The Witch's Hovel

Upon a quite ordinary, quite normal day, as I was walking along to grab my mail, I happened to pass a witch’s hovel. A witch’s hovel? I almost didn’t think twice when I saw it, for it was so out of the ordinary that my senses wanted to reject it immediately. But no, there it was. Shrouded in dead bristles and cloaked behind tall, thorny weeds I saw the tiny house. There the witch watched me through the window, her baggy, brown skin looked like the withered bark of a tree. Her snowy hair was radiantly white, like the pure, first snow upon the ground. 

“Come buy my flowers, young princess!” she croaked to me in a raspy, toady voice. “Roses! Roses to buy! Scarlet roses for that secret love? Or perhaps blushing pink roses for the heart that longs to dream!”

I stopped and stared at her, frowning.  The very air which stood between us pressed me back as if in gentle warning against the soft idea suddenly springing within my mind. The heart that longs to dream… Why… that is me. How desperately I long to dream. To feel the freedom of the night air swirling and lifting me higher off the ground—soaring across the heavens and dancing with the glittering, glowing stars. To be far, far away... To shimmer with my own light again, to be captive no more to the hooks of Fear and the claws of Reality. Oh to dream again and be free… how I do longed to dream again! 

I looked at the witch and my heart skipped a beat as I realized that she was not ugly, not withered, not wicked looking at all! Rather, she looked quite lovely. Her face was young and as radiant as a child’s porcelain doll. Her snowy tresses tousled mischievously in the wind—I could almost smell the tantalizing perfume of her flowers. Her broken down little hovel faded into a beautiful little cottage. Dressed it was with royal gardenias, shy, blushing cherry blossoms and adorned with splendorous trestles of ivy. Pale, soft roses peppered the white picket fence; they danced lazily in the tickling breeze.

"Come here, my lovely..." I heard them beckon to me. "Smell our delicate blossoms, drink in the nectar of magic. Become free."

"Free." I thought. "Oh to be free..."

I can probably imagine what you are thinking at this moment. You are thinking that all my senses were bewitched by such a pretty picture and I walked directly into the witch's home and bought the forbidden flowers. But, silly reader, I am no fool. I have been punished by Reality before, that fascist tyrant of our world. When you dream, he is always there, ravenous to rip you away. I've felt his steely blow, his dagger ripping me out of my dreams. And I dare not trespass upon his mercy, nor risk arousing his anger against me. I remained a loyal citizen of my world. I passed the witch’s cottage with a proud, resolute spirit. When I returned with my mail, the witch, the hovel, and all the exquisite flowers had vanished. That which remained was a quite ordinary looking little house upon my street corner. And I was glad of it. I had my routine, I had my job, I had everything neatly arranged in the planner of my life. I did what was excepted of me and felt pleasure in doing my duty. For everyone knows it is foolish to tempt a foot in the Land of Pretend. Fairy tales are for children; they are far from real. Besides... in all the old books of my childhood, it was the witch who was always dangerous...wasn't it?

Oh yes...very dangerous... no pretending...no magic....no witches for me. I am quite content without fairytales.