 Witches have been around for a long time and throughout the years they have mostly been feared and persecuted.
In the past, witches were really just wise women who knew how to work with herbs and helped heal people. Unfortunately people feared these abilities especially when they came from women. The most notorious witch trials were the ones held in Salem back in 1692. Twenty people were executed, mostly women. Historians believe it was mass hysteria that fuelled the Salem Witch Trials with many people turning on their own neighbors. Over the years the image of the witch became that of a twisted, old crone who rides a broomstick and curses people. This is still the image used on Halloween, but witches come in all shapes and sizes. They worship nature and they know that if they were to do anything to harm someone, it would come back on them threefold. Today witches can practice a lot more openly, but it is important to remember the people who suffered because of their beliefs. So when you think of witches, don't think of the Halloween image, think instead of the wise man or woman who believes in healing.   About Xavier Axelson: Xavier Axelson is a writer and columnist living in Los Angeles. Xavier’s work has been featured in various erotic and horror anthologies. Longer written works include “The Incident”, “Velvet,” and “Lily.” Xavier covers Fringe Culture for the Los Angeles Examiner. www.xavieraxelson.com Witch Awake
By Xavier Axelson Stage 1: Sleep He dug his own grave, a shallow hollow beneath an October sky. It would be October, he mused as blood ran and tears welled, mixed, and then fell in pink rain upon the sodden, forest floor. Searing pain sucked tears from his eyes with merciless abandon. Sebastian inflicted wounds deep enough to expose the pink meat of his back, marked with gaping holes along the ladder of vertebra. Vicious looking cuts along his inner thighs made it impossible to move without screaming. Leaves and dirt stuck to the wounds as he worked. He clawed the earth, sent dead leaves fluttering in a moldering cyclone of dirt, worms and roots; he paused when flocks of geese squawked overhead. Their v-shaped departure mocked his earth bound death. He’d flown to the woods, guided by some instinct, then fell like a goose shot from the sky, physical pain broke the spell, and he tumbled to the ground. His will, worn thin by Sebastian’s torture, shattered. He would die and it would be October when he did. The geese vanished beyond the trees. If I hadn’t fallen, he thought staring longingly at the naked sky, if I’d held the threads of the spell together long enough to land and weave a cocoon, I might have saved myself this death beneath the earth, a minute longer... A large shadow passed over the sun, and he panicked. “Sebastian?” He ducked into the shallow grave. “…Please don’t, you let me go!” Wild eyed, aching and terrified, he shuddered in the grave until the sun emerged. “I couldn’t hold it,” he whined, scraping the corners of the grave. “I couldn’t.” Dirt slid between his fingers. “Its so slippery,” he cried. “The bats are coming, coming, change into something!” His thoughts dissipated, came together and vanished. Equal parts remorse and pain unreasoned his reason. If he hadn’t been caged and beaten, drained and starved he might have held the satin slippery web of the transformative spell, and transformed into something heartier than a moth. Bats eat moths, he thought, and laughed bitterly. “One window, find the one open window, fly faster, the bats are circling, snapping…Hold the spell!” He muttered, hearing madness in his words. He looked around the woods but saw walls of shadow, smelled his own blood. “I can’t, I’m falling!” He fell into the grave and sobbed when his back, scored to the depths of his timber, hit the dirt. Insects and other long buried things, disturbed by his raucous grave digging, were agog to feast. He belonged to them, his death meant a busy season of devouring for others and he could only stare up at the iron clad October sky through the curtain of skinned, bony branches of trees long lived, and awaiting the spring. His last physical efforts were used to cover himself with the disturbed dirt that felt like rain on his torn skin. A zephyr came along and blew leaves up and over the grave and finally dropped a blanket of leaves so only his eyes were left exposed to watch nature take its last somber breath before giving itself over to winter. Stage 2: Sebastian The hemlock bloomed with bunches of white starry flowers next to indigo monkshood and spires of chartreuse mullein harmonious with night blooming moonflowers and spiky, golden-white cereus. He’d been unable to tame the henbane and it grew in wild clusters along the borders, daring anyone to accidentally ingest its poisonous foliage. A shadow fell across the fence separating his house from the woods. “Hyoscyamus niger,” a voice said. Bridge looked up from a particularly unruly patch of henbane. A man stared at him, fingering a henbane bloom that grew between the fence slots. “Fetid herb, deadly to animals…and the unsuspecting human.” He plucked the flower and brought to his nose. “Are you a witch?” “A gardener,” Bridge answered. “Liar,” the man’s smile widened. “Who are you?” Bridge asked. “Sebastian,” the man, tossed the bloom, and offered Bridge his hand. “I’m a witch too.” Bridge looked from the hand back to Sebastian’s face. “You’re not a witch.” “But you are,” Sebastian said, and withdrew his hand. “Why would you say that?” “I feel your power,” Sebastian answered. “I don’t feel yours,” Bridge replied and left Sebastian at the fence. Two days later, an invitation arrived in Bridge’s mailbox. “Tea?” Bridge scoffed. He dropped the card on the table and saw a note scribbled on the back. “P.s. Please bring henbane, I’m concocting a salve and have zero luck growing it, while your garden overfloweth.” Signed “S” Bridge threw the invitation in the trash. The next morning the invitation waited on the kitchen counter. He crumbled it, gabbed scissors and went into the garden. *** “Tea isn’t ready.” Sebastian said opening the door. Bridge thrust the newspaper wrapped henbane in Sebastian’s face. “I don’t like being played with. Here’s your weeds, now leave me alone.” Sebastian looked at the henbane. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He stepped aside. “I haven’t unpacked, forgive the mess,” Sebastian disappeared deeper into the house. Bridge peered inside and saw boxes lining the inside hallways. “I’m not coming in,” he called. “What?” Sebastian called back. “The water’s on, it’ll be a second. I need help moving a sofa.” Bridge shook his head in disbelief, but went inside and closed the door. “I don’t like the invitation trick,” he shouted. “What trick?” Sebastian answered. “I’m in the kitchen.” Bridge hesitated, the house felt unnaturally dark. Sebastian came and led him down the hall. “I want to hear about your invitation trick.” “Your invitation trick,” Bridge corrected. “Mine?” Sebastian asked, offering Bridge one of two chairs at a glass table. “Your invitation to tea---“ “Did you like it?” Sebastian asked. He’d collected mugs and placed them on the table. “I made the ink myself; pokeweed.” Bridge dug into his pocket, produced the crushed invitation and slammed it on the table. “I threw it in the trash Sebastian, and this morning it was on my kitchen counter, a cheap parlor trick.” Sebastian smiled. “I’m thrilled you think I’m capable, do you know how long it takes to extract the poison from pokeweed?” “I don’t care,” Bridge snapped. “Do it again and I’ll get angry.” “You’re angry now.” Sebastian laughed, as he went to the stove. “Who taught you?” he asked. “What?” Bridge asked. Sebastian returned with a teapot. "A minute more brewing and I’ll pour.” He sat back in his chair. “The craft. Who taught you?” Bridge hesitated. “Modesty is tiresome Bridge,” Sebastian sighed. “My father,” Bridge relented. “He died a couple years ago.” “I see,” Sebastian said. “Rare, and fascinating when father passes it to son.” “Look, my father told me to always help fellow travellers of the path, I’ve helped you despite my misgivings and now I’m leaving.” Bridge picked up the invitation and threw it at Sebastian. “No more tricks.” Sebastian leaned forward and poured tea into Bridge’s cup. “I’m self-taught,” he said as though Bridge hadn’t spoken, “and learning.” Bridge snorted and turned away. “I’m sorry,” Sebastian called. “I needed to get your attention, you are right, I may not be a natural witch like you, but I want to learn what you know.” “The learning never ends,” Bridge said. “My father instilled that into my head.” Sebastian nodded and gestured at the chair. “Please, sit and talk awhile, no more tricks.” He poured himself some tea. “Do you make a living with it?” Bridge relented and sat. “I can’t charge,” he replied. “I’m not about to become known as a back door kitchen witch.” Bridge lifted his teacup, and stared into the golden liquid; it smelled of anise, spice and something else, bitter, and familiar. “I want to learn from you,” Sebastian said. “You keep saying that,” Bridge answered, “but I wonder if you mean it.” Bridge took a sip of tea. A shadow passed by a nearby window. “Do you get a lot of birds?” Sebastian followed Bridge’s gaze. “Not exactly birds, what do you think about the tea?” Bridge took another longer sip, and tried unmasking the flavors in the blend. “Decent,” he said and saw another shadow pass outside. He got up and the room tilted. More shadows passed outside. “What is it?” He asked. Sweat ran down his back. He dropped the cup. “Tea,” Sebastian replied, sounding far away. Bridge shook his head, “out there,” he stumbled from the table toward the window. “I worried I used too much datura,” Sebastian cooed from behind. That was it, the bitterness! Bridge moved his lips but nothing came out. He clawed the window, peered out at the shadows. They rushed past, blotting out the light. His knees buckled. “What are they?” He heard himself ask. “Bats,” Sebastian laughed. Stage 3: Awake Cold, frozen and crumbly the earth took him into its embrace. The first autumnal frost slowed his heart and cracked it open like a fallen acorn. Bridge stared up from his shallow grave, through the cathedral of dead branches scratching the sky with skeletal fingers as though hoping spring and warmth were beneath the skin of the cotton clouds. When it rained, he remembered tears, but couldn’t cry. The worms moved blood through his veins and the vibrations of things dying and growing shuddered through him, keeping his senses at a lull between life and death. Memories of his capture, torture and eventual release echoed in these vibrations. “I want to learn what you know,” Sebastian said. “I know nothing,” Bridge replied. “Then I’ll cut it out of you,” Sebastian said. When autumn ended, his father’s apparition appeared and glared down between the dead leaves heaped upon the grave. “Is this how you die?” The ghost asked. The words shook the dirt from Bridge’s ears, but he couldn’t reply. Winter brought snow that crept into the cracks of his heart, freezing the last human warmth from his body and slicked his blood to ice. The worms maneuvering in and around him curled and died. In December the ghost returned and asked, “Is this how you die?” Bridge lay icy and sharp like a buried thorn, listening, hating and hungering…remembering. January winds used Sebastian’s voice to taunt him. “I want your power,” they whispered. “All your power…” The wounds in Bridges back filled with frozen earth, and healed. In February, an owl came. It settled in a snow-covered tree and gazed down with wide golden eyes. Bridge saw the creature, because despite being covered with earth, leaves, and snow his eyes remained unfettered by death’s clutter. The owl lifted one great talon and revealed a dead bat skewered in its claws. It stayed there until dusk and before flying off dropped the dead bat onto Bridge’s grave. By March, the grave was covered with dead bats. His father’s ghost returned, adding words to the question Bridge couldn’t answer. “Is this how you die…or how you live, Son? Do you know your strength? The power in the earth? The gift being given? Renewal, retribution, return, reprise…Revenge! Live. Die. Revenge.” The first day of spring, Bridge woke up. Flung from the warming earth like an arrow strung on a bow, he kicked dead bats from his wake. The owl, asleep in the tree, opened its eyes. “Sebastian! You want my