Powerless

The moon was high and full on this Beltane night. Once again, I was voted the most powerful within my coven and others too, the greatest among my sisters. What are Circe, Medea, Morgan Le Fey, Glinda and Elphaba compared to me? Just amateurs! And let’s not discuss my stupid cousin in her silly gingerbread house who allowed two mere children to bake her to death!

I have lived for so long and I’ll live for longer still. My magic is so powerful and I can look as young or old, as beautiful or ugly, as I wish. I can cast spells that turn animals into humans and the other way around too. I can create the impossible and I am satisfied with my life as a caster of spells, an evocator, a necromancer, an enchantress and a magician.

Yes, I can do almost everything, almost…

Suddenly, I shiver with dread, hoping that my sisters didn’t perceive his heavenly scent lingering on my cloak. The others think me powerful but what would they think of my weakness?

I tried to fight my fixation for a while. I tried every spell and incantation to help me give him up, but to no avail so far. It’s unhealthy, I think for the umpteenth time, as I hasten towards my house in the swamp.

I am finally inside; I throw away my cloak and hat as I run in. Every day, I tell myself and my familiar that this not right: I am a long-living witch and he is a human, this simply won’t do.

“How was your Sabbath, my lovely Honeysuckle? Did you win again?” he asks me, his smile dazzling, his blue eyes twinkling.

I love this man, I think as I nod, then finally sit on his lap and kiss him. He doesn’t know that his magic is more powerful than mine. Therefore, I might live forever or die tomorrow but I won’t give up my Mr Woodbine, I give you my witch’s word!