Witches Brew Quotes

She brooded and bit her rich lips: my soul began its first sink into her, deep, heady, lost; like drowning in a witches' brew, Keltic, sorcerous, starlike.

The hole in the ozone layer is a kind of skywriting. At first it seemed to spell out our continuing complacency before a witch's brew of deadly perils. But perhaps it really tells of a newfound talent to work together to protect the global environment.

Poetry operates by hints and dark suggestions. It is full of secrets and hidden formulae, like a witch's brew.

Something shadowy and female happened between them, as mysterious and primal as witches’ brew.

Am I witch? I don't know. That's what they call me. They say it's because I follow the rhythms of the earth, honor the seasons, dance under the moon and seek the ancient herbal wisdom of our ancestors. "Folk Lore, poppycock, myths," they say as they sneer at the rosemary in my cup, the comfrey brewing on the stove and turmeric stains on my hands. "Western medicine and science have replaced all that nonsense," they say. They make witches out to be evil and then call me a witch because I am seeking the knowledge & ancient wisdom that the world seems hell bent on forgetting. Well, they can call me what they like, but I know I am not evil. This is what I know: I am an intuitive woman who instinctively knows that this sacred earth holds healing that western medicine will never be able to replace. I will be here holding space. I will be their witch. So, here I am- A kitchen witch sipping her Rosemary tea, mixing up her herbal potion, dancing under the moon, and fighting for the knowledge & wisdom of our grandmothers to not be forgotten.

hither,hither, from thy home,airy sprite, i bid thee come! born of roses, fed on dew, charms and potions canst thow brew? bring me here, with elfin speed,the fragment philter witch i need; make it sweet and swift and stong, spirite amserw now my song hither i come, from my airy home, afar silver moon. take magic spell, and use it well. or its powers will vanish soon!

The men stop coming after Hunt goes missing. We learned from the last brave soul to visit that they whispered all sorts of stories to answer his disappearance. My favorite is that we ate him. We cooked him up with our whore-earned corn, a dozen rats’ eyes, and a bat wing. Even I couldn’t have thought of anything more perfect.

I wonder what I'm really doing out here with a magic dog, a trigger-happy girl and her mute sister, and a trail of dead witches in my wake.

My mind was flying high that day, courtesy of whatever witches' brew of neurotransmitters God had programmed into my genes...

Ticked, I looked across the street to the Starbucks catering to uptown snits who needed sixty different ways to brew a bean in order to not be happy with any of them.

On Hallows Eve, we witches meet to broil and bubble tasty treats like goblin thumbs with venom dip, crisp bat wings, and fried fingertips. We bake the loudest cackle crunch, and brew the thickest quagmire punch. Delicious are the rotting flies when sprinkled over spider pies. And, my oh my, the ogre brains all scrambled up with wolf remains! But what I love the most, it’s true, are festered boils mixed in a stew. They cook up oh so tenderly. It goes quite well with mugwort tea. So don’t be shy; the cauldron’s hot. Jump in! We witches eat a lot!

A year [after the passage of the Voting Rights Act of 1965], the white backlash had become an emotional electoral issue in California, Maryland and elsewhere. In several Southern states men long regarded as political clowns had become governors or only narrowly missed election, their magic achieved with a “witches’” brew of bigotry, prejudice, half-truths and whole lies.

He took another quick swallow of the coffee. Tasted awful to him, though it was good coffee, he’d brewed it himself. A beer was what he wanted. Not to have a beer right now was like not breathing. But it was just too great a risk.

A witch there was, who webs could weave to snare the heart and wits to reave, who span dark spells with spider-craft, and as she span she softly laughed; a drink she brewed of strength and dread to bind the quick and stir the dead. In a cave she housed where winging bats their harbour sought, and owls and cats from hunting came with mournful cries, night-stalking near with needle eyes.

I was a simple girl. And I honestly didn’t want to debate whether a fallen tree really made a sound in the woods if no one was there to hear it. I’d rather discuss what kind of tree it was and if it held any medicinal properties that could be brewed into a healthful tea.

Pseudoscience often relies on a witches' brew of scientific terms (e.g. "wavelength," "energy fields," "vibrations") half-baked into simplistic metaphors that do not correspond with testable reality. In some cases, pseudoscience simply relies on language that is deliberately vague and poorly defined to deceive. While outright lunacy is almost always easy to spot, the most dangerous of pseudoscientific meanderings are those filled with scientific terminology that, even for experts, can initially be daunting and impressive. Upon dissection, however, the terminology is invariably found to be misused, or used in a context far from accepted understanding. However convincing and artful, however much we may even wish the conclusions to be true, monuments built in such shifting sands cannot withstand the inevitable tests of time.

I am a hero. It is a trade, no more, like weaving or brewing, and like them it has its own tricks and knacks and small arts. There are ways of perceiving witches, and of knowing poison streams; there are certain weak spots that all dragons have, and certain riddles that hooded strangers tend to set you. But the true secret of being a hero lies in knowing the order of things. The swineherd cannot already be wed to the princess when he embarks on his adventures, nor can the boy knock at the witch's door when she is away on vacation. The wicked uncle cannot be found out and foiled before he does something wicked. Things must happen when it is time for them to happen. Quests may not simply be abandoned; prophecies may not be left to rot like unpicked fruit; unicorns may go unrescued for a long time, but not forever. The happy ending cannot come in the middle of the story. Heroes know about order, about happy endings -- heroes know that some things are better than others.

Witches Brew Keep in mind that this recipe is from the 1980s!        6 tea bags of your choice (I use a spice tea)        1 can frozen orange juice        1 can frozen lemonade        3 cinnamon sticks        1 tablespoon cloves        Grab the biggest pot in your kitchen and add 4 quarts of water. Bring to a slow boil and add the tea bags. Let steep for 7 minutes. Remove the tea bags and add the frozen juice, lemonade, cinnamon sticks, and cloves. Simmer on medium heat for at least 30 minutes. To serve, strain out the spices and ladle into a teacup. Splash in a healthy dose of whiskey to make it interesting.

You can come at me with as many excuses as you’d like, but I won’t relent until you give in and do something far more delicious with your mouth than argue.” -Kale

heart was racing.

fool me once, shame on me, fool me twice, and I’ll fucking end you.

Love. Family. Vulnerability … Her three weakest points all brewed together to make her feel wholly unlike herself.

Come for me, my little witch. Come all over this cock.

Should we trust the scientists and the so called experts that created the endless parade of pharmaceutical concoctions that we see advertised on TV? ads that are soon discontinued as they're followed up by an avalanche of commercials from legal firms inviting people who are permanently damaged or worse from last week's big pharma witch's Brew to sue for damages...

Birkenau simmered in the July sun like some hideous brew, a witch's potion of blood, sweat, smoke, and excrement worthy of something the weird sisters might have cooked up in Macbeth.

My mind was flying high that day, courtesy of whatever witches’ brew of neurotransmitters God had programmed into my genes, and I filled page after page with what I am sure, thinking back on it, were very strange responses.

In my opinion, there’s something inexplicably wrong with your life when you find yourself in a strip club before noon on a weekday. To me, it felt as culturally insensitive as using a fork to eat sushi: just because you can do it, doesn’t mean you should.

The Body As Braille” He tells me “your back is so beautiful.” He traces my spine with his hand. I’m burning like the white ring around the moon. “A witch’s moon,” dijo mi abuela. The schools call it “a reflection of ice crystals.” It’s a storm brewing in the cauldron of the sky. I’m in love but won’t tell him if it’s omens or ice.

Somewhere in the secret recesses of Pfizer, or GlaxoSmithKline, or one of the big pharmaceutical companies, I imagine there's a high security dungeon where three hunchbacked witches stir a massive industrial cauldron of crap I don't want to know about, but I must ingest on a daily basis. And the generic versions aren't even brewed by real witches.

Don't cure me, Mother, I couldn't bear the bath of your bitter spittle. No salve no ointment in a doctor's tube, no brew in a witch's kettle, no lover's mouth, no friend or god could heal me if your heart turned in anathema, grew stone against me. Defenseless and naked as the day I slid from you twin voices keening and the cord pulsing our common protests, I'm coming back back to you woman, flesh of your woman's flesh, your fairest, most faithful mirror, my love transversing me like a filament wired to the noonday sun. Receive me, Mother.

a small but functional kitchen which seemed overwhelmed by the sheer volume of assorted cookware. Pots, pans, cutting boards, strainers, even a damn rolling pin lay strewn about—as if at any moment Suzy Homemaker might burst in to bake us a fucking souffle. Now, before you start defending your God-given right to bear Teflon, keep in mind I have nothing against people who religiously cook their own meals—I simply don’t understand them. Especially my fellow city dwellers. I mean, why waste all that time preparing dinner when you live in a town chock full of restaurants and bars that deliver damn near 24/7?

The pirogues came with live turtles, and with fish, with cloudy beer and wine made from bananas, palm nuts, or sorghum, and with the smoked meat of hippopotamus and crocodile. The vendors did a good trade with our crew and the passengers down at the third-class boat; the laughter, the exclamations, and the argument of bargaining were with us all day, heard but not understood, like voices in the next room. At stopping places, the people who were nourished on these ingredients of a witches' brew poured ashore across the single plank flung down for them, very human in contour, the flesh of the children sweet, the men and women strong and sometimes handsome. We, thank God, were fed on veal and ham and Brussels sprouts, brought frozen from Europe.