power!” Bridge raised his arms and welcomed the watery sunlight onto his cold flesh. He looked down into the grave, green shoots sprouted and earthworms wriggled wildly. “This is how I live, Father,” he shouted. The ghost had vanished. The owl took flight, checked and passed his face. Bridge followed the bird at first on naked foot but then took hold of the satin slick spell of transformation and lifted from the ground. Two owls, one greater than the next landed in a tree beside the gray house at the end of the empty street. Bridge climbed down, cloaked in feathery remnants. “You want my power…” he swept his arms towards the front door. It cracked and fell shuddering to the ground. “Sebastian!” Sebastian emerged, staring wide eyed at Bridge. “I set you free!” He shrieked. Behind him a large bat flew past his head, screeching as it met the sunlight. From the tree, the owl adjusted its claws. Bridge shook his head, “only one bat left.” He stepped closer, relishing the shock on Sebastian’s face. “You,” Sebastian spat, and glared up at the owl, then his bat, “kill the bird!” Bridge whisked his hands and watched Sebastian shake as wind buffeted the house. “Nothing more than a bat wrangling magician.” The bat furiously beat its leathery wings against the gust. Bridge looked into its jaws, and remembered similar fangs snapping at his frail moth wings. “I set you free!” Sebastian’s words were whispers in the wind. “But only if I could get past the bats,” Bridge replied. “Only if I could transform…once you drained enough blood.” “A moth,” Sebastian laughed. “You couldn’t even manage a sparrow.” “Your words, are nothing,” Bridge lowered his hands, the wind stopped. “You…are…nothing!” He took several steps toward the house. Above Bridge’s head, the bat screamed. He looked at the ground but couldn’t see his feet. “Fly little moth,” Sebastian jeered. “See if you can escape this time!” Bridge dodged and weaved, flailing his arms, unable to fly. “They’re behind you, little moth,” Sebastian laughed. Bridge couldn’t find the window; he’d be trapped in the house forever, with the knife, the cage…Sebastian. Sebastian’s laughter grew louder. “Not again,” Bridge wailed, “not again!” He fell to the ground, rolled over and saw the bat. “Dead little moth,” Sebastian cried. “Dead!” The bat hurled itself at Bridge, but the owl met it mid attack and knocked it sideways. Sebastian’s laughter died. Bridge got to his feet and realized he’d been under Sebastian’s control. Fool, he thought, struggling to remain upright. While I slept in death, Sebastian culled his powers, dipped into the darkness, and something answered. The air erupted with screeches as the owl and bat clashed, parted and met again in a flurry of claws and wings. Bridge watched Sebastian gaping at the owl and saw fear in his eyes when the bat shrieked and fell to the ground, only to be covered by the owl’s massive wings and outstretched talons. Bridge stepped around the feasting bird. “You couldn’t take my powers,” he said. A flash caught Bridge’s attention, and the flaying knife gleamed viciously in Sebastian’s hands. “Come Bridge,” Sebastian slashed the knife forward. “Your flesh hungers to be cut.” “The knife will take no more of my blood,” Bridge hissed. Sebastian laughed. “Your blood, sweet like candy,” he licked his lips. “How thirsty I am.” He jumped off the front steps. “Witch drinker!” Bridge came closer. “Fraud!” He heard the wet tearing of flesh as the owl rent the bat. “Filling your gut with witch blood hoping it would make you what you aren’t!” “And what is that?” Sebastian asked, lips twitching. “A true witch, and walker of the path, you are nothing but a parlor trick magician,” Bridge sneered. “Who believes drinking witch blood gives you power!” “Your blood enticed the most serious of demons,” Sebastian snickered, and pointed the blade at Bridge. “I’d finally found a witch powerful enough to bring me one of the legion.” Sebastian lifted the knife. The sweep of the knife came fast, but the time spent in the earth, made Bridge’s skin hard and his instincts swift. He spun, caught Sebastian’s arm and twisted. “This is not how I die,” he said. “This is how I live!” Bones crunching, snapping, breaking, reminded Bridge of the woods, the crunch of dead leaves and snapping twigs, it was almost musical. Sebastian squealed, sprung back and fell to his knees, holding his broken arm. “I set you free!” Bridge lowered the knife and pointed it at Sebastian. “Now I’m going to set you free.” He raised the knife to strike, but stopped. Behind Sebastian, shadows swarmed, collided and grew. “Sebastian, what have you done?” Sebastian looked over his shoulder and cackled. “See how powerful you are? Your blood makes demons yield!” Unable to take his eyes from the demon, Bridge drew the knife high, arched back and plunged downward. The owl, still perched on the remains of the bat, screamed, took flight as the blade found its mark. The shock in Sebastian’s eyes ate a piece of Bridge’s thawing heart. He withdrew the blade and stepped back. “Take him,” he gasped, lowered the knife, and then dropped it. “And this.” He kicked the blade at the demon. The demon reached and swallowed it in darkness. Sebastian screamed once more as the demon sucked him into its embrace. Larger, it rose up and lurched toward Bridge. Bridge turned his back on it. “Come with us,” the demon whispered. “The darkness is infinite.” Bridge walked away. The demon screamed, wailed and followed, but Bridge heard another call, louder than demon; the woods demanded his return. Transforming once more, he found himself in the form of a small robin, his red breast like a flame between the trees. Common items used in spell casting are
