Witchy Quotes

Oh- my twitchy witchy girl I think you are so nice, I give you bowls of porridge And I give you bowls of ice Cream. I give you lots of kisses, And I give lots of hugs, But I never give you sandwiches With bugs In.

Greenwich is a funny word, isn't it? All green and witchy. Like soup.

If you're going to do something, do it well. And leave something witchy.

But witchy magic doesn’t listen to please and pretty please, and anyway, I didn’t really care. I only pretended to care because not caring makes me a monster.

Oh ... My twitchy witchy girl I think you are so nice, I give you bowls of porridge And I give you bowls of ice-cream.

Don't give yourself a limit and you may discover you don't have one.

You’re a magician or some kind of weird, witchy woman. I don’t know how you do it. You never lose,” he said one night, exasperated after I pummeled him game after game. “You’re like Wonder Woman or some backgammon superhero. Hey, I’ve got it—you’re Backgammon Girl.

She was witchy, yes, and in charge of a cauldron roiling with ideas and stories, but she always gave the impression that the stories, the ones she wrote and wrote so very well and so wisely, had simply happened, and that all she had done was to hold the pen. (On Diana Wynne Jones)

Sometimes the ones you trust aren't the most trustworthy. Just better actors.

For there to be light, there must be darkness. For there to be joy, there must be sorrow. For there to be beauty, there must be the grotesque.

My mentor used to say that no one can make us feel badly about ourselves unless we allow it. He lectured me endlessly that the biggest offenders to shrink our self-worth weren't others, but ourselves.

No, he wasn't like them at all. And even though my experience with the opposite sex was pitifully non-existent, this was someone I wanted to know. Someone I needed to know. Someone I needed to have know me.

If others pull you from the darkness, it's because they believe your life is worth living. Don't push them away because you don't feel you deserve it.

Everyone have their souls still? Shadows still attached? Then let's go before that changes.

What kind of man is he?" "Super dark and broody, And delicious." She had no idea.

She was not the still quiet type. Aphrodites never are.

They see her lips moving when she is all alone and they may think that she is muttering crazy, witchy thoughtd, but I know that she is singing.

Plus, following in her Nana’s witchy footsteps was fun and came quite naturally. Must be something about the elaborate nighttime rituals and the history of dogged womanist defiance.

I'm going to go throw up now, because ive turned into my dad. If vomiting doesn't work, I'll see if I can get an exorcism.

Difficult conversations are always uncomfortable. But with the right person, you can have those conversations.

That the moon causes tides seems too witchy to be science

Okay.' I can feel the letters vomit off my tongue. O. K. A. Y. I watch the vet insert the syringe into the catheter and inject the second drug. And then the adventures come flooding back: The puppy farm. The gentle untying of the shoelace. THIS! IS! MY! HOME! NOW! Our first night together. Running on the beach. Sadie and Sophie and Sophie Dee. Shared ice-cream cones. Thanksgivings. Tofurky. Car rides. Laughter. Eye rain. Chicken and rice. Paralysis. Surgery. Christmases. Walks. Dog parks. Squirrel chasing. Naps. Snuggling. 'Fishful Thinking.' The adventure at sea. Gentle kisses. Manic kisses. More eye rain. So much eye rain. Red ball. The veterinarian holds a stethoscope up to Lily's chest, listening for her heartbeat. All dogs go to heaven. 'Your mother's name is Witchie-Poo.' I stroke Lily behind her ears the way that used to calm her. 'Look for her.' OH FUCK IT HURTS. I barely whisper. 'She will take care of you.

I stood there, shocked. I'd never hugged a perfect stranger before, but maybe this was how people in California did things.

WITCH WANTED. Live-in tutor wanted for three young witches. Must have nerves of steel. Previous teaching experience not necessary. Witchiness essential.

The first man, Zac, rolled his eyes, "I wasn't going to eat her, brother, if that's what you're thinking. She's a witch and I don't want her to cast any witchy juju spell on me.

I’d laughed this high-pitched, witchy laugh, and looked right at him. Mostly, I remember feeling vital and untouchable, like I was free and separate from him. I would never be him, and because of that, I would never be lonely or laughed at, and I would never have to worry about anything.