So you were bored and decided to come looking for me?” He trailed a finger over the exposed part of her upper chest. “Something like that.” Blushing prettily, she brushed his hand away, but not before giving his fingers a squeeze. “Well, I’m busy, so unless you want to help Heather and me in our endeavors, you will have to find some way to amuse yourself.” Grey sighed. “All right, I’ll go, but only because I’m likely to ruin whatever beautification potions you two lovely witches are brewing.” Behind Rose, the maid Heather giggled. Grey grinned at Rose’s wide-eyed disbelief as she looked at first her maid and then him. “Have you always charmed women so easily?” Grey’s humor faded. “I’m afraid so.” And then softly, “It if offends you…” She shoved her palm into his shoulder. “Don’t be an idiot. Flirt with my maid all you want. But I don’t want to hear anything from you when I smile at the footmen.” God she was amazing. He slipped his arms around her, no caring that the maid could see, even though she made a great pretense of not looking. “Are you going out tonight?” Rose pushed against his chest. “Grey, I’m all sweat and grime.” “I don’t care. Answer me, are you going out?” She arched a brow. “Are you trying to get rid of me?” “No.” He held her gaze as he lowered his head, but he didn’t kiss her. He simply let the words drift across her sweet lips. “I’d keep you here every night if I could.” She shivered delicately. Christ, he could kiss her. He could make love to her right there. “All you have to do is ask.” “I won’t have you give up your society for me.” Something flickered in her dark eyes. “It wouldn’t be much of a sacrifice.” Because of the gossip? How long before she began to resent him for it? He could just push her away and be done with it-tell her to go out and find herself a lover, but he would rather carve up the rest of his face than do that. Instead, he took the coward’s route. He didn’t ask for an explanation. He didn’t want to know what she’d heart about him or what they’d said about her. He simply smiled and decided to take advantage of what time he had left. Because he loved having her with him, and spending what had always been lonely hours in company better than any he might have deserved or ever wished for. “You are sweaty and grimy,” he murmured in his most seductive tones. “And now I find I am as well. Shall we meet in the bath in, say, twenty minutes? I’ll scrub your back if you’ll scrub mine.” Of course, when she joined him later, and their naked bodies came together in the hot, soapy water, all thoughts of scrubbing disappeared. And so did-for a brief while-all of Grey’s misgivings. But he knew they’d be back.

Rye growers face another challenge: the grain is vulnerable to a fungus called ergot (Claviceps purpurea). The spores attack open flowers, pretending to be a grain of pollen, which gives them access to the ovary. Once inside, the fungus takes the place of the embryonic grain along the stalk, sometimes looking so much like grain that it is difficult to spot an infected plant. Until the late nineteenth century, botanists thought the odd dark growths were part of the normal appearance of rye. Although the fungus does not kill the plant, it is toxic to people: it contains a precursor to LSD that survives the process of being brewed into beer or baked into bread. While a psychoactive beer might sound appealing, the reality was quite horrible. Ergot poisoning causes miscarriage, seizures, and psychosis, and it can be deadly. In the Middle Ages, outbreaks called St. Anthony’s fire or dancing mania made entire villages go crazy at once. Because rye was a peasant grain, outbreaks of the illness were more common among the lower class, fueling revolutions and peasant uprisings. Some historians have speculated that the Salem witch trials came about because girls poisoned by ergot had seizures that led townspeople to conclude that they’d been bewitched. Fortunately, it’s easy to treat rye for ergot infestation: a rinse in a salt solution kills the fungus.

None,” Einstein said. “Relativity is a purely scientific matter and has nothing to do with religion.”51 That was no doubt true. However, there was a more complex relationship between Einstein’s theories and the whole witch’s brew of ideas and emotions in the early twentieth century that bubbled up from the highly charged cauldron of modernism. In his novel Balthazar, Lawrence Durrell had his character declare, “The Relativity proposition was directly responsible for abstract painting, atonal music, and formless literature.” The relativity proposition, of course, was not directly responsible for any of this. Instead, its relationship with modernism was more mysteriously interactive. There are historical moments when an alignment of forces causes a shift in human outlook. It happened to art and philosophy and science at the beginning of the Renaissance, and again at the beginning of the Enlightenment. Now, in the early twentieth century, modernism was born by the breaking of the old strictures and verities. A spontaneous combustion occurred that included the works of Einstein, Picasso, Matisse, Stravinsky, Schoenberg, Joyce, Eliot, Proust, Diaghilev, Freud, Wittgenstein, and dozens of other path-breakers who seemed to break the bonds of classical thinking.52 In his book Einstein, Picasso: Space, Time, and the Beauty That Causes Havoc, the historian of science and philosophy Arthur I. Miller explored the common wellsprings that produced, for example, the 1905 special theory of relativity and Picasso’s 1907 modernist masterpiece Les Demoiselles d’Avignon.

The words and ways this requires are…potent. They come at a price—power always does. This isn’t a matter of wrong or right, you understand, but merely the working of the world. If you want strength, if you want to survive, there must be sacrifice.” That’s not what Mags taught them. You can tell the wickedness of a witch by the wickedness of her ways. “So who paid your price?” He bends his neck to look directly at her, weighing something. “A fever spread through my parents’ village that first winter.” The word fever rings in Juniper’s ears, a distant bell toiling. “It was nothing too remarkable, except the midwives and wise women couldn’t cure it. One of them came sniffing around, made certain deductions…I took her shadow, too. And the sickness spread further. The villagers grew unruly. Hysterical. I did what I had to do in order to protect myself.” That line has smoothed-over feel, like a polished pebble, as if he’s said it many times to himself. “But then of course the fever spread even further… I didn’t know how to control it, yet. Which kinda of people were expendable and which weren’t. I’m more careful these days.” The ringing in Juniper’s ears is louder now, deafening. An uncanny illness, the Three had called it. Juniper remembers the illustrations in Miss Hurston’s moldy schoolbooks, showing abandoned villages and overfull graveyards, carts piled high with bloated bodies. Was that Gideon’s price? Had the entire world paid for the sins of one broken, bitter boy? And—were they paying again? I’m more careful these days. Juniper thinks of Eve’s labored breathing, the endless rows of cots at Charity Hospital, the fever that raged through the city’s tenements and row houses and dim alleys, preying on the poor and brown and foreign—the expendable. Oh, you bastard. But Hill doesn’t seem to hear the hitch in her breathing. “People grew frightened, angry. They marched on my village with torches, looking for a villain. So I gave them one.” Hill lifts both hands, palm up: What would you have of me? “I told them a story about an old witch woman who lived in a hut in the roots of an old oak. I told them she spoke with devils and brewed pestilence and death in her cauldron. They believed me.” His voice is perfectly dispassionate, neither guilty nor grieving. “They burned her books and then her. When they left my village I left with them, riding at their head.” So: the young George of Hyll had broken the world, then pointed his finger at his fellow witches like a little boy caught making a mess. He had survived, at any cost, at every cost. Oh, you absolute damn bastard.