The practitioner would start by cleansing both themselves and the space they work in. They would bathe beforehand and meditate. Oils and incense can be used to cleanse the work space. A circle is cast to protect the witch. First, you want to decide where to create your circle. Whether you have an altar or just a peaceful corner of your home – or maybe outside in nature – pick a place where you are undisturbed so that you can focus and work in peace. It’s not necessary to mark out your circle, but some like to do it for ritual purposes, or for protection. You can create a circle of rocks or crystals, or sprinkle sea salt along the edges of your circle, or place candles around you – for example five to mark out the points of the pentacle, or four placed at the cardinal points, West, North, East and South – also representing each of the Four Elements. It’s up to you how you like to mark out or decorate your circle. Stand in the middle of your circle. Relax and breathe deeply. Imagine that your crown (the top of your head) opens up like a funnel to receive divine, white light. Your crown is always connected to the divine and to your Higher Self, and you can open up and amplify this channel at your will. Open your arms, palms facing out. With each in-breath, visualise yourself pulling down pure, divine light through your crown, and as you breathe out you channel this light out through your palms to create a protective shield around you. As you fill the space around you with this high-vibration energy you may feel a tingle or buzz, you may get goose bumps, or you’ll feel light and uplifted. Now hold one arm outstretched (the one you write with) and point to the edge of the circle. Spin around clockwise three times, mentally marking out your circle with the divine light. Then raise your arms above your head and say: “I ask that the God and Goddess bless this circle So that I may be free and protected within this space So mote it be” You are now ready to cast your spell or perform your ritual. source:http://wiccanspells.info/learn-wicca-basics/casting-a-circle-protection/
1) Tell us about your witch and what powers she has. My witch is Amelia Spelled, who appears in The Kitchen Witch series. Amelia is terrible at baking, so she’s shocked to learn that she’s a witch, and a kitchen witch at that. She is told that the reason she sets all her cooking efforts on fire is that she has great witch ability, but it’s a long time coming. Her abilities are those of real life traditional witches rather than the powers of Hollywood type witches. She is into folk magic, does candle spells, and mixes potions. 2) Where did you get the inspiration for your characters? I’m a shocking cook, and so is my sister. The baking incidents in The Kitchen Witch books are autobiographical. Sad but true. I also love herbs and have an extensive herb garden. I love to read about traditional witchcraft, although most written records were destroyed or altered centuries ago. 3) If you had a magical ability what would it be, and why? It would be to stop cruelty to animals. 4) Who is your favorite TV or movie witch? Hermione Granger. 5) If you had a familiar, what would it be, and what would you call him/her? I would have a sheep as a familiar, as sheep get a bad deal. They really have wonderful personalities. I’m vegan, and have two pet rescued sheep, Herbert and Bertie. Herbert would be my familiar. And just think, if a rival wizard came to attack my familiar, the wizard would not suspect a sheep! #1 Best-selling Cozy Mystery author, Morgana Best, lives in a small, historic, former gold mining town in Australia. She is owned by one highly demanding, rescued cat who is half Chinchilla, and two less demanding dogs, a chocolate Labrador and a rescued Dingo, as well as 2 rescued Dorper sheep, the ram Herbert, and his wether friend, Bertie. Morgana is a former college professor who now writes full time. Morgana was a published author of dry academic books under a pen name, but abandoned that to write murder mysteries. In her spare time, Morgana loves to read cozy mysteries, repurpose furniture, and renovate her old house. She is vegan.
1. Tell us about your witch and the powers she has.
Deegie Tibbs is the daughter of a dark witch and a light witch, something that is rare in her world. She is very powerful and is able to perform some very unusual spells, some of which she has invented herself. One of her favorites is the Big Ol’ Boobs spell. When a man makes her angry, she throws this spell at him and causes him to grow enormous breasts that stay with him for at least a week. Deegie has a disability called Witch’s Cramp. She is only able to perform a couple of spells at a time or she gets debilitating headaches. 2. Where did you get the inspiration for your character? She just fell out of my head one day. I used to do online roleplaying, which is a creative writing exercise involving two or more people. I wanted a character who was strong, yet vulnerable, and since I’ve always been fascinated by witchcraft and magic, a witch seemed like a logical choice. 3. If you had a magical ability – what would it be and why? I’d like to be able to read people’s minds. It would be great to know what a person’s real intentions are and whether or not I could trust them. I’ve been subjected to a lot of cruel treatment in my life, and a magical ability like this would help me avoid any further pain and heartbreak. 4. Who is your favorite TV or movie witch? I always loved Endora, who was Samantha Stephens’ mother on the old TV show Bewitched. Her quick wit was hilarious, and she was just a little bit evil. I loved her red hair, too. 5. If you had a familiar what would it be (you can choose any animal) and what would you call him/her? It would most likely be a big cat, perhaps a black leopard or a tiger. I’d probably name him something witchy, like Balefire or Widdershins. Bio: C. L. Hernandez is a writer of horror, dark fiction, urban fantasy, and occasional poetry. She is the author of the series The Complicated Life of Deegie Tibbs (Winlock Press), and the novel The Curious Case of the Tuscan Plague Doctor (Barking Rain Press) which will be released in 2016. She also writes the self-published series Horror Story Six-Packs (Cobwebs, vol. 1, and A Half-Dozen Horrors, vol. 2) She has stories featured in the anthologies Happy Little Horrors: Freak Show, Dead Harvest: A Collection of Dark Tales, and Deathmongers: Where the Light Dies. She lives in California's Central Valley, and her life is a constant work in progress. Link to my author’s page at Winlock Press. Ordering info for A Jar of Fingers and The Witch War of Fiddlehead Creek can be found here: http://www.winlockpress.com/a-jar-of-fingers/  What is it like to be a modern day witch?
