melissalencioni

[melissalencioni]

The jogger passed her again. Lana looked down at her sketch, that of a dandelion poking up through the cracked pavement, and felt the opposite of its determination. She was a wilted, tired being, unlike the resilient, propogating dandelion. The jogger was about to pass her again, and she was not surprised to look forward to the arc of his calves over the seedy, white flower. She knew she found him attractive. It was, however, a bit of a shock how much.

She focused on her sketch. She added some shadow to match her mood.

"Come here often?" The jogger had stopped, pulling one earbud out of his ear. He was cute, the kind of cute that got movie roles.

"Huh?"

"I always see you drawing here."

"Oh."

"Mind if I take a look?"

On instinct, Lana closed her sketchbook.

"Aw," said the guy. And he was a guy now, a genuine man, not someone sequestered into the role of what they were doing. He had attractive stubble and a subtle swoop to his bangs. Lana would like to sketch him someday, if ever he sat still. She couldn't reconcile the jogger as one who could stay put for long. She reopened her sketchbook, having second thoughts. It was just a peek he wanted. It wasn't like he was crossing boundaries. And that whine of his had convinced her to cave.

When she reopened her sketchbook, she landed on a previously blank page, but it was no longer how she remembered. In the corner was an eyeball she didn't remember drawing, and it swept its gaze up and down her face in a fast but terrifying instant.

With a squeak of surprise, Lana jerked. The sketchbook closed and fell out of her shaking hands. Adrenaline made her heart pump in fear, the fear of the unnatural and supernatural, the fear of the Other. Landing on the path at the man's feet, the sketchbook resumed its innocence.

Lana stared wide-eyed at it.

Long moments passed.

The man's toned fingers reached down. He had grace as he picked the sketchbook up.

"Sorry," blurted Lana.

"It's okay," said the man. "If I'd known you had social anxiety, I wouldn't have asked."

"What?"

"Not good with social interactions, are you? Get nervous?"

"No."

He shrugged, and the movement of his shoulder was athletic in a casual, appealing way.

"I don't have anxiety," said Lana, offended not at the misunderstanding, but at the fact it came from such a hot guy. That was her luck. Total heartthrob, but too dense to know not to assume someone's diagnosis.

"Then my bad," said the man. "But what was that about?"

"I just... saw one I don't remember drawing."

"And that scared you?" He chuckled, and dang. His throat was so masculine. "Remind me not to ask what you usually draw. Though I am still curious."

Lana took back her sketchbook. She flipped open to the page.

The eyeball was gone.

[melissalencioni]

"It's amazing. She got put on meds because she talked to herself and now she doesn't talk at all."

"So she's gone mute?"

"Totally just nothing."

I sat.

"All she does is sit there. They must've solved some problem. I mean, you remember how active she used to be?"

"Didn't she used to write? Fancy herself an author?"

"I didn't know that."

"Yeah, she's got a whole box of manuscripts back home. I saw it once. Heavy."

"Huh." They look at me. "Well all I've seen her do is sit."

"I've seen her pace."

"Sit and pace."

"Mind blank," I say. It's true. I haven't talked all day. "No thoughts. No writing. I hate coloring now."

"She speaks!"

"She lives. Why do you hate coloring?"

I forget my response.

"Oh, too good for me now?"

"Too good for us."

They go away, judging. I remember why I hate coloring. It's all they allow in the hospital.

[melissalencioni]

The round, brown table curves beneath my elbows and The Appalachian VOICE, a free newspaper at the library, is stacked in a haphazard pile at its center. I lean back in the cushioned blue chair and fidget. I've been here since noon and am awaiting a psychiatry call, telephone health. The nurse is supposed to solve my lack of thoughts, this inability to read, these memory problems.

I stare at the newspaper. The first heading is Why Appalachia's Spotted Skunk is So Rare. I debate trying to read it. I failed at Bradbury earlier, which is saying something given his rhythmic style. I turn the page.