Kale appeared to understand that a witch’s body enjoyed tenderness. But I didn’t doubt his hands could be rough when he wanted it.

Several centuries ago it was believed that the fly agaric, combined with the bufotenin–containing mucus of toads, was an ingredient of witches' brews, which made flying on their broomsticks possible. Even Santa Claus and Father Christmas are connected to Fly Agaric and their reindeer, which, by the way, like their portion of fly agarics and 'living' water.

The gondola slowed to a stop and Falco tied up the boat directly beneath the bridge. The stone structure blocked out the light and the wind, making Cass feel as if she and Falco were alone in a warm, dark room. “Here,” he said, pulling a flask from his cloak pocket. “Celebratory libations.” “What are we celebrating?” she asked. “We set out to discover the dead girl’s identity,” Falco said. “And we did.” He pressed the slick metal container into Cass’s palm. “I say that’s progress.” Cass sniffed the flash warily. The liquid within smelled sharp and sour, almost chemical. “What is it?” she asked. “Some witches’ brew I found in my master’s studio. Go on, try it.” He winked. “Unless you’re afraid.” Cass put her lips to the flask and tipped it up just enough to let a tiny sip of liquid make its way into her mouth. She held her breath to keep from gagging. Whatever it was, it tasted awful, nothing like the tart sweetness of the burgundy wine to which she was accustomed. Falco took the flask back and shook it in his hand as if he were weighing it. “You didn’t even take a drink, did you?” “I did so.” Falco shook the container again. “I don’t believe you.” Cass leaned in toward him and blew gently in his face. “See? You can smell that ghastly poison on my breath.” Falco sniffed the air. “All I smell is canal water, and a hint of flowers, probably from whatever soap you use on your hair.” He put his face very close to Cass’s, reached out, and tilted her chin toward him. “Try again.” Her lips were mere inches from his. Cass struggled to exhale. Her chest tightened as the air trickled out of her body. She noticed a V-shaped scar beneath Falco’s right eye. She was seized by an irrational urge to touch her lips to the small imperfection. “What about now?” she asked. Falco brushed a spiral of hair from her freckled cheek and touched his forehead to hers. “One more time?” He closed his eyes. He reached up with one of his hands and cradled the back of her head, pulling her toward him.

To me, it felt as culturally insensitive as using a fork to eat sushi: just because you can do it, doesn’t mean you should.

Elves didn’t feed milk to their children after they were weaned. Why Humans thought cow’s milk was necessary for their children was beyond me. Shouldn’t the cows be feeding their calves instead?

We do have warded cells for paranormals, you know.” I stuck my tongue out at him. “My boyfriend’s a realm walker. Top that, Mr. FBI Agent.

So, we’ve raised children,” Marnie countered. “Some of them are even tolerable.

My hair often has a mind of its own. This morning, apparently, it was feeling batshit crazy. Instead

She shifts from one extreme to the other. One minute she’s an optimist, and the next she’s a pessimist. It’s

With Storm, the backyard wasn’t just the backyard. It was an enchanted forest and a medieval battlefield and a haunted fortress. We spent our days building faerie traps under the oak tree and collecting ingredients for witches’ brews. Being with Storm was everything, and I wanted to be just like her. Our days were filled with make-believe and magic,

Gerbert, by the window, shuddered; his mouth contorted. The witch began to twist faster and faster while her twin was talking to Gisela, mumbling to her, marching old holy words straight through the child’s ear into her skull, where they entered the bloodstream and looked for the enemy. The monk’s fingers twitched in the same rhythm and he found himself falling into a trance. He knew it would be dangerous to witness the witches brewing and dancing but there was an energy in it that he’d missed badly since he’d been asked to educate the young princess. Gerbert didn’t even notice when the hags stopped, tucked the girl in, rubbed the concoction on her lips and left for the unseen place from which they had come. Gisela healed quickly thereafter: The fever fell that same night and she asked for solid food the next morning. She had no memory of what had happened, but when she bounced on one leg across the meadow in the castle yard, she chanted a little melody that had not been heard in church, an odd melody that made Gerbert’s ears prick up because he sensed the uncanny in it.

I am Gardnerian. As such, I’m barely tolerated here, stranded in a sea of Kelts, allowed to exist only because my aptitude for healing brews is considered useful in this tiny, remote village. It would be easier, perhaps, if my appearance didn’t set me apart so much. My forest-green eyes and dark hair might seem unremarkable, but the black tunic and long skirt I wear, paired with a silver Erthia orb necklace, mark me as one of the First Children. And the way my skin shimmers a faint emerald in the dark—perhaps the most undeniable sign of all—makes it impossible for me to hide what I am. A Gardnerian Mage. Hated by all but my own people.

For Nietzsche, Sartre, and Heidegger, we are a witch’s brew of culture, feelings, experiences, and evaluations, and we create ourselves out of this mélange, as though our lives were an artwork.

The concept of witchcraft has existed for centuries upon centuries, perhaps since the beginning of time. The word "witch" probably conjures up images of fair maidens or old crones who use cunning and magical abilities to wreak havoc on their neighbourhood. As it turns out, your opinion about witches is not only wrong but also dated.

Age can impart wisdom, but in my experience, sheer stupidity was incurable.

What are our learned men save the descendants of witches and hermits who crouched in caves and in woods brewing herbs, interrogating shrew-mice and writing down the language of the stars? And the less we honour them as our superstitions dwindle and our respect for beauty and health of mind increases...

Anyway, you were the one who answered the door,

work security at one of the warehouse complexes outside of town.

one of my problems has always been that I can never identify and avoid, in the moment, behavior that will come across as dickish and insufferable. I can, however, thanks to my self-critical nature (a volatile witch’s brew of blessing and curse), almost always identify my mistakes in retrospect, sometimes just moments too late, and so I live with the constant feeling that I have been tied to a post on the beach and left to face an endlessly incoming tide of shame

Tyler

According to The Dark History Of The Henbane Witches (the book Staten’d showed me) the Witches once utilised the catacombs as a safe haven to conduct ceremonies, brew potions and frig each other with their broomsticks. (Admittedly, the frigging part wasn’t mentioned, but if I was willing to start another rumour…) Anyway, my question was this: had the Mortifera (perhaps like I said, some secret ongoing club) set up HQ down there in the days after the witches had abandoned the place?

I glance back to the battle to find a witch with skin as dark as ebony screaming at the wizard, who’s near-on seven feet tall. Here we go, I think. They may be on the same side, but wizards and witches will never be friends. “It’s like reality TV,” Laney says. “The Real Housewitches of West Virginia.

Turing’s secret had been exposed, and his sexuality was now public knowledge. The British Government withdrew his security clearance. He was forbidden to work on research projects relating to the development of the computer. He was forced to consult a psychiatrist and had to undergo hormone treatment, which made him impotent and obese. Over the next two years he became severely depressed, and on June 7, 1954, he went to his bedroom, carrying with him a jar of cyanide solution and an apple. Twenty years earlier he had chanted the rhyme of the Wicked Witch: “Dip the apple in the brew, Let the sleeping death seep through.” Now he was ready to obey her incantation. He dipped the apple in the cyanide and took several bites. At the age of just forty-two, one of the true geniuses of cryptanalysis committed suicide.

But Wiccans and Druids...don’t they brew potions? Cast spells? Build amulets? If that’s not witchcraft...” Maria laughed. “Madam, we Catholics use holy water, perform exorcisms, wear crucifixes round our necks...are these not potions and spells? Are we witches?” Joyce

witching

The air is pure here, scented only with perfume as I gaze around me at my chamber. Seated at my mirror, I look almost as a courtesan might once have done. My hair is long and a deep, natural red. It’s a colour women once tried to replicate but never got quite right. It’s long and sleek, my eyes a pale blue, like the sky reflected off the water in the earliest hours of morning. The water is no longer that colour now – it’s as if night never lifted. The invaders have darkened the skies with clouds that shift and roil like a witch’s vile brew. I shift my thoughts away from it and it becomes a memory, easily forgotten for the moment as I watch myself in the mirror.

Finally, out of breath, they tried to slip behind some trash cans at the end of a narrow alley. But Floyd ducked a moment too late, and Alice’s rabbit ears gave them away. Leona squealed with delight. Yo Ho Ho! I see something funny. It’s Pirate Floyd And his baby bunny! The witches roared with laughter and slapped each other on the back. Floyd winced, but as he drew his saber, his face lit up with a pirate’s grin. First, he kept the witches at bay so his friends could carry little Alice to safety. Then, growling like a movie pirate, he swung out of reach on an overhanging tree limb, turned a quick flip, and somersaulted backward over the fence. “I didn’t know you could do that,” Mona said. Floyd looked surprised. “Neither did I.” “Come on,” shouted Wendell. “They’re right behind us!” They ran until they found themselves in an even stranger part of town. “It’s pretty creepy around here,” muttered Floyd. Wendell suggested they hide in the graveyard, but Mona scoffed. “You’ve got to be kidding.” “No, it’s perfect. They’ll never follow us into a place like this.” Actually, the witches didn’t mind the graveyard at all. “We see you, Wendell!” Leona crowed. What’s wrong with Wendell? Let me think. He must be MAD ‘Cause he’s dressed in pink! The witches shrieked and hooted, laughing so hard they nearly cried. For a moment Wendell’s face turned as pink as his smock. But then an idea began to brew. He reached into his mad scientist’s kit and started mixing potions. “Drink this!” he told his friends. “It will make us invisible.” At the word “invisible” the witches roared even louder. But their laughter turned to puzzled yelps when Wendell, Floyd, Mona, and Alice suddenly disappeared!