First off I would have to say pretty darn enjoyable. We have a great deal of freedom in this modern time to enjoy. Government recognition as a religion, free and open displays of worship and practice at universities for much of the United States. There are jobs which recognize our sabbats (holy days of observance and reverence). We can walk around almost anywhere wearing our symbol of religious belief. In the military, provisions are made at chapels to service prayer needs and when we are buried an engraving of a pentacle can be requested to be placed on the tombstone. We have many published authors who have attained celebrity status worldwide and through their influence have helped a great deal of people through knowledge and wisdom. Though there are still obstacles to endure such as living in or very near to what is considered the "bible belt," which can come with judgement, or discrimination from others. In parts of the world witches can still be burned and killed . In an area of South Africa this is still done. The last account of such a grisly thing occurring over a year ago. As well as the bullying and misunderstandings one will find when in high school. Despite these things a modern witch's life is very enjoyable and rewarding. The term "witch" itself means the wise or those with wisdom. There should be no fear in being a modern day witch or seeking to connect with others. Though there are of course stumbling blocks and people who will cause issues within the craft, if you are to run across them simply excuse yourself from their circle and practices. There are more than enough great people out there to find to link oneself to. So overall being a modern day witch is truly a wonderful thing and experience to have. Those who have come before us to pave the way towards what we have and enjoy now and should never be forgotten. Their efforts and sacrifices give us strength and wisdom in who we are and the practice we share. The pros by far outweigh the cons and it is well worth it to live a life of freedom instead of hanging out alone in the "broom" closet.   Season Of The Witch Shades Below Book 1.5 L.J.K. Oliva Genre: urban fantasy/paranormal romance Date of Publication: Oct. 1, 2015 Word Count: 99,733 Cover Artist: Amy Mateyka Book Description: Something wicked this way comes...well, more wicked than usual. Georgia Clare needs help, and fast. As the lone survivor of—and witness to—her coven's brutal massacre, she's felt the killer hunting her. There's just one problem: the rest of San Francisco's witching community wants nothing to do with her, and the one man she can turn to doesn't do witches. Darius deCompostela has done his best to steer clear of subversive affairs. A private investigator and reluctant medium, the last thing he wants is to advertise his existence to the things that go bump in the night. But then Georgia knocks on his door, and try as he might, he can't turn her away. It's just one case, after all. It's not like it's going to change his life… Add it on Goodreads Excerpt 1 It was her third night in a row of frozen pasta for dinner. Not that she was counting. Georgia popped the top off yet another bottle of Corona and took a long draw. She leaned back against the counter. The microwave hummed behind her. She glanced over her shoulder at the digital clock on the unused stove. Sighed. Nearly six o'clock, and still no sign of deCompostela. The pang of disappointment in her chest chafed at her pride. She should have known better than to believe he would stop by. He'd already made it abundantly clear he thought she was out of her mind. Truth be told, the possibility had occurred to her. It had been a week since the new moon, and she hadn't seen hide nor hair of...it. Whatever it was. If not for the lingering scent of blood in her nostrils, she could almost believe she'd hallucinated the whole thing. The microwave beeped. Georgia took one last drag of beer, then set her bottle down next to the two that had preceded it and opened the door. Fragrant steam rushed out; a heady blend of tomato, basil, and MSG. Georgia reached in and grabbed the microwaveable plastic bowl, hissed and yanked her hand back again. She scanned the kitchen for something she could use as a potholder. Finally, she settled on a bunched-up paper towel. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she pulled out the pasta bowl. Georgia tensed, turned... ...Just in time to see her living room window explode inward in a hail of glass. She let out a startled shriek. A massive, dark creature suddenly occupied the space where her coffee table used to sit. Everything else seemed to happen in slow-motion. The creature straightened, shaking shards of glass off its dull black fur. Its ears twitched towards her. Its lips peeled back from its razor-sharp teeth. Georgia's chest seized. Recognition slammed through her. The creature snarled. Any lingering doubts she'd been harboring instantly evaporated. It was here. Georgia blindly hurled her steaming pasta bowl in the direction of the living room and bolted from the kitchen. She looked over in time to see it connect with a loud splat squarely between the intruder's eyes. The creature howled and clawed desperately at its face. Georgia didn't wait for it to recover. Her altar. If she could just get to her altar, she could banish the ugly fucker and buy herself some time. The creature was planted in the dead center of the straightest path across the living room. Georgia veered wide. She had almost cleared the front door when it flew open in a barrage of splinters. Someone barreled into her. They both sprawled to the ground. The new intruder landed on top. Georgia hissed, bucked, clawed at anything she could reach. Her mystery assailant scrambled off her. "Jesus Christ, would you calm down, you crazy—what the f*ck?" deCompostela. Georgia didn't let herself pause to feel relief. She rolled to her feet, grabbed his hand and dragged him after her. They dove behind her sagging couch just as the creature regained its bearings. It threw back its head and let out a roar that shook her remaining windows. Darius sniffed. "Is that tomato sauce?" Georgia didn't answer. Her focus was squarely on her altar again. It