Borrowed from . No, I am not a member, but I have been talking to others about the possibility of joining. The exercises that are posted are very interesting and they give very good insights into the character that one writes.
A perfect evening for me is on the night of the New Moon. This is the time to set about increase, to bring about the beginnings of Power, to set into motion the spark of life, seed to soil, sword to grail, flesh to flesh, flesh to bone. The dim light of the candles in the Circle are all that are between myself and the darkness that surrounds me. I am not impeded by clothing nor cloak. I remember this clearing in the woods, and difficult it is to negotiate the path at night when there is no moon and the light of the lantern is only to reflect back into your own face – and that of Sister Owl, Brother Coyote and the strong watchful presence of the trees that surround. Aye, the perfect night for me is New Moon, and there will be nothing to stop me from going to the stone Circle, working the spell and giving praise to the Dark Mother.
Muse: Fanny Fae
Fandom: Original Fiction
I’faith I have spent a goodly amount of time writing today, but I was able to make my way out into the gardens at last. So much to be done. The apple blossoms send down kisses upon my brow every time I come neare, it seems. I looke that it will be an abundant harvest indeed, and the honeybees are buzzing louder in the orchard than they do in the skeeps themselves. The tulips and the jonquils are pushing up round the limestone retaining wall at the rear of the cottage, while the turtle doves coo softly inquiring into my comings and goings.
Beltane was a delightful celebration, and both man and maid danced ’round the Maypole with red and white ribbons, symbolic of the Rites of spring, red for the blood of the female, white for the seed of the male, ‘secret and source’ of all life. The drums and the flutes beat well into the night, and during the entire time I was sought out by those who wished a blessing or spell for their unions, be they lovers or farmers. Ah, when one is the Village Wytch, even inside a place so small and remote as the Caribe, the Olde Ways die hard. It was not until later, after the sun had gone down and a mist came across the land that I received a knock upon the cottage door. I should have known with the coming of the mist, so would a visitor come as well. The broom had fallen earlier in the day of its own accord,which is an assurance that company is coming. I coulde say that I took time to scry about it in the black Wytch’s mirror that hangs opposite the fireplace to determine who it might be that woulde come, but I did not bother. Somehow that mist fortold all to well what I knewe.