Hurry up!” said a ghoul who started to yawn. “There’s so much to do before bedtime at dawn.” So the witches brewed up a magical potion, which set every monster and goblin in motion. They blew up balloons, and hung streamers and lights, and decorated till the wee hours of night.

It’s not...witchcraft, is it?” “Oh no,” Maria exclaimed. “It is more like a lot of these, how you call, new age religions: Wicca, Druids...all ancient religions, so I do not understand why people call them ‘new’ age.” “But Wiccans and Druids...don’t they brew potions? Cast spells? Build amulets? If that’s not witchcraft...” Maria laughed. “Madam, we Catholics use holy water, perform exorcisms, wear crucifixes round our necks...are these not potions and spells? Are we witches?

Clear Skin     You will need: Aloe Vera 3 drops of tea tree oil 2 drop of witch hazel 5 fresh mint leaves 6 lemon leaves 3 cups pure spring water   Instructions: Add all the ingredients to a cauldron/saucepan and bring to the boil. Allow to cool. Before dabbing onto skin recite the following:   I have brewed this potion, To make a clear skin lotion.

Alan Turing was another cryptanalyst who did not live long enough to receive any public recognition. Instead of being acclaimed a hero, he was persecuted for his homosexuality. In 1952, while reporting a burglary to the police, he naively revealed that he was having a homosexual relationship. The police felt they had no option but to arrest and charge him with “Gross Indecency contrary to Section 11 of the Criminal Law Amendment Act 1885.” The newspapers reported the subsequent trial and conviction, and Turing was publicly humiliated. Turing’s secret had been exposed, and his sexuality was now public knowledge. The British Government withdrew his security clearance. He was forbidden to work on research projects relating to the development of the computer. He was forced to consult a psychiatrist and had to undergo hormone treatment, which made him impotent and obese. Over the next two years he became severely depressed, and on June 7, 1954, he went to his bedroom, carrying with him a jar of cyanide solution and an apple. Twenty years earlier he had chanted the rhyme of the Wicked Witch: “Dip the apple in the brew, Let the sleeping death seep through.” Now he was ready to obey her incantation. He dipped the apple in the cyanide and took several bites. At the age of just forty-two, one of the true geniuses of cryptanalysis committed suicide.

This witch’s brew of vulnerability and fear and hope makes dawn the time when we can best hear whatever it is our ghosts are trying to tell us. But

I wasn't born, I was brewed in a witches cauldron and came out with good taste, too many side effects and without a cure.

men seem to use the word witch more than women. That’s because men have more power than women, and any threat to that power becomes a source of fear. When any person, man or woman, has wealth and influence, it tends to ensure a comfortable living for them and their families, and they will lash out at anyone who might try to take it from them.’ ‘I don’t understand how a witch having power means a man will lose his wealth,’ I said. Mother chuckled appreciatively. ‘Precisely. If a woman is called a witch, and ostracised and forced out of all good society, then other women won’t be influenced by her. Well, that’s what the men and sometimes women, think. Men see women as their property. They think to own them, and their bodies, like a horse, or a cow. Witches are often herbalists or nature worshippers who make their own coin, using knowledge of the lands to brew potions and remedies. There was an instance where a witch was drowned after being accused of planting bitter herbs in a farmer’s field which ruined his crops. The post-mortem found her with child, and the wife admitted to knowing it belonged to her husband.’ ‘So he lied.’ ‘Yes, and then in his defence stated the witch had used a powerful love potion to make him give her a child.’ ‘And they believed him?’ I said in astonishment.  ‘Unless it can be proved different, a man’s word is often taken over a woman’s, especially if that woman has a poor reputation.’ ‘Can

Do I need a wand or something?” Honey smirked. “No, no wand, no robes, no Hogwarts sorting hat.

My rules with ghosts were, funnily enough, the same as my rules with spiders: you can share my space with me as long as I never have to see you.

How long have you lived here?” I asked. “Six years. Came for Christmas one year, fell in love. I’m basically a Hallmark heroine, except my true love is the town instead of a Christmas tree farmer or a cute handyman. Though,

I should be upset about not getting my letter to Hogwarts as a child, I

But that was before he’d done what he did in the square: he’d turned Sydney into a Slime and ditched her in a pool of water in the exploded half of the city. Then he’d pocketed the remaining Vex wings and lied to the Mayor, told him that PAUL’S POTIONS—the shop where he had purchased that final potion ingredient—had already been turned to swamp when he arrived. He had prevented the brewing of Miss Witch’s Slime-speak potion. As such, he had prevented the repair of the command block. By extension, he had delayed the de-swampification of Fortune City, and Sydney the Silent along with it. And therefore, he had stopped Sydney from being able to present King Reginald her stack of charged Creeper heads. Steve had won.

The future is never fixed, Mistaya. For each of us it is an empty canvas on which we must paint our lives.

I know the ingredients that will conjure luck and I can brew a potion to talk to the dead, but no one ever taught me how to speak a truth that is uncomfortable.