was still too far away. "Wait here." "What—" She leaped to her feet. The creature's eyes locked on her. Georgia swallowed the terror that welled in her chest and sprinted for the altar. She skidded to the floor in front of it like a baseball player sliding into home, yanked open one of the drawers and fumbled for the first items that came to mind. The creature roared again. A blast of superheated air hit the back of her neck. Georgia braced for the feel of teeth around her throat. "Right here, ugly!" She turned in time to see Darius' massive fist catch the creature square in the nose. The creature yelped, then retaliated with a swipe of an even-more-massive paw. The blow swept Darius clear off his feet. He flew backwards and hit the wall with a dull crunch, then sagged to the ground with a wheeze. Flecks of paint and drywall fluttered to the floor around him. But he'd bought her the time she needed. Georgia held up her black candle and flicked her Bic lighter to life. She touched the flame to the wick. The creature's eyes widened. "Black, the color of protection. Black, the color of night." The creature snarled. Darius heaved himself to his feet and surged forward. He wrapped his arms around the creature's hind legs and held tight. "Black, the color of silence. Black, the color of stillness." The creature swiped at Darius again. Its paw caught empty air where his head had been just seconds earlier. It tried to move. Darius' arms visibly tightened. Muscles bunched under his suit jacket. "With black I banish thee. With will I banish thee." Georgia poured intent into her words. Her voice grew heavier, fuller. "Return to the night. Return to the silence. Return to the stillness. Be gone from this place." The creature let out a strange yelp-hiss as invisible forces compelled it to obey. Darius released it and scrambled backwards. Georgia lifted her chin. Magic crackled through her veins, tinged her vision black. "Be gone from this place," she repeated. "With black and with will, by my power and by the power of the Lady, I banish thee. So mote it be." She blew out the candle. The creature vanished in a swirl of acrid black smoke. Its final, infuriated roar echoed through the small apartment. Georgia finally allowed herself to breathe again. For the first time, she realized she was coated in a fine film of glass and wood slivers. She reached up to dust herself off, at the last minute thought better of it. Instead, she turned to Darius. He had hauled himself onto her sad excuse of a sofa. His hands were planted on his knees. He stared at the spot where the creature had last stood. Georgia crossed her arms and cleared her throat. She waited until he looked up at her, then arched an eyebrow. "So. Do you believe me now?" Excerpt 2 She pushed through the glamour surrounding the exit, and shoved the door open. Next thing she knew, she was in a narrow alley. She allowed the door to slam shut behind her. It immediately vanished into the aged brick wall. Georgia sank against the side of the building. She bent forward and rested her hands on her knees. Fuck, was she stupid. What the hell had convinced her waltzing into a floating club was a good idea? She knew her history. She knew what people thought of her. She should have known better. Something that sounded suspiciously like a door opening echoed through the alley. Georgia hastily straightened and swiped her hands over her eyes. A second later, Darius was standing next to her. His eyes looked glazed, his face heavy. He shook himself hard. Georgia pressed her lips together and turned. "Wait." The word sounded slurred. Georgia ignored the twinge in her chest. "Forget it." "Georgia, wait." A hand closed around her arm. Georgia yanked free. Darius caught her again, this time spun her around to face him. She hadn't expected him to shake off the glamour so fast. Unbalanced, she stumbled headlong into his solid chest. He stiffened, then his arms closed around her. Her vision blurred. She'd always known the witching world didn't want her. Even so, she'd always maintained a tiny flicker of hope that maybe, someday, she might carve out a place for herself. It was stupid. Hell, she didn't even like most of the people in there. She certainly didn't understand them, any more than they understood her. The entire time she'd lived in the city, there was only one witch who had ever tried to connect with her. Only one witch who had given her a chance. Just her luck, that witch had gone and gotten herself murdered. Georgia squeezed her eyes shut. No good. All she saw was the same grotesque still life that had been haunting her all week. Study In Carnage. She tried to breathe. Thick metallic sweetness hit her tongue. She didn't realize she was shaking until she felt Darius' hand slide down her back. A low sound rumbled in his chest. The echoes of it reverberated deep inside her, in a place words couldn't reach. It took her a moment to realize he was shaking too; tight, controlled shivers she would have missed if they'd been farther apart. Georgia's head reeled. She didn't get this man. One minute he all but threw her to the wolves, the next...what? He felt her pain? She hesitated, then awkwardly laid her cheek against his chest. She lost track of how long they stood like that. Gradually, she became aware of other things. Of his large, impossibly gentle hand. Of the cool, subtle slide of his suit jacket beneath her palm. The fabric smelled expensive, but she kept catching a whiff of something else, too; something richly organic. She'd never smelled anything quite like it. She furrowed her forehead. Then it struck her. It was him. Darius deCompostela, distilled down to the essence. Georgia closed her eyes. The tightness in her chest eased. Several more minutes passed before she opened her eyes again and stepped back. It took several more before her head was settled enough to think. At last, she forced herself to look up. "You really don't want me around, do you?" Darius didn't answer. She tried again, her voice stronger. "Why? And don't try to feed me that Joe-Pesci-Lethal-Weapon line again. I'm a big girl. I can smell bullshit like that a mile away." Something occurred to her. "It's because I'm a witch, isn't it?" His dark eyes were impossible to read. "This is your world, Ms. Clare, not mine. But as long as I'm working this case, let me be clear: we're not partners. I don't work with people like you." She tried to be angry, but couldn't quite manage it. "I won't forget that." He didn't look away. "I know." Georgia swallowed hard. She turned and started down the alley again. This time, Darius didn't try to stop her. About the Author: L.J.K. Oliva is the devil-may-care alter-ego of noir romance novelist Laura Oliva. She likes her whiskey strong, her chocolate dark, and her steak bloody. L.J.K. likes monsters… and knows the darkest ones don’t live in closets. Amazon- http://www.amazon.com/author/lauraoliva Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/writinginthenight Twitter- https://twitter.com/writermama Goodreads- https://www.goodreads.com/lauraoliva-writinginthenight Pinterest- http://www.pinterest.com/authorljkoliva/ Website: http://ljkolivabooks.com Website: http://writebitches.com Newsletter Signup- http://eepurl.com/xRJuD Review of Season of the Witch Georgia witnesses her covens brutal slaying and is now being hunted by the creature that killed them. Unsure of where to turn, she decides to hire a private detective. Instead she gets his partner Darius, who is a medium and wants nothing to do with witches. After he helps Georgia escape the creature he gets drawn into her world. A well written story with some great characters. I love reading about witches and this book doesn't disappoint, I would definitely recommend this book. 1. Tell us about your witch and the powers she has. Georgia Clare is a black witch. In the world of my Shades Below series, black magic isn't actually evil; it just means a witch utilizes every kind of vibrational energy on the spectrum, not merely vibrations used in the lighter ranges. Basically, Georgia has almost unlimited raw power at her fingertips. 2. Where did you get the inspiration for your character? Honestly, she just sort of popped into my head. The heroine of the first book in Shades Below described Georgia as a "bookkeeper by day, badass biker witch by night". All of Georgia's character grew out of that description. 3. If you had a magical ability - what would it be and why? I would love to be able to write telepathically. I would have my entire series written by now! 4. Who is your favorite TV or movie witch? I really loved Seraphina Pekkala, from The Golden Compass (it was a book first, but they made it into a movie too, so it totally counts!). There was just something so earthy and badass about her. Instant girl crush. 5. If you had a familiar what would it be (you can choose any animal) and what would you call him/her? I think it would be a dog. A big dog. Preferably a German Shepherd. If it was a girl, I would name her Sheba (after my first GS dog). If it was a boy, I'd name it Winchester (Supernatural fans, you know what I'm talking about!). Witches have been on our screens for over fifty years. Bewitched was one of the earliest TV shows and featured Samantha Stephens - a witch who married a mortal. She was portrayed as a housewife and mother whose witchy ways interfered with her life and that of her husband Darrin. Over the years, witches have come out of the kitchen and now battle against the forces of darkness, one of the most famous being the Charmed sisters, in a TV show that ran for eight years. Aside from Charmed, witch series' have not had much success in recent years with The Secret Circle, Eastwick and Witches of East End being cancelled after only a season or two. Practical Magic and The Craft are arguably two of the most popular witch movies. Practical Magic features Sally and Gillian Owens, two witch sisters who live with their two aunts. There is a curse on the family which causes any man, who falls in love with an Owen's witch, to die. The two sisters attempt to find love, despite the curse while battling an evil spirit. The Craft features Robin Tunney, a natural witch who moves to a new town and meets three other witches. They form a coven and gain amazing powers. As they each get what they want, three of the girls become greedy and go after Robin Tunney's character. This movie showed the dark side of the craft and how if you harm another it will eventually come back on you. Bad witches always get their comeuppance while good witches try to help and protect humans. No matter what form they come in, witches continue to fascinate us. Who is your favorite on screen witch? You can vote below.   A local story now. Sharon Clarke has researched the Islandmagee Witch Trials:
Religious controversy ensues as Larne Borough Council plan to erect a plaque to commemorate the eight women of Islandmagee, a town steeped in bloodshed throughout the centuries, not least the thousands massacred in the Irish Rebellion of 1641. Local councillors believe devil worship will be incited and have moved to stop the memorial to the women who were tried as witches some 300 years ago. In the early 18th century in the County Antrim parish, the eight accused were among the last women to be tried and jailed as witches In Europe. The council is to remember their plight with a plaque in the coming weeks. It had initially been proposed by John Matthews, the Alliance councillor. Mr Matthews said it would show recognition of the injustice and it would be of relevance as the women still had existing family in the area. Fair enough I hear you say, however, it was deemed a gross abuse of the legal system as it was based solely on one woman’s account, with no proper evidence. Thank goodness we have come out of the dark ages and Paganism and Wicca are completely acceptable nowadays, but some people strongly disagree and believe the plaque is anti-God and in support of the devils work. Such a voice is the veteran unionist councillor Jack McKee, who stated under no circumstances would he support devil worship. Let’s leave Mr McKee for now and focus on the story. Back in 1711, eight females were accused by 18-year-old Mary Dunbar of having cast spells on her. Mary had symptoms of fitting, swearing, throwing bibles, inappropriate behaviour and allegedly vomiting household objects. The case and accounts of