A note from the executive director words up at me. In those words in my mind, now always blank, are testaments to medicines and doctors and psychiatry, all seeming lies as I sit here unable to organize the page. I realize I do think, but only sporadically, and only while I write. I'm copying the world around me, transcribing my boring day.

Another issue is I haven't been able to invest in anything because a chemical wall has come up between my spirit's feelings and the acknowledgement of my mind so that I can't rely on any payoff for effort. All this moots reading.

I remember a time of fangirling and readjust my posture. I miss that. I miss it. Seems missing is the only feeling left, and I am demoralized.

Let's hope the stimulants get my brain working, because these antipsychotics killed it.

I wait for the phone to ring.

[melissalencioni]

The sun, a pallid disc barely discernible through the gauzy veil of clouds, cast its wan light over the frost-rimed landscape. Here, at the fringes of the nameless kingdom, where civilization's tenuous grip loosened its hold on the wild, untamed earth, the Blood Armored Knight urged his steed forward. The beast's hooves, shod in iron that gleamed with a dull, carnelian sheen, struck a staccato rhythm against the frozen ground, each impact sending minute fissures through the brittle ice that coated the barren soil.

The knight's armor, a masterwork of metallurgy, undulated with every movement, the plates sliding against one another in a whisper of steel on steel. Its hue, a deep, arterial red, seemed to pulse in the diffuse light, as if the metal itself were alive, a second skin grafted onto the man beneath. His helm, adorned with a plume of crimson feathers—perhaps plucked from some exotic, bloodthirsty bird of prey—swiveled from side to side as he surveyed the desolate terrain.

He had been dispatched to this godforsaken corner of the realm on whispered rumors of a threat, a danger that lurked in the trackless wastes beyond the kingdom's borders. The peasantry, with their penchant for hyperbole and superstition, had woven tales of a beast that brought with it the very essence of winter, a creature that could freeze a man's blood in his veins with naught but a glance.

The Blood Armored Knight, whose true name had long since been forgotten (perhaps even by himself), felt a frisson of anticipation course through his body. It settled in his gut, a leaden weight that anchored him to this moment, this cusp of confrontation. He tightened his grip on the reins, the leather creaking in protest, and urged his mount onward.

As they crested a low rise, the landscape before them unfurled like a tapestry woven by some mad deity. Jagged spires of ice erupted from the ground, their crystalline surfaces refracting the meager sunlight into prismatic shards that danced across the frozen earth. Snow drifts, sculpted by the relentless wind into fantastical shapes, created a maze of white that stretched to the horizon.

And there, in the heart of this winter wonderland, stood Kurventhor.

The dragon was a study in contradictions, a being of impossible grace and terrifying power. Its scales, each one a perfect hexagon of transparent ice, caught the light and broke it into a thousand glittering fragments. Steam rose from its nostrils in lazy coils, a reminder that even in this creature of frost and snow, the spark of life burned hot and bright.

Kurventhor's eyes, twin orbs of the deepest blue, fixed upon the intruder who dared to breach the sanctity of its domain. Those eyes held within them the wisdom of ages, the cold calculation of a predator, and—perhaps most disconcertingly—a flicker of intelligence that spoke of a mind as sharp as the icicles that hung from its jaw.

The dragon's wings, vast sails of translucent membrane stretched taut over a framework of delicate bones, unfurled with a sound like breaking glass. As they spread to their full span, easily dwarfing the knight and his steed, a gust of arctic air swept across the plain, carrying with it motes of ice that stung the exposed flesh of man and horse alike.

For a moment that stretched into eternity, neither being moved. The Blood Armored Knight, his hand hovering over the pommel of his sword, assessed the situation with the cool detachment of a seasoned warrior. He noted the way the dragon's muscles bunched beneath its scintillating hide, the slight shift of its weight as it prepared for potential conflict.

