IMOGENE’S NOTEBOOK
The Last Witch
A Short Story: of witches, sirens, and storms
Her hands would dance atop the water…
The last of the witches lived in a house like any other. A sloped, low roof housed her, kept her safe from the wind that battered and abused every domicile. Dotted further from the cliff’s edge, a hostile huddle of cottages peered up the hill towards her as the moon set, sliding down her roof.
Her voice is like a raven… she sings that terrible song every night…
The only witch left in the world took her place in time, and wandered noiselessly, barefoot, through a pale frost each morning. She never asked the world why it forgot that magic was its lifeblood, the force by which it was stitched together. They forgot they all came from a pearl, from the very waters that grated against the chalky cliffs, eating away. Ravenous.
Dead witches whispered to her, warnings of the wind and water. Salt spray cut her cheeks when she laid her feet flat on the sand and rocks. A nightly performance. Centuries ago, this was sacred. This was guardianship.
She conjures demons from the depths… waves that claw at the clouds…
She held her lantern aloft and bellowed above the sound of the waves.