Mary Dunbar have been investigated by many historians over the years. One researcher from the University of Ulster, Dr Andrew Sneddon claims she faked her symptoms in an attempt to gain notoriety and fame. However with any historical accounts there is always a twist and one that slips through the net. In 1710 a Mrs Haltridge had been affected by poltergeists. She couldn’t sleep, clothes were thrown about and she regularly saw a small boy who didn’t seem quite human. One night she was heard screaming that she was being attacked by a knife and she was later found dead. In 1711 Mrs Haltridge’s daughter in law was visited by one Mary Dunbar who was asking a lot of questions. In no time she was suddenly exclaiming that she too had these experiences and had been cursed by women in the village. She named eight women who were immediately arrested. They were found guilty and condemned to one year in prison and 4 times pillorying. No records of Mary after this were found and this has been attributed to records being destroyed in the Irish civil war. So was Mary a sensationalist and Mrs Haltridge the true paranormal story here that no one ever uncovered? Meanwhile seemingly innocent women got caught up in it all and had their lives ruined. Let’s look at Mary’s so-called possession – It allowed her to misbehave and she became a household name. It seems suspicious that the women she named were physically and mentally not sound by way of disablement or alcoholics etc. whilst she herself was beautiful, educated and from a respected family. There was no doubt who would be believed by the authorities. I had the privilege to undertake two paranormal investigations in Islandmagee last year, two private residences in close proximity to each other. One house was owned by a female the other house a male – let’s call them Jane and John for confidential reasons. Jane was uneasy in the house, things moved, voices were heard and she had found out a few deaths had occurred in her property, two of them being young infants. She would be woken by crying and loud thuds and bangs. John had witnessed an apparition walking across his garden dressed in old style military uniform. I researched his description and it fitted the uniform of the royal army in the 18th century. He also smelt smoke in the house and had been grabbed by the ankle in bed. After conducting my interviews, I deemed them both mentally sound and proceeded with the investigations. It’s very hard to decipher Jane’s house as an Ouija board had been used, so whether it was an old soul or something manifested was hard to determine. She didn’t want any more intervention as she felt it was disrespectful to whatever might be there. John felt the same, however he was more curious and our investigation picked up a range of activity that seemed to point to his mother – was she there to protect him from the soldier? It is a very small example of how much history one small town in Ireland holds. This country is steeped in history, myths, legends and spirits and when we research paranormal activity and undertake investigations it is amazing what we come across. Unfortunately though, however much we are blessed with this history we are also plagued with narrow minded die hard religious fanatics who deem anything relating to Wicca, Paganism or the paranormal the work of the devil – fear is a strange thing though, perhaps they are afraid of what they might find? Sharon Clarke: I am a paranormal researcher/investigator, founder of Pacem Paranormal Research Team. I work for haunted-media and I am a resident writer for http://www.spookyisles.com. My background is in anthropology, psychiatric nursing and media and I am currently writing a novel.
Kelley Armstrong is the author of the Women of the Otherworld series including Dime Store Magic, Industrial Magic and Waking the Witch which feature Paige Winterbourne and Savannah Levine. Two very powerful witches in a world full of supernatural beings.
1. Tell us about your witch and the powers she has. My primary witch is Paige Winterbourne. I have other main characters who are witches combined with other races (Eve Levine is also half demon and her daughter Savannah is also a sorcerer) but Paige is all witch. She has the ability to cast spells. In my fictional universe, that’s a hereditary power, but the witches must learn and practice the spells. The harder they are, the tougher they are to get right and the more “juice” they use. 2. Where did you get the inspiration for your character? I introduced Paige in the book before Dime Store Magic. I knew I wanted a witch character, so I started building her while, at the same time, deciding what witches would be like in my world. Because I’d just finished two books with Elena, one thing I wanted was to be sure Paige wasn’t just a witch version of the same character, so the two women ended up being very different! 3. If you had a magical ability - what would it be and why? I would love to be a werewolf. What better thrill than to experience life in a different form? The secondary characteristics would be cool, too, but those "extras" also make it hard for werewolves to blend, so if I was being very practical, I'd go with a witch, though. Their powers take work to learn, but overall they have fewer drawbacks. 4. Who is your favorite TV or movie witch? Well, if I can do any spell-casting female, I’d have to go with Hermione Granger from Harry Potter. She’s an awesome character—smart, powerful, loyal and yet flawed. 5. If you had a familiar what would it be (you can choose any animal) and what would you call him/her? Good question! I’m terribly fond of wolves, but I’m not sure they’d make the best familiar. I think I’d go with a big cat, probably a mountain lion. As for a name…well, I have a mountain lion shifter in my teen series named Maya, so I’d amuse myself by naming my familiar the same thing. http://www.kelleyarmstrong.com |
 
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About the Author:S. K. Gregory is an author, editor and blogger. She currently resides in Northern Ireland. “Description begins in the writer’s imagination, but should finish in the reader’s.” 
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