These men developed a kind of Freudian-Marxism, or “Freudo-Marxism,” integrating the extraordinarily bad but influential twentieth-century ideas of Sigmund Freud with the extraordinarily bad but influential nineteenth-century teachings of Karl Marx. This was no match made in heaven. The noxious Marx had conjured up the most toxic ideas of the nineteenth century, whereas the neurotic Freud had cooked up the most infantile ideas of the twentieth century. Swirling the insipid ideas of those two ideological-psychological basket cases into a single malevolent witch’s brew was bound to uncork a barrel of mischief. The Frankfurt School was the laboratory and the distillery for their concoction, and the children of the 1960s would be their twitching guinea pigs and guzzling alcoholics. The flower-children, the hippies, the Yippies, the Woodstock generation, the Haight-Asbury LSD dancers, the sex-lib kids would all drink deep from the magic chalice, intoxicated by lofty dreams (more like hallucinations and bad acid-trips) of fundamental transformation of the culture, country, and world. And a generation or two still later, they would become the nutty professors who mixed the Kool-Aid for the millennials who would merrily redefine everything from marriage to sexuality to gender, wittingly or not serving the Frankenstein monster of cultural Marxism by doing so.

Where Storms Nest by Stewart Stafford Time's arrow has left its quiver, And mortal men denied a sliver, Of sweet-faced solace or settled debt, Surrendering all to sweeping death. Beware the vixen with the perished pup, Of merciless slight and sacrilegious sup, Of mother's milk and witches' brew, Curdling infamy and death's-head stew. The trap is sprung, the rider unseated, A mourning procession for the defeated, A great wrong sits on the anointed throne, She is Queen Bee and you, but a drone. From a spider's web veil, she does regard, Hateful glances from black heart's shard, Envenomed nature of poisonous Man, The scorpion's strike of a foul plan. After seeking power and blood and lust, Remorse a late guest to a dagger's thrust, The vulture shrieks to the globe's outer rim, That Man's ambition is a Hell to him. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

Don't have a cup of coffee this Halloween. Have a cauldron of coffee instead.

It's his smell. It's rattling me.  Not just a glimpse of it like at the party, but his entire scent.  Spicy, like clove and carnal. It’s the smell of black magic at midnight. When witches stand around their brew at night with the moon and candles burning the room. Incents wisping in the air. Ancient spells and occult sorcery sting my nose. It’s smoke, timber and I hate how much I love this smell.

Things I Miss About Philadelphia That Are Long Gone: Woodside Amusement Park. The Mastbaum movie theater. The Chinese Wall. Schuylkill Punch (no soup in the country is as chunky, as stick-to-your-ribs as the witches’ brew we called water). The raspy spiel of a huckster named Jesus.

If you don’t come for me, hummingbird, you will not like your punishment.

What do you want, my witch?

Mom, how are we originem? How are they not all gone?" I asked. "One lived," Mom said. "You several-times-great-grandmother. There was a nasty feud, but Rowena made her escape from the final, horrendous battle. She vowed to dilute the blood. Live as a normal witch, conceal our origin. We couldn't let ourselves have children with another witch or a warlock or any other being of power for that matter. In theory, we would eventually be safe enough to live our lives without the fear once the magic was diluted." "But it didn't, did it?" Ryker asked from behind me. Mom turned Eliza's head to study Ryker. She nodded and looked back down at me. "No, it didn't work. You don't have much power on your own, my heart. If you've been trying spellwork it probably went awry, didn't it?" I nodded. "How did you do it? I watched your work for hours and it never went wrong." "Blood, my heart. The only spellwork I did was what I had to mix and add and brew, and as it finished I would add blood. Even a drop will do. That is the way of our power." "The smell of originem on Dani is as strong as it was before your coven died out," Ryker said. "A mistake that we each found out too late. Once I became one with The Book of Sisters, it became clear. The power could in theory be diluted, but not the blood. Never our blood.

Volwassenen waren een noodzakelijk kwaad in haar jonge leventje, en hoe eerder ze zelf volwassen was, hoe beter.

Je bent bijzonder. In heel Landover is er niemand zoals jij. Wat vind je daarvan?' Mistaya dacht na. 'Daar zal ik mee moeten leven.

I will tell you a bit about me; I have been working here at the Academy for the past seventy-five-years, teaching young witches like yourselves how to brew potions.

Wanda…? What are you… doing here?” “No, I’m not Wanda. I’m Cindy.” “Cindy…?” I said groggily. “Yeah.” “But Cindy… is a farmer…” “I became a witch, so that I could better learn the arts of brewing and witchcraft.” I didn’t even register her response. “Hey, Wanda… why do you have Cindy’s voice...?” “That’s because I really am Cindy!

I was about to do what every girl dreaded—move back home to the relatives.

Homicidal maniac or my aunts? It was a tough choice. “All

For the woman who has not hidden the hag within herself, that darkness at the centre of the soul is a magical sanctuary. In Druidry, we speak of it as a nemeton deep within the soul, a place of exquisite peace and natural healing. Indeed, it is often referred to as a great dark cauldron; it is only when a woman is able to sit, balanced and grounded, upon the three feet of that inner cauldron, that she is able to find the strength of her soul’s creativity, an ancient and bottomless pot containing that infinite universal darkness, this is the great cauldron of myth and legend, and mumbling beside it is her inner hag who, like Cerridwen, the old witch goddess of the sickle moon, stirs her brew of transformative inspiration.

An adventure is something terrible happening to someone else a long ways away. In other words, to someone in San Francisco, we’re having an adventure. But when it’s up-close and personal, it’s dangerous, scary, dirty, and doesn’t pay for shit.