The ceremony of nighttime, the cauldron of echoes, smells, the Earth's shadow over itself— curates an intimate thought process, a witchy kind of attention. The sun is too canine for me. Drooling and jumping and expects thanks for just being.

At one point I was climbing off the bus and I bumped into a woman in a crisp black blazer and pointy, witchy shoes. She had a bulky cell phone pressed against her ear and a black bag with gold Prada lettering hooked around her wrist. I was a long ways off from worshiping at the Céline, Chloé, or Goyard thrones, but I certainly recognized Prada. “Sorry,” I said, and took a step away from her. She nodded at me briskly but never stopped speaking into her phone, “The samples need to be there by Friday.” As her heels snapped away on the pavement, I thought, There is no way that woman can ever get hurt. She had more important things to worry about than whether or not she would have to eat lunch alone. The samples had to arrive by Friday. And as I thought about all the other things that must make up her busy, important life, the cocktail parties and the sessions with the personal trainer and the shopping for crisp, Egyptian cotton sheets, there it started, my concrete and skyscraper wanderlust. I saw how there was a protection in success, and success was defined by threatening the minion on the other end of a cell phone, expensive pumps terrorizing the city, people stepping out of your way simply because you looked like you had more important places to be than they did. Somewhere along the way, a man got tangled up in this definition too. I just had to get to that, I decided, and no one could hurt me again.

When girls like us fall, there’s no one to catch us. Least of all that boy for whom we’ve taken the fall. We’re the girls with secrets and witchy hearts. We’re the girls who listen to sad songs. Who slow dance to them with tears streaming down our faces, even as a smile lingers on our lips. Who cry in our pillows at night and who ride our sunshine-yellow bicycle along the empty, desolate, miserable places, where no one goes.

Two gorgeous guys slaving in the kitchen. Doesn't get any better than this.' 'You have low standards,' Chait grinned over his shoulder and dropped bread into the toaster. 'If I had two hot girls in my kitchen, I'd want them naked.' I stood immobile, seeing Chait and Hayden in my minds eye. Naked, cooking for me. Hayden glanced my way and chuckled as I dashed away.

Because you’re turning witchy. You need fresh air and Christmas cheer.” “Fuck that,” she says. “I need a drink.

His lips twitch and I swear to God, my witchy heart jumps in my chest for making them.

witchy intuition

When you're enslaved to a wicked witch, you end up thinking fast to keep all the weird witchy things a secret. Not always good fast, but fast.

for a teacher, there is no greater joy than finding a student with the willingness to learn, the capacity to do great things, and the natural ability to succeed.

Oh—my twitchy witchy girl I think you are so nice, I give you bowls of porridge And I give you bowls of ice Cream.

Afraid, little itchy Witchy?

You know, I once had a little boy in Hiddleston come up to me and ask if I conjured up the hartsstone.” “What did you tell him?” he asked. She spoke in her scratchy, witchy voice, “Why of course I do. Every full moon, my boy. And the wolves howl. And the fairies rise from their bowers, then we dance in a round, breathing in the powerful magic of the hartstone.

Mika resisted the temptation to point out that if Lillian would only be a little less controlling, her solicitor wouldn’t need to come here and put three children’s secret witchiness at risk.

When I lift my eyes to the mirror, my lips part. It’s me. The witchy, white-blonde hair. The baby blue eyes. But at the same time, it isn’t. There’s a void in there. A… numbness. I’m about to move to the shower when something else stops me. My scar. Several angry red marks surround it. Did the psycho leave freaking hickeys around my scar? What in the ever living hell was going on in his defective brain? I rip my gaze away from the mirror and take the longest, most scalding shower in history. When I step back into the room, the song has changed to Good Grief by Bastille. I let the music drift around me as I climb into bed, still in a towel, and close my eyes. I fight the tears and lose.

Sam held one of the mice up by its tail over the box and then hesitated. "Her, you want to have a go?"... If Sam thought she was going to squeal at the sight of nature in the raw, he had a lot to learn. Bella fed the owlet, cheering as he gulped down his food with a greedy intensity that bode well for the little guy's future recovery. And she grinned to herself when she heard Sam mutter under this breath. "This has got to be the weirdest first date in history.

He pins one of my arms above my head and with his free hand he takes hold of my throat, pushing hard against me and biting his bottom lip. “You do very bad things to me, witch,” he growls, his lips curling up into a snarl. “Bad things that I’m struggling to control.

