Welcome To Cider Hollow

How cruel this is, O Lady Death -

The cause of all my strife -

That you’d be knocking at my door

So early in my life.

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You’d think that after Mom and Dad,

Our meetings would have ceased,

But endlessly you visit me,

I’ve never been at peace.

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You snatched away my brother next,

And dragged him down to hell.

You laid your greedy fingers

On my husband’s soul as well.

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And when I thought your prying hands

Were full as they could get,

You stole the child from my womb

Before we even met.

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O Lady Death, what noise you make,

You’ll never let me be.

You need not knock upon my door;

I’ve given you the key.

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I keep the porch lit through the night

So you may find your way.

I’ve built a cot inside the den;

A place for you to stay.

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The dining room is set for two,

I’ve poured two cups of tea.

My darling I expected you;

There are no beds in this twisted rotting ditch.

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This is not heaven;

Amidst the tortured screaming,

I cannot hear your prayers.

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I am no angel;

With fire all around me,

There will come a day when all the city lights burn out;

(07/29/18, 7:04pm)

I have this new fantasy that's been drifting in and out of my mind lately.

In it, I live in this small, weather worn house surrounded by a sizeable plot of land, and on that land I have a modest little homestead with chickens and goats and a few sheep that range free.

Stretching beyond the front porch is a field of barley or wheat, with a separate patch nearby just for pumpkins. I'll have lots of those.

Along the side of the house is a row of various fruit and nut trees so bountiful that their profit at farmers markets alone could sustain me.

Then there's the apple orchard; potentially my favourite part. I'll have rows and rows of different apple trees, and in the Autumn - if you rise with the dawn - a layer of fog will linger lazily at their roots, so that every morning stroll will toe the line between ominous and enchanting.

I want to be cut off from everything that has become commonplace in my monotonous daily life; every soul sucking piece of technology, every dull pop culture reference, every narcissist that wears a friendly face. I want to be so far removed that all the bullshit expectations of the modern day could never find me.

I want to find sanctuary in the house that children ride out to on their bicycles, just so they can point and whisper to their school friends: "that's where the witch lives".

I'll let them scamper around my property on tip toe and make up eerie tales about me that would have captured my imagination when I was their age, and assume my role in their haunted make believe with pride.

I'll be the wickedest old hag they could ever dream of, but inside I'll know that I'm truly a good witch; the kind that bakes pumpkin pies and places them on the windowsill to cool in the brisk autumn air. The kind that lies out in the cornfield on a summer night to watch the stars.

If I am to be a witch, I'll be the kind that falls in love with solitude, and is therefore never truly alone.

One hundred miles of fog.

One hundred seconds ere the world stops turning;

One hundred sins against God.

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One hundred times did I call out and curse you;

Whispers that died in the night.

One hundred torches relentlessly burning;