Forget Me Not
A curse full of regrets made with no regrets

Materials
• A poppet or representation of target
• A jar or container big enough to contain the poppet
• Rose petals
• Strips of paper
• A pen
• Candles

Preparation
Pre-make poppet (this is a curse poppet so please make accordingly). On each strip of paper (and there should be a large amount) write “Forget me not.”

Performance
• Have all of your supplies on your workspace.
• If you usually cast a circle, do so now.
• Light however many candles you want to. They’re mainly for dramatic effect.
• Kiss the poppet (sweetly, if you can manage).
• Now place it into the container. With each line you say, place a strip of the paper you wrote on into the container with it.

Forget me not
Forget me never.
You will regret this mistake
Now and forever.
Cross me once.
Cross me twice.
Now that you have,
You’ll see I’m not so nice.
I whisper to you nothing sweet.
I whisper to you nothing kind.
But you’ll always remember me.
I shan’t fade with time.
You had me once.
You had my favour.
You threw me away.
Now not even the gods can help this be over.
Forget me not.
Forget me never.
You’ll remember me
And regret forever.

• Once this is done, close and seal the container. I recommend doing something like blowing the buried poppet one last kiss before doing so. It will never be opened again unless you want to break the curse.
• If you cast a circle, close it now.
• Put the container somewhere hidden or throw it away. I do not recommend breaking this curse.

Source here

Witches

April 6, 2017

A Witch is only vulnerable when she’s unaware. And even then, there is something in the air that will warn her and she has charms to protect her. Don’t screw with Witches.

You are a witch. You warp the very energy that makes up the universe. You dig chunks of sharp crystal from the earth with bare hands and wear them as trinkets. You rip herbs from the dirt and use them to spice the air. You collect glass and bones and storm water and daggers.

Maybe you’re a different sort of witch. Maybe you write music like a siren’s song, sung to the stars, manipulating them until they shine the way you wish. Maybe you delve deep into code and weave quiet, meticulous charms into the very bones of the cyber world, feeling the flow of waves and Wi-Fi like others do the wind and the ways of the cosmos. Maybe you collect eldritch creatures, spirits and deities like others do stamps, frightened because you’re smart, unceasing because you’re brave, and know you’re much scarier than anything you welcome over your threshold.

Maybe you slip blessings into food. Maybe you slip curses under doorsteps. Maybe you draw symbols on your arms. Maybe you write incantations to be heard only by crickets, wicked, whispered nocturnes.

Whatever you do, however you do it, you are a witch. You are a warrior by default. Your strength is as innate to you as breathing. The only thing you must fear is what will happen when someone pushes you too far.

Source Here

witch-outline

Diary 5th March

There was a woman who lived alone at the end of Walton Drive. Her house was beside the “danger point” (its name came from the red and white sign in the centre of the road that read DANGER). Beyond the sign there was no more road, just a wilderness of trees and shrubs, nettles and brambles. A veritable jungle where kids could turn wild and play. And where the woman often walked alone on a winter’s evening.

‘She’s a witch,’ Susan said. ‘She goes down there at night and makes spells.’

‘She gave Maureen warts for cheeking her,’ Linda claimed.

The girls seemed convinced, but we boys were less certain. A witch? Did such things really exist?

One Sunday afternoon we were playing football in the road near the ‘point’ and Alan kicked the ball into the woman’s front garden. Little Billy went off to get it when the front door opened and the woman came out.

Standing in the road we could see they were talking, but couldn’t hear what was being said. The woman, tall and skinny, was dressed all in black, as usual. She wore thick black mascara round her eyes and mauve lipstick on her mouth, and she had silver rings on all her fingers – including her thumbs. We were surprised when Billy tossed the ball back to us, and followed the woman into her house.

Billy reappeared an hour or so later. His face was very flushed –as if he’d been running.

‘What did she want?’ Alan asked him.

‘She gave me a biscuit and a glass of orange juice,’ Billy said.

‘But you were gone ages.’

Billy’s eyes became suddenly cautious. He glanced to right and left. ‘She took my shorts down,’ he said quietly. ‘She touched my “you know what”…’

‘Your cock?’ Alan said. ‘She touched that? I don’t believe you!’

‘Well she did, see. Honest, she did.’

‘You’re a liar Billy. You’re making it all up.’

‘She told me to come back next Sunday when she had more time. She’d do something extra nice.’

‘Rubbish,’ Alan decided. ‘Boy’s gone sick in the head…’

Later, in Angela’s back garden, Linda told Billy not to go back. ‘She’s a witch,’ she said. ‘Witches hate little boys. She’s probably got this sharp pair of scissors to cut your thing off. She’s more than likely got a collection of boys willies in a glass jar, and uses them in her spells.’

Undeterred by this warning (or anything else) Billy returned to the witch house the following Sunday.

What went on there? I’ve no idea, and Billy didn’t say when he reappeared later in the day. Alan kept on at him, but Billy stayed stumm.

Linda asked him, ‘Did she touch it again?’

He wouldn’t answer.

Whatever happened, happened, and would remain a secret between Billy and the witch.

Then – perhaps almost a year later – I was walking with Billy through the churchyard one Saturday afternoon. We were talking about the future – the far future. All the technological changes that might take place. How we might each of us end up with our own personal robot to do all the household chores. And flying cars, of course. We’d each have one of those. And we’d be able to chose the sex of our children…boy or girl.

‘D’you really believe that?’ Billy asked.

‘Why not?’

‘The witch,’ he said, then hesitated.

‘What about her,’ I prompted.

‘She said if I tell about her, she’ll know it. Said she’d transform me into a girl, if I ever said anything about her…’

‘That’s nonsense, Billy. She’s not a real witch. She can’t do anything like that!’

‘Says you,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen some of the things she can do.’

‘When?’

‘I go to her house sometimes. I keep it secret, like. She doesn’t want anyone to know.’

‘So what does she do?’

‘I can’t tell,’ Billy said. ‘I can’t ever say…’

And that was that. Billy’s secret remained secret. And to the best of my knowledge he never ever mentioned the witch again. But often I’ve wondered exactly what it was he’d witnessed at the witch house that frightened him into permanent silence!

And was the experience real or an hallucination?

Did our witch put some narcotic substance, a small amount of peyote for instance, in his orange juice? A drug induced hallucination would be sufficient to confuse…

To terrify.

I imagine them both somewhere between taboo and transgression in her dark house: Billy experiencing the exhilarating sensations of her hands and her body; she over-stepping society’s limits with her unrestrained sexual license.

And beyond the sexual frenzy, the fear!

Following a sip of her ‘special’ orange juice. Her conjuration made horrifyingly potent. Candles and darkness; smoke and mirrors…

Or was it all just a lie? Make-believe…?

Yes, I often wonder what ultimately became of our Billy.

Potion

November 15, 2016

sing-a-song-of-sixpence

Moon
sprung,
winding
orbital
moods. She sits beneath;
held by the anchor of tundra.

Wild
spell.
Nursed on
grasses and
leaves, she breathes again.
Content, she spills joyous laughter.

Laura Swiggum

specialize in necromancy

November 14, 2016

a-mirror

Some covens concentrate on attempting to heal the sick, others specialize in necromancy, but the general goal is one of knowledge and power. In further pursuit of the latter, a few groups try to bring their powers to bear on political matters, singling out individuals who stand high in public office on whom to cast their spells. Then there exists those groups who devote their energies solely to invoking the witch entities as deities, worshiping them not so much for practical and magical reasons, but rather as an expression of that simpler and maybe purer life of the spirit which takes its inspiration from pre-Christian European sources. It is these “witch cultists” who have largely held the public gaze over the past fifteen years, despite the fact that the word “witch” embraces a far wider circle of people than merely the followers of Gerald Brosseau Gardner.

Paul Husson
Mastering Witchcraft

Good advice for Halloween

October 29, 2016

scream-queens-illustrated-015-1996

witch - Friedrich Seidenstücker - Frauenakt, 1940

A witch is someone who has dedicated her life to learning about the connections between things. She studies the different cycles and her place in them. She learns how to use the energy in herself and in the world to make changes. And most of all, she tries to make the world a better place for herself and other people.

Isobel Bird
The Challenge Box

August 26, 2016

cellphone and witch

goddess of witchcraft…

August 20, 2016

Dark Godess2

The wild goddess has passed through the city of whoredom and has emerged intact as the witch on the heath. There was never one goddess of witchcraft, but rather a thousand Ishtars: mild white, blood red, lamp black. There can never be orthodoxy. We are simultaneously possessed, annihilated and forever outside of Time.

She is immanent.

She dwells within us.

Peter Grey
Apocalyptic Witchcraft