Like lets hear some big freaking initiation details! How'd it go?" Z asks. "Are you feeling more womanly? Or more witchy?" "Well, Sascha would probably say I'm feeling more bitchy than usual, but..." Margo pauses, as all of our eyes go wide. I think we're amazed Margo is a little more self-aware than we might give her credit for.

Weetzie could not even cry and make Kleenex roses. She remembered the day her father, Charlie, had driven away in the smashed yellow T-bird, leaving her mother Brandy-Lynn clutching her flowered robe with one hand and an empty glass in the other, and leaving Weetzie holding her arms crossed over her chest that was taking its time to develope into anything

Sometimes being pretty made people find pests less offensive, I guess.

(B)eware of women who have the nerve to meet your eyes, who think they're your equals, who do as they please, who please you as well, who will never do as they're told.

Not Tardis like in Dr. Who, but something similar.

To forgive is to take the high road. To forget is to be foolish. If you forgive someone just one more time than they betray you, the bitterness stays away.

What’s a myth?” “A happy ending,” Annie replied. “Life doesn’t end. You simply move on to a different part of life. People are always living their happy endings, because nothing ever stops.

You know, like Prince Charming. Because you never know, maybe he's an enchanted prince under an evil spell." "Life isn't a fairy tale, you know," Sam said. "Wanna bet?" The teen smirked at him.

While a witchy wardrobe can certainly be sexy at times, it doesn’t tend to prioritize body consciousness. More often than not, witch fashion is about loose layers that veil the form or fabrics that cloak and cover. It conceals more than it reveals. It creates a shroud, albeit one emblazoned with spangles and talismanic symbols. And so the wearer is self-modulating and self-protected, a walking woven spell. If she’s shocking, it’s because she wants to be. This witch is a voluntary disturbance. Women have been told over many lifetimes that their bodies are wrong and unbecoming - that they belong to other people. The fashion witch is self-possessed, first and foremost. She controls how much of herself she shares. Whether others consider her anatomy a monstrosity, or a thing of majesty, is of little concern. She knows her body is her own. And that is true power.

Well? Does anybody here wish to belong to a selfish young lady who will keep you as a handsome pet and will refuse to compromise on anything? Make yourself known if you are indeed that fool.” There was a long, dead silence. Angelika glared at him. “Is that how you would have introduced me at the military academy ball?” “Are you still angry about that? It was weeks ago.” “Yes. I am angry that my brother refused to take me somewhere to dance with soldiers and meet the new commander.” She put her hands on her hip. “It’s my fault that I’m considered odd, and superior, and a bit witchy. But it’s your fault, too.” Victor ran a hand through his famous honey-red hair; the same color as hers. He conceded. “I accept that I could do more. But I draw the line at country dances.

Life is one never-ending edit... In writing about my life, editing is time travel, collapsing, folding, expanding time. Gathering disparate wispy threads into neat chapters and sections. Memories rearranged, pulled apart, de-emphasized. Secrets and fears erased in between drafts only to emerge again as tangents to be deleted or set aside. Invisible track changes that reframe a narrative only to be solidified, trashed, and reborn. Filtering truths until the most essential elements remain. Em dashes that link; ellipses that prolong. A constant telling and retelling until the act itself threatens to weaken the blood and guts of a piece. Editing is a dialogue with demons, ancestors, and the future; a witchy dark art that summons the forces of the universe into legibility.

warmer tan; I looked less creepy in the summer. Maybe that was why the girls had been digging into me so hard. I looked rather witchy. The unease that made them mock me was probably their souls warning them, urging them to notice I was different and dangerous. At my worst, it feels like the fire that could easily shoot from my palm is raging inside of me. My heart picks up, more than when I’m scared. It pounds, I can’t hear. My blood dances, taunting me, begging me to hurt whoever’s hurt me. And I know that I can. I feel that I can. But I don’t. I breathe and pray and let the magic cool. I didn’t want to be this way—consumed by rage and thoughts of death. I’d much rather be normal and not feel so distant from everyone around me. It would be nice to join the art club and not have to worry about what I’d do to the catty girls there. Before the powers, I’d thought that was where my life was headed—being the quiet girl with the natural artistic abilities. The nuns had thought drawing and painting would bring me out of my shell, make me finally want to talk to someone, connect

My great-grandmother read people’s fortunes and aligned her gardens with the stars. This was always said before a long, dramatic pause. Nana never wanted to talk about her. If I said anything about astrology or being a Cancer, my grandmother would go move quick to hush me. I heard different stories about my great-grandmother, cautionary tales about what could happen if you leaned in hard on that intuition. I don’t know the full story, but I also know that she was a card reader in Waco, Texas, at a time when that was not done. She was considered crazy by a lot of people in town. That buckle on the Bible Belt can come down hard and leave a mark. But I’d stare in the mirror at my brown eyes and high cheekbones, convinced I was Native American. More than that, we Simpson girls, my mother included, all seemed a little witchy. A nicer word would be intuitive. We had a good sense of people from the get-go and we often knew what was going to happen before it happened. Sometimes we chalked it up to our faith that God would provide, sometimes to just paying attention. But often it felt like we knew what was destined to be. Everything that happened in my life just felt preordained. Still does.

You’re a talking cat?” Endora asked with a look of disbelief on her face. “My, my, my, aren’t you the bright bulb of the bunch,” he replied with a bit of snarky smugness. “Tell me then, bright-bulb, do you suppose that I need your permission to talk just because I’m a cat?” He raised his paw to his face, admiring his newly gnawed manicure. After he observed the last nail, he slapped his paw down on the floorboards, making a low thud sound. “Because I don’t,” he smirked. Endora was taken by surprise at his rudeness. She stared back at him, speechless and not quite sure how to respond. “Are you a magic cat?” Mila busted in with a question that seemed as silly to her as to the cat. He glared and narrowed his eyes at her. “A magic cat,” he said, standing up to arch his furry back. “Is my talking some sort of magic to you? If it is… then I am.” He stretched his back higher and let out a long purr that turned into, “Purrhaps, you four little witchy girls should clearly refine your meaning of magic so you know what it means before you say the word magic.” “I rather am quite fond of talking cats,” Selena said with a big smile. “Of course, you’re the first one I’ve ever seen.” The cat narrowed its eyes tighter. “Indeed,” he said, letting out a yawn as if the whole conversation were a bore. He leapt off the porch and dash away, mumbling and grumbling his way down the corridor. Selena looked over at Endora. “Rude little snot, isn’t he?” she said.

she didn’t think she could handle another day with the Jekyll and Hyde familiar.

Misery loves company.  If I’m going to be miserable, it’s about damn time I had some company.

We make our own futures, witchy goddess. Tell me to bite you.

Not as troubling as your hair. Did you fight an owl last night?” I reached up to feel the springy locks of hair that had gone rogue. They were numerous, free of any pattern, and vaguely damp from the dew that settled on me in the night. I’d need a hat and some motor oil to slick them down; when my hair gets crazy, it becomes an alien life form that can threaten cities.

This time, Lang held the knife against her throat. “You do know the answers. I knew it. You’re just like your aunt, with your witchy ways and your chicken bones. I killed her and I can kill you too–unless you tell me what I want to know.” If Lang thought she was a voodoo queen or a witch, well, better for her. He hadn’t touched Tante Eva’s throwing table, after all. “I threw the bones yesterday mornin’.” She used her own version of Eva’s accent. “I knew you was comin’, and I knew you was determined to get me.” “Give me a break, little Celestine. Taking you was as easy as shooting that red-headed bodyguard of yours.” Not a bodyguard, but a friend who was probably dead. Ceelie spoke softly, keeping her voice low and musical. “Tu me ne connais pas.” You do not know me. “Je passe la malédiction de vous, Langston Broussard.” I pass the curse to you, Langston Broussard. “Tu me ne peur pas.” You do not scare me. For a fraction of a second, Ceelie saw a flash of doubt—maybe even fear—cross Lang’s face before it settled back into a sneer. She had rattled him with a few words pulled from long-ago memories. The momentum might have swung her way, at least for a moment.