Kurventhor, for its part, regarded the crimson-clad interloper with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. In all its long years of guarding this frozen realm, never had it encountered a being quite like this—a creature of warm blood and hot steel, swathed in a color that spoke of violence and vitality.

The standoff continued, a tableau of opposing forces frozen in time. The knight, a slash of vivid red against the monochromatic landscape, represented the inexorable march of civilization, the unyielding will of humanity to tame and conquer. Kurventhor, with its crystalline beauty and raw, elemental power, embodied the wild, untamable spirit of nature itself.

Slowly, with the deliberate grace of a born predator, Kurventhor lowered its massive head until it was level with the knight. A plume of frigid breath enveloped the armored figure, rime instantly forming on the polished surface of his breastplate. The Blood Armored Knight remained motionless, only the slight trembling of his mount betraying any reaction to the dragon's proximity.

In that moment of closest contact, a wordless communication passed between man and beast. The knight saw in those fathomless blue eyes not the mindless aggression of a monster, but the fierce protectiveness of a guardian. Kurventhor, peering into the narrow slit of the knight's visor, recognized the steely resolve of a kindred spirit, a fellow sentinel standing watch over that which it held dear.

With a sound like an avalanche given voice, Kurventhor spoke. Its words, if they could be called such, were not formed by tongue or lips, but rather by the very air itself, ice crystals coalescing into complex patterns that somehow conveyed meaning:

"You trespass, warm-blood. This realm is mine to guard, as decreed by powers beyond your ken. What brings you to the edge of the world, where even the hardiest of your kind fear to tread?"

The Blood Armored Knight, to his credit, showed no outward sign of surprise at the dragon's method of communication. His reply, when it came, was muffled by his helm but carried the weight of authority:

"I come at the behest of my liege, to investigate claims of a threat to our borders. I find no threat here, great one, merely a guardian as vigilant as any who stand watch over my own lands."

A sound like the grinding of glaciers emanated from Kurventhor—laughter, the knight realized with a start. The dragon's next words formed in the air between them:

"A threat, indeed. To those who would seek to exploit the secrets of this place, perhaps. But to your kind? No, warm-blood. My quarrel is not with your realm or its people. So long as the ancient boundaries are respected, you have naught to fear from Kurventhor."

The Blood Armored Knight inclined his head in acknowledgment, the gesture made awkward by the weight of his helm. "Then it seems my mission here is concluded. I shall return to my lord with news that our borders are secure, guarded by a power far greater than any army of men."

Kurventhor's massive head dipped in what might have been a nod of approval. "Go then, knight of the warm lands. But know this: should you or your kin ever seek to breach the sanctity of my domain with ill intent, you shall find that the fury of winter itself pales in comparison to my wrath."

With those words, Kurventhor reared up to its full, imposing height. Its wings snapped open once more, and with a downbeat that sent a blizzard of snow and ice swirling around the knight, the dragon launched itself into the air. In moments, it was little more than a glittering speck against the leaden sky, leaving behind only the echoes of its passing and a landscape transformed by its brief presence.

The Blood Armored Knight remained motionless for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the point where Kurventhor had vanished from sight. Then, with a barely perceptible sigh that spoke of relief, awe, and perhaps a touch of regret for a confrontation averted, he turned his mount back toward the lands of men.

As he rode, the knight cast one last glance over his shoulder at the frozen wasteland. For an instant, he thought he glimpsed a flash of blue among the ice spires—Kurventhor's eye, perhaps, still watching to ensure his departure. Then it was gone, and the Blood Armored Knight was left with only memories of his encounter with the magnificent ice dragon, a tale he knew would be met with disbelief should he ever choose to share it.

And so, man and dragon parted ways, each returning to their appointed tasks, guardians of realms that touched but never truly met. The nameless kingdom slept on, unaware of how close it had come to conflict with a power beyond its comprehension, saved by the mutual respect of two unlikely kindred spirits.