The ultimate ingredient in the witch’s brew, black mustard seed was quaintly known as eye of newt during the time of Shakespeare.

It was in the Soak that the lethal drink, harm, was brewed, known as the Red Witch, the Blood Stealer. Harm was one of the primary reasons the highbreds went to the Soak. It could be purchased easily enough from the back cupboards of fashionable city taverns, but somehow consuming the stuff in the cradle of its creation was more decadent, more dangerous. Under its consciousness-altering effects, a young bravo could be robbed or even murdered by a sly Soak whore.

Half a long pepper and lastly a teaspoon of troll fat.' 'Yuck,' Stef said, as she looked down at the small bowl of fat. 'Yes, it is a bit gross, but it's very effective,' Miss Maker said, as she walked over to the front row and paused by a cauldron that belonged to a girl with red hair. 'That looks fantastic, Patricia.' 'How does she know all our names?' Gerty whispered to Charlotte, forgetting that Miss Maker could hear them. 'Gerty, Charlotte, how are you getting on?' She smiled over at them. 'Erm, okay,' Gerty muttered quietly. Yeah, okay I think,' Charlotte added. 'Great!' Miss Maker walked back to the front of the room. 'Now take your spoons and place them into the cauldron, careful not to splash any of the potion. Turn it in a clockwise direction twenty times, like this’ She began to turn her spoon, counting the turns aloud. 'When you've done that, carefully remove your spoon.' 'Now take your wand out and say, 'strength potion make me strong.' Then add one cup of cranberry juice and stir another ten times in a clockwise direction. Pour a glass and drink up girls. This spell will only last for three hours, and then your body’s strength will return to normal.' Stef was the first to drink her potion, followed by Margaret and then Demi. Charlotte and Gerty exchanged looks before they picked up their glasses and drank the liquid. Charlotte looked down to see her arms begin to bulk up under her cardigan until large muscles were visible. 'Look, look!' Gerty lifted her blouse, revealing a six-pack of muscles on her tummy. ''Whoa,' Charlotte said, as she looked down at her own stomach and legs and saw that they were changing too. 'My thighs are huge,' Alice said disgustedly, clutching hold of her muscled leg. 'I feel so strong,' Gerty giggled, as she reached out and lifted Charlotte with one hand and balanced her above her head, spinning her around like a spinning top. 'I feel weaker Miss Maker, what's happening?' Stef asked, as she stumbled and gripped onto the table for support before looking down at herself. Her arms and legs had become much smaller, and she looked skinny and haggard. There were gasps at Stef's appearance as the other girls gathered around her. 'Can you show me what direction is clockwise?' Miss Maker passed Stef a spoon. Stef nodded as she put the spoon into the cauldron and stirred to her left. 'Oh dear.' Miss Maker shook her head. 'That is anti-clockwise, you're lucky the spell is only for three hours.' She led Stef over to the comfy chair that was behind her desk and then addressed the other girls. 'This is a perfect example of how careful you must be when brewing potions and a great lesson for us all. Now, we have to tidy up. Please be careful when cleaning the cauldrons and glasses, don't forget your new strength.' 'Have you seen Demi's muscles? They're huge!' A girl with black hair pointed to Demi's arms.

Evangeline reached for the pot and froze. It was empty. Her gaze darted to the power light, which was not glowing green and happy. Therefore, she was not glowing green and happy. “What fresh hell is this?” she demanded, checking the grounds carafe. It was full, so that wasn’t the issue. She opened the water lid. It, too, was full. She pushed the brew now button, but nothing happened. Still no happy, glowy green. She glared at the machine she’d purchased specifically because it boasted a timer— so the brewed goodness would be waiting on her each morning, not the other way around.

I followed her through the house into a surprisingly large kitchen with yellow and white checkered curtains hanging in the windows. A green ceramic frog with a dish scrubber in his mouth sat on the side of the sink and a cheery red tea kettle was on the spotless white stove. All together it looked like a completely normal kitchen—there was nothing witchy about it at all except for a huge black pot hanging from the rack over the oven. Gwendolyn saw me eyeing it and grinned. “That’s Grams’ gumbo pot. She always says you can’t make good authentic roux in anything but cast iron.” “Oh,” I said. “I thought—” “That we were hunched over the cauldron cackling and brewing spells?” She arched an eyebrow at me. “Sorry,” I said. “I guess there’s a lot about witches I don’t know.” “That’s okay—apparently there’s a lot about vamps I don’t know,” she said, opening a spotless white refrigerator. She brought out a mason jar and held it up.

Minutes later the waitress brought back a cup the size of a soup bowl filled with steaming chocolate-flavored coffee and topped with whipped cream and chocolate shavings. Tianna realized she hadn't eaten anything since the bite of muffin early in the morning. She sipped the brew, enjoying the rich, sweet taste, and listened to Serena recite a poem about her demon lover. It made Tianna think more than ever that Serena was some kind of witch or worse. How could she know so much about temptation and choosing between good and evil? The words sent chills through Tianna.

Perhaps, in some innocent encounter in China between a child and a bird, a new killer flu is on its way. Or perhaps, even now, a young man or a young woman has become infected with two different strains of flu viruses. They are mixing together in the person’s lungs, their genes reassorting. Emerging from that witches’ brew is a new virus, a chimera, that, like the 1918 flu virus, is perfectly suited for destruction.