Where,

One night a few months ago, after a few glasses of wine, I sat down and scrawled a manifesto defending my choice to shop online whenever possible. It looked something like this: Nearest good store is sixty miles away. Pants are required. Stores don’t serve wine. They don’t serve pizza, either. As

Ugh. Could you quit smiling, please? It’s offensive.” His

You don’t need anyone else to save you – unless they have pie. If they have pie, go ahead and let them save you. You can always save yourself down the road. You might not find another decent pie for days.

I was seven," she answered. "In my room, under the bed, I heard something like fingernails dragging across the floor. I got up the courage, hung my head over the side, and looked under." "You're never supposed to do that," Mila gasped. "Seriously, don't you pay attention to the horror movies?

The seven dwarves of menopause: Itchy, Witchy, Sweaty, Sleepy, Bloated, Forgetful, and Psycho.” ~ AUTHOR UNKNOWN

There is not a nipple on a nut with which to extract milk,” Dad argued. “That means almond milk is unnatural.

Thoughts and ideas can't die, but they can build, one upon the other until all the knowledge of the universe creates a life of its own.

what

The Wizarding World’s plants come from a real book. Rowling used to collect names of plants that sounded “witchy,” she told 60 Minutes.

You have a choice, you can either leave now and I won’t gut you like the fuckers you are, or you can stay and I’ll feed what’s left of you to my boys.” Alex hopped around beside me, claws scrabbling on the frozen ground. “Witchy fuckers.

Of course, now that you have a nice cup of witchy tea brewed it would be a shame not to look at the leaves!

I love you. Witchy, itchy, or otherwise.

I was no Amazonian, sure, but he couldn’t intimidate me with all of his handsome tallness. Wait – strike that from your memory. I’ll rephrase my previous utterings to something more like … he couldn’t intimidate me with his irritating everything.

I feel the need to swear,’ I muttered. ‘The very strong need to swear. And then to flee. To flee while swearing profusely.

Here’s the thing.  You might not have noticed it yet, but I really am a stubborn person.  Some say I’m stubborn to a fault, but I say I’m stubborn to a purpose.  So I did what any stubborn to a purpose woman would do.  I banged on his door and shouted through his letterbox.

He was at the coffee machine, pouring himself a small shot of espresso. “Yes, please,” I said. “I didn’t offer you one.” “Oh, I know – but I thought I might just help your manners along.

But you know what cats are like. The place they are is usually the place they want to be.

Instead I was stooping behind a damp rock – not a very large one, either – and deciding whether it would be better to make a run for it, or to phone for help. Well done me. If anyone from the Secret Service is reading this, I should be back on the job market any day now, so give me a call.

Ah, the magic of books. The kind of magic that had nothing to do with witches or spells or charms. And was perhaps even more powerful.

Levi has also given me a mission.” “Oh? And what might that be? I hope dating me. I’ve been trying to get him to demand that of you for a long time.” He laughed, but I had a feeling he wasn’t joking.

Walking and hiking does this. Cooking does, too. The witchy, grandmotherly type of cooking where you prepare things from scratch and you treat it as a hobby, not a chore to be rushed through. Fermenting vegetables gets me back in sync. Yoga works. Hot and slow and controlled by breath, breaking down to our bone-heavy pace.

Rapunzel, I'm not anything heroic or wonderful or whatever you thought," he said sadly. "I'm a sneak thief mostly out for my own good. The rest of it's a lie. My name isn't even Flynn Rider." "Um, what?" Of all the many things she thought he might say, this was not one of them. "My real name is Eugene Fitzherbert. At least, that was what was on record at the orphanage." There might have been a glint from inside a guard's helmet at that, as if he couldn't help sniggering a little. Rapunzel's jaw actually fell open. "Eugene?" she asked. "Yes." "And doesn't Fitz mean--" "Yes, it does," he interrupted in annoyance. "But who knows if that's really my family name, or a real name, or whatever. I think of myself as Flynn Rider. Daring hero, escape artist, adventurer extraordinaire... Eugene is someone who wastes away in an orphanage, who nobody wants. Eugene eats porridge once or twice a day, maybe, and wears the old clothes that bigger kids grew out of a generation ago." "I like Eugene," Rapunzel protested, patting his hand. "I like it better than Flynn. It sounds more... real. Like who you really are." "Thanks," he muttered. "No, really! Eugene doesn't abandon his friends. Eugene makes snarky remarks... and then hangs around witchy goat farms to see how he can help. Eugene pauses his wild, adventurous life to make sure the people around him get their happy endings. Eugene gives crowns back to their rightful owners." "Eugene winds up drained of his blood in a castle ruled by a demonic she-beast," Flynn said, looking up to gauge his captors' possibly violent response. They didn't move. "Flynn Rider is somewhere off riding into the sunset--" "Without his princess," Rapunzel interrupted, hands on hips. Flynn smiled sadly at her.

