The reek of the entrance greeted us before we caught sight of the rusty, tired glow from the broken stone doors. Burnt wool, burnt meat … I thought of the feud and swallowed acid. Against sense, we ducked into the full unmoving mass of it, out of the clean carnivorous wind. The sound of our boots thumped clearly, nearly masking the moan, more a heavy breath than any real sound, from the young dwarf. I didn’t dare try to comfort him.
It was true, I thought, setting my feet carefully on the thick, wind-cleared snow crust. I didn’t know the first thing about ironwork. I did, however, know the first thing about slaughter; the faces of Beebo and Lara and Tom presented themselves as I’d last seen them, talking over our poisoned dinner.
On a frosty bright day I found myself holding the muzzle of a wicked-looking goat while Dval shoed it. Its partner waited for its own turn, still harnessed to the cart they’d pulled here, watching Pan-eyed through the open dwarf-door. Goats have split hooves. Their shoes would have been funny-looking if the front edges hadn’t been so sharp.
Dval pulled me out of bed early the next morning, and handed me a toothbrush. When I came stumbling back out of the privy he was cutting meat into a pot, and paused long enough to hand me a knife of my own and some vegetables. By the time I was through chopping, he was already working on some dough, taking starter from a covered bowl set on a shelf a calculated distance from the hearth.
The wool blanket was scratching my cheek when I woke up, rasping in time to my shudders; I had chilled down again in the night, in spite of the fire. Folding the blanket and smoothing the bed seemed to be the thing to do in this very neat room; I had no such habit at home, nor Shannon either.
The hammer in his hand smoked slightly, the dull red fading back to rusty black. The bar of metal in his tongs was also fading, from cherry to fresh blood, which I couldn’t help but think was wrong. And he did not look happy to see me.
As my second foot hit the sand, I collapsed with a moan of despair. My throat was stiff with five months’ unshed tears, and this, my last chance useless, was too much. Not dead at all, not even dizzy. I buried my face in my arms, heedless of the gritty beach, and sobbed like a rank amateur, the harsh sounds tearing from me and scaring the gulls.
Derived from Life Experience, study of other people’s Life Experiences, and Psychological and Psychiatric counseling (mine and others.) See the bottom for a link to some support.
Well, I can tell you what I mean by Kitchen Witchery. I cannot tell you if this is the same thing that other people mean by it.
I mean: My spirituality and my priestesshood and my magick are based around the concept that my home is my temple, all in it are consecrated and holy, and each action that I do is a portion of the ritual of my life.
From a discussion on ISCA.
Sep 19, 1995 09:43 from FtC
I need some advice!
I have a really good friend (we’ve been friends for almost 20 years!) and he is gay, or at least he thinks he may be. The reason he thinