. I have not seen her in so many years that I almost forgot the terror of seeing such hideous thing.
Fiery hair poured over the witch's shoulders like red hot filaments. The horrors of her face hid in the darkness of her hat. Her skin was coarse like sun-baked toad skin. Black diamond eyes, like the gates to hell, sparkled over a nose crumpled and deformed like a rotting apple. A hostile smile played over her lips whispering evil spells, barely moving her protruding jaw or the teeth blacker than coal. Her clothes were raw animal skins and relics as jewellery. From her waist dangled a small bundle of exotic herbs and her hysterical laughter echoed through the mountains as she zoomed through the clouds on a bedraggled broom.