One thing that I think we often miss, however, is that in some communities the local “witchy woman” with her bag of bones or tarot cards has another health function: listening.

She didn't know much about real princesses except for in fairy tales, and books like #27: Legends from the Time of Knights. Gawain and Roland and his tower and the like. Princesses were often the points on which plots turned, the fulcrum that sped the hero along on his journey of becoming legendary, dead, or both. Sometimes the princesses were good-hearted and the knights fought valiantly for their honor. Sometimes they were evil and used witchy machinations to control the people around them, lacking any real power over their own lives. But honestly Rapunzel didn't remember a whole lot about either kind. They were boring. She loved the swordsmanship of the knights and did her best to reenact it with broom handles and frying pans, dancing back and forth on her feet to evade imaginary blows.

Together we ruled. Our realm unfurled, grassy campus and its tangle of parties. We marked the territory as our own, matchstick legs capped in sharp heels striking the ground, mouths witchy with lipstick and upturned with laughter. (...) When I did pick out a king, the crown was too heavy for his head.

Miles chokes as he blushes a darker shade of black.

The world has fully lost touch with the old ways. Magic has always stayed so well hidden and out of sight that now it’s nothing but a myth. The preposterous, and the unthinkable.

I think you might have the same witchy powers that my mama has. Here I am spilling my secrets to you and we haven’t even had lunch yet.

Everyone has their secrets. What they show on the outside isn’t necessarily the same as what’s really on the inside.

The idea that he could possess worth unrelated to his earning power was so foreign that he hadn’t adapted to her style yet.

Wouldn’t you rather find someone else to talk to?” he asked. “Like who? You’re the only one in my world right now.” She rubbed her nose against his, deciding he would enjoy careful moves rather than overt ones. He grinned, seeming reluctantly amused. “Wow, that’s a great line. How often does it work?” “Eight out of ten lovers recommend,” she said, winking.

She wondered if every place in New Orleans had a secret garden, if every place was so witchy and beautiful. And for the first time, she was filled with an enormous pride for who she was--what she was, all of it. That pride filled the spaces between her bones so that it was impossible not to stand tall. Anxiety makes everything feel very big or very small, depending on which is more hurtful in the moment. Being suddenly relived of anxiety in this moment gave her a clear understanding that this was the life she had been running towards. Not necessarily New Orleans, not a distant dot on a map, not a brand-new career, but a life full of secret gardens

You are an oracle woman: half witch, half empress.

Magic. My mind is screaming, my hands unsteady as I dip my fingers inside to pull out the shimmering silver ticket.

I can't help but be changed, touched by something otherworldly as we spend the early afternoon in our small corner of paradise. I wouldn't have blinked twice if a mermaid swam past us, singing a siren song. Anything feels possible here.

I do not even like ten people, but now I find myself in an eleven-person love hendecagon.

Being an adult didn’t mean all the things you loved as a kid had to be chucked along the way.

Posh Cal comes from the countryside and tells stories about the woods. These old hunty blokes who live in the forest and cut people and burn them on big bonfires with all the brambles and bracken and smoky shit so nobody knows, grind the bones into pig lunch. Shiny leather high heels and kids' toys in the wood like props from ITV murder dramas, scared people running through bracken and brambles, trying to get to the safety of the big house but the big house isn't safe, it's fully stocked with violent, frustrated young male offenders, lying awake, nightsweats in the dark Last Chance, marinating their desire to hurt people night after night in their soupy rural overlapping dreams, bad young men, blast-past-borstal bastards, lab rats, lying there while crusty ghosts from the old house crouch over them dribbling fear and violent fantasy into their ears, drip, spittle, trickle in the middle of the mean old witchy littered English woods a long way from home, a long way from any lights or cab ranks, or trust, or mums. Haha, crack on, you fuckintwat, says Shy, and starts walking again, slight shivers in his belly.