[melissalencioni]

The Awakening of Thalia

Thalia always felt the world hummed with hidden energies. Even as a child, she sensed whispers in the wind and saw fleeting shadows that others missed. On her sixteenth birthday, she dreamt of candlelit circles and whispered incantations. She woke with the taste of magic on her tongue, her fingertips tingling with possibility.

The dream clung to her like morning mist, refusing to dissipate as dreams usually did. Thalia went about her day - breakfast with her parents, school, soccer practice - but her mind kept drifting back to the vivid images of her sleeping mind. The way the candles had flickered, casting dancing shadows on ancient stone walls. The feeling of power coursing through her veins as she'd chanted words in a language she didn't know but somehow understood.

Curiosity sparked, Thalia found herself drawn to the public library after school. She wandered the stacks, fingertips trailing along dusty spines until she found herself in a neglected corner. Books on mythology, folklore, and the occult surrounded her. With a furtive glance around, she pulled a few volumes from the shelves and settled into a secluded reading nook.

Hours passed unnoticed as Thalia devoured information on ancient rituals, herbal lore, and the basics of spellcraft. She scribbled cryptic symbols and notes in her school notebook, mind racing with possibilities. When the librarian's voice announced closing time, Thalia reluctantly gathered her things, checking out a couple of the less conspicuous books.

At home, she pored over her notes, cross-referencing with online sources. She began to gather materials - candles from her mother's emergency kit, herbs from the garden, a silver pendant that had belonged to her grandmother. In her room, late at night, Thalia arranged these items in a small circle on her desk.

With trembling hands and a racing heart, she attempted her first spell on a moonless night. It was a simple charm for clarity of mind, chosen because she'd been struggling with indecision about college choices. Thalia lit the candles, sprinkled the herbs, and whispered the words she'd memorized.

At first, nothing seemed to happen. Thalia felt a flicker of disappointment, chiding herself for believing in fairy tales. But as she extinguished the candles and cleaned up, she noticed a subtle shift. The anxiety that had been gnawing at her about the future seemed to ease. In its place was a calm certainty.

Over the next few days, Thalia found herself able to think about her college options with newfound clarity. Pros and cons aligned themselves neatly in her mind, and by the end of the week, she'd made her decision with confidence. The foggy indecision that had clouded her thoughts lifted like mist before the morning sun.

Emboldened by this success, Thalia delved deeper into her studies of the arcane. She experimented with more complex spells, each one bringing small but noticeable changes to her life. A ritual for confidence saw her ace her dreaded speech class, delivering a presentation without a single stammer or flush of embarrassment. A protection ward seemed to deflect her little brother's usual pestering, giving her moments of peace she'd never experienced before.

As her power grew, so did her wonder at the world's hidden depths. Thalia began to see the threads of energy connecting all things, felt the pulse of the earth beneath her feet. Colors seemed more vivid, scents more potent. She found she could sense the emotions of those around her, picking up on undercurrents of feeling that had always been invisible before.

Yet with this newfound sight came responsibility. Thalia learned to temper her desires, to work in harmony with nature's rhythms. She realized that every spell had consequences, ripples that spread out in ways she couldn't always predict. A charm to make herself more attractive to her crush backfired when she suddenly found herself the object of unwanted attention from several classmates.

Thalia's parents noticed changes in their daughter but attributed them to normal teenage growth. Her mother commented on her newfound confidence, while her father praised her improved grades. Only her little brother seemed suspicious, eyeing her warily when she muttered under her breath or slipped out to the garden at odd hours.

As the months passed, Thalia's powers continued to grow. She found she could influence the weather on a small scale, calling up a breeze on a stifling day or holding back rain for an outdoor event. Plants flourished under her touch, and animals seemed drawn to her presence. She began to wonder about the extent of her abilities, both thrilled and slightly frightened by the possibilities.

