I can’t believe it’s not Proper
Jun. 27th, 2017 06:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dragonlady7via http://ift.tt/2tkjc2N:
caffeinewitchcraft:
She makes the poppet on the anniversary of her brother’s death. She’s not much for sewing so she makes it out of paper, two gingerbread men cut out and their edges harshly, cruelty stapled together. She writes the murderer’s vices on its arms, his name on the head, and her hatred like arrows over the heart. She gives it googly eyes so he can see inside what’s happening even if he doesn’t know it for true.
She stuffs her creation with yarrow and rue, red pepper and rusted metal, dragon’s blood and small chips of garnet so filled with her hatred that they feel even colder to the touch. Then she seals it with another snap of the stapler.
Thinks for a moment and drags a needle through witch’s salt and crushed red pepper and drives it straight through the poppet’s stomach.
Think of me, she curses, twisting the needle. Think of me and be afraid.
————————————————————
Mistrial. That’s what happens when a case is too clear cut. The good people who want to help move too quickly and forget the little things. Warrants. Miranda Rights. A licensed attorney.
Little things.
She wasn’t willing to wait another year for justice. Each day of this one has inflamed her roots, brought magic flaming to her fingertips, has put death in her eyes.
She won’t live until the next jury is selected if she doesn’t get this out of her and into him.
——————————————————————-
There are potions of invisibility, creams that encourage eyes to slide from physical form, chants that, when hissed, make the chanter seem like air.
Jails are a magicless place for witches like her. Too much stagnation, pain and fear. She’s not built for it so she buttons her aura down, locks her senses to her bones, and asks to visit Henry Stevens.
“Alright,” the guard says, eyeing her bloodless face and the small package in her hands. “But he may not agree to see you. That been through security?” He nods to her paper parcel.
“Yes,” she says. There’s a secrecy rune on the inside of the wrapping paper, encouraging sensors to overlook the metal. “But it’s not staying.”
The guard nods and disappears, speaking softly into the phone. She doesn’t try to catch the words, just lets her eyes skip from ghost to ghost that litter this place.
Keep reading
caffeinewitchcraft:
She makes the poppet on the anniversary of her brother’s death. She’s not much for sewing so she makes it out of paper, two gingerbread men cut out and their edges harshly, cruelty stapled together. She writes the murderer’s vices on its arms, his name on the head, and her hatred like arrows over the heart. She gives it googly eyes so he can see inside what’s happening even if he doesn’t know it for true.
She stuffs her creation with yarrow and rue, red pepper and rusted metal, dragon’s blood and small chips of garnet so filled with her hatred that they feel even colder to the touch. Then she seals it with another snap of the stapler.
Thinks for a moment and drags a needle through witch’s salt and crushed red pepper and drives it straight through the poppet’s stomach.
Think of me, she curses, twisting the needle. Think of me and be afraid.
————————————————————
Mistrial. That’s what happens when a case is too clear cut. The good people who want to help move too quickly and forget the little things. Warrants. Miranda Rights. A licensed attorney.
Little things.
She wasn’t willing to wait another year for justice. Each day of this one has inflamed her roots, brought magic flaming to her fingertips, has put death in her eyes.
She won’t live until the next jury is selected if she doesn’t get this out of her and into him.
——————————————————————-
There are potions of invisibility, creams that encourage eyes to slide from physical form, chants that, when hissed, make the chanter seem like air.
Jails are a magicless place for witches like her. Too much stagnation, pain and fear. She’s not built for it so she buttons her aura down, locks her senses to her bones, and asks to visit Henry Stevens.
“Alright,” the guard says, eyeing her bloodless face and the small package in her hands. “But he may not agree to see you. That been through security?” He nods to her paper parcel.
“Yes,” she says. There’s a secrecy rune on the inside of the wrapping paper, encouraging sensors to overlook the metal. “But it’s not staying.”
The guard nods and disappears, speaking softly into the phone. She doesn’t try to catch the words, just lets her eyes skip from ghost to ghost that litter this place.
Keep reading