On the eve of her seventeenth birthday, Thalia decided to perform her most ambitious ritual yet. She slipped out of the house after her family had gone to bed, a bag of supplies slung over her shoulder. The night was clear, a full moon hanging low and heavy in the sky. She made her way to a secluded clearing in the woods behind her neighborhood, a place she'd discovered on one of her herb-gathering expeditions.

Thalia set up her circle with practiced ease, arranging candles and crystals in a precise pattern. She stood in the center, no longer the uncertain girl of a year ago. As she raised her hands to the star-studded sky, she felt power thrumming through her veins, more potent than ever before.

The wind picked up as she began to chant, whispering secrets in her ears. But these whispers carried a chill that raised goosebumps on her skin. Thalia faltered, suddenly unsure. The shadows at the edge of the clearing seemed to deepen, writhing with a life of their own.

As her voice trailed off, Thalia realized with a jolt of fear that the shadows were indeed moving. They crept toward her circle, tendrils of darkness reaching for the boundary of light cast by her candles. In the distance, something ancient stirred, a presence vast and unknowable.

Thalia's heart raced as she understood, too late, that she had drawn the attention of forces far beyond her understanding. Her innocent exploration of magic had opened a door she might not be able to close. The power she'd wielded so casually now felt like a live wire in her hands, dangerous and unpredictable.

As the shadows pressed closer, Thalia frantically tried to remember protective spells, her mind blank with panic. The presence in the distance grew stronger, curiosity and hunger radiating from it in waves that made her knees weak. She had wanted to unlock the secrets of the universe, but now those secrets threatened to overwhelm her.

In that moment, standing alone in the moonlit clearing, Thalia realized that her journey into magic had only just begun. But it was no longer the wondrous adventure she had imagined. Instead, she faced a path fraught with danger, filled with forces she was ill-equipped to handle.

As the shadows touched the edge of her circle, Thalia closed her eyes and whispered a desperate prayer to whatever powers might be listening. Her seventeenth birthday dawned with the promise not of celebration, but of a battle for her very soul.

[melissalencioni]

The shadows in Drake's dorm room writhed and twisted, mirroring the turmoil in his heart. He sat on the edge of his bed, head in his hands, fingers threaded through his dark hair. The darkness responded to his anguish, creeping up the walls and dimming the already feeble light from his desk lamp.

"Caera," he whispered, her name a prayer on his lips.

Miles away, in another dormitory, Caera jolted upright in her bed. Her chest tightened, a phantom pain that wasn't her own. She pressed a hand to her heart, knowing instinctively that Drake was thinking of her. Her empathic abilities had always been strongest when it came to him, as if their emotions were tethered by an unbreakable cord.

"Drake," she murmured, closing her eyes and trying to send waves of comfort across the distance that separated them.

Back in his room, Drake felt a sudden warmth wash over him. He lifted his head, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You felt that, didn't you?" he said to the empty room. "God, I miss you, Caera."

He stood up, pacing the small confines of his dorm. The shadows followed him, clinging to his feet like loyal pets. It had been two months since they'd last seen each other – two months of separate colleges, different states, and a distance that felt insurmountable.

Caera hugged her knees to her chest, rocking slightly as she tried to process the myriad emotions flooding through her. Longing, frustration, love – they swirled together in a potent cocktail that threatened to overwhelm her. She focused on her breathing, trying to center herself the way Drake had taught her back in high school.

High school. The memories came unbidden – stolen kisses behind the gym, late-night study sessions that turned into cuddling sessions, the moment Drake had first shown her his ability to manipulate shadows. She remembered the look of wonder on his face when she'd known exactly how he felt without him saying a word.

Drake stopped at his window, staring out at the night sky. The moon was full, its light cutting through the darkness he habitually surrounded himself with. "Remember our moonlight walks, Caera?" he said softly. "How you'd always know when I was cold and wrap your scarf around both of us?"

As if in response to his words, Caera shivered. She reached for the scarf draped over her bedpost – the very same one they'd shared on those walks. She buried her face in the soft fabric, inhaling deeply. Somehow, it still smelled like him.

"This isn't forever," Drake said firmly, his resolve strengthening. The shadows in his room retreated slightly, responding to his change in mood. "We'll be together again. We have to be."

Caera nodded, as if she could hear him. "We're stronger than this distance," she whispered. "We've faced worse. Remember the Incident?"

They both shuddered at the memory. The Incident – when Drake's powers had spiraled out of control during their senior prom, plunging the entire school into darkness. It was Caera who had reached him through the chaos, her empathy cutting through his fear and anger like a beacon of light.

Drake's hand clenched into a fist. "We got through that. We'll get through this too."

He walked to his desk, pulling out a piece of paper and a pen. The shadows curled around his hand as he began to write:

"My dearest Caera,

The distance between us feels like an ocean, but my love for you is the bridge that spans it. Every day without you is a day in shadows, but the memory of your smile is the light that guides me through..."

As Drake poured his heart onto the page, Caera felt a surge of hope and love so strong it brought tears to her eyes. She wiped them away, smiling through the tears.

"Soon," she promised herself. "We'll be together again soon."

And somewhere in the space between them, their love pulsed like a living thing, defying distance and circumstance, waiting for the moment when they would be reunited at last.

[melissalencioni]

The sky weeps, and so do I. Raindrops tap a melancholy morse code on my window, echoing the staccato beats of my heavy heart. Gray clouds, like wool pulled over the sun's eyes, shroud the world in a misty veil of gloom.

But lo! A shaft of golden light pierces the somber curtain, and hope blossoms like a spring flower after a long winter's sleep. My spirits soar on the thermals of this sudden warmth, riding the updrafts of joy that billow through my soul.

The wind whispers secrets in my ear, its cool breath sending shivers down my spine – whether of excitement or trepidation, I cannot tell. It howls its fury one moment, then sighs with contentment the next, mirroring the tempest of emotions that storm within me.

Thunder rumbles in the distance, a bass note in nature's symphony, harmonizing with the lightning's electric guitar riff. This cacophony of climatological rock and roll sets my pulse racing, adrenaline surging through my veins like flash floods through desert arroyos.

In the eye of the hurricane, I find a strange calm. The sudden stillness is deafening, a silence so loud it drowns out the chaos of my thoughts. Here, in this meteorological meditation, I find clarity as crisp as a cloudless autumn day.

As the sun sets, painting the sky in watercolor hues of pink and gold, a sense of peace settles over me like a warm blanket. The weather of my mind clears, and I'm left with the gentle breeze of contentment, whispering promises of a brighter tomorrow.

[melissalencioni]

I've always felt like half of a whole, searching for my other self in a world that seems increasingly fragmented. The concept of twin flames once brought me hope, but lately, it's been a source of deep longing and frustration. Where are you, my mirror soul? I wander through life, feeling the emptiness of your absence, the incompleteness of my being.

The collective energy around me feels heavy, weighted down by fear, anger, and division. I absorb it like a sponge, my own vibration sinking lower with each passing day. The news, the conversations, the very air seems thick with negativity. I struggle to maintain my light, to hold onto the belief that there's a greater purpose to this separation and suffering.

Days blend into weeks, then months. I find myself withdrawing, seeking solitude as a shield against the world's chaos. But in this isolation, a realization slowly dawns – I am not separate from the collective. My pain, my longing, my search for completion – it's all part of a greater whole.

With this understanding comes a shift. Instead of focusing solely on finding my twin flame, I begin to work on raising my own vibration. Meditation, acts of kindness, connecting with nature – small steps that gradually lift my energy. To my surprise, I notice changes in those around me. Smiles come more easily, random acts of generosity become more frequent.

As I continue this practice, I feel a subtle but profound change in the collective energy. The weight begins to lift, replaced by a growing sense of unity and purpose. In this rising tide of positivity, I find my own heart opening, my spirit lightening. The ache for my twin flame transforms into a love for all beings, a recognition of the divine in everyone.

And then, when I least expect it, I feel a pull – a resonance unlike anything I've experienced before. Could it be? In this moment of collective awakening, have we finally aligned our energies enough to find each other? I don't know what the future holds, but for the first time, I feel truly whole, with or without my twin flame. The journey to raise the vibration of the collective has healed something deep within me, reminding me that in seeking to uplift others, we often find our own salvation.

[melissalencioni]

Verdant Whispers

Lush forests breathe life,

Emerald canopy sways,

Sunbeams filter through.

Babbling brooks meander,

Pebbles glisten beneath crystal,

Quenching thirsty earth.

Majestic mountains pierce sky,

Rugged peaks touch clouds,

Snow-capped sentinels watch.

Wildflowers paint meadows,

Vibrant petals dance wind,

Bees hum sweet melodies.

Ocean waves crash shore,

Salty mist fills air,

Seashells whisper tales eternal.

[melissalencioni]

Whispers of Air

On currents unseen, secrets float by,

Carried aloft through the mystical sky.

Jet stone so dark, absorbing the light,

Moss agate glowing, a verdant sight.

The wind whispers truths from ages past,

Ancient wisdom, not meant to last.

Jet guards the veil 'tween worlds unknown,

While moss agate's patterns have grown.

Air swirls around, a cosmic dance,

Lifting spirits into sacred trance.

Jet and agate, earthly keys,

Unlock the gates of mysteries.

In breath of wind and touch of stone,

The universe's secrets are shown.

Air, jet, and moss in harmony,

Reveal the path to destiny.

[melissalencioni]

I'm now writing a book called The Dabbler's Path: Magic for the Curious. It's the result of a divination session and is a book of spells.

[melissalencioni]

Muted bluntness,

I am not special.

Intellectual prowess,

I am a zombie, repetitive motions, same routine.

The wings of my mind are open but can't catch a draft.

The sword of my sharpness has been battled into brittleness, its shape chewed and marred like shrapnel.

Save me, save me from my brain's rot, its atrophy!

O, Mercury! Make me into a display!

Pluto, revive me!

I need to make meanings. I need to matter, and to matter means knowing.

Let me know!

Memory resurface, revitalize! Heed my call!

I call on my patternings, my recognitions and recall! Make me myself! Return me to me!

Here I am, Gods, ready.

[melissalencioni]

It's that chemical thickness that prevents the inner frown.

But that's the problem.

It's thick.

Dull.

Stupid.

Muted.

And only people on meds they refuse to call the drugs they are will understand.

I have become the empty smile.

[melissalencioni]

I have now done my first spells for clients. One protection spell which entailed burning a candle in the middle of a salt and rosemary ring, and one love spell. I'm also hoping to get my witchy etsy up and running. Busy days, but great payoff!

[melissalencioni]

Last night, I got up to go to the bathroom and when I lied back down I heard a male voice say, "Gaia." Today I'm researching Gaia and all she represents. If that's not a deity reaching out, I don't know what is.

[melissalencioni]

Made a little prosperity bottle with a bay leaf, a cinnamon stick, cloves, basil, allspice, and a gold candle. Feeling good about this spell. It exudes positive energy.

[melissalencioni]

I did my first witch bottle yesterday! It's contained in an altoid tin because that's all I had, and is a money working. Inside is:

• frankincense smoke for cleansing

• a petition repeated 8 times for money with conditions of getting it, which includes 9 FEHU runes in red ink on parchment

• citrine for financial growth

• a shell for the water element

• first a penny, then a nickel, then a dime, then a quarter, put in the tin in that order along with the spoken words of an incantation for money for the earth element

• a small feather for the air element

• the remains of a FEHU written in red on parchment and then burned for the fire element

I cleansed each item in the frankincense smoke before putting them in the tin, and made sure the altoid tin was cinammon flavored for extra financial success. The tin is now on its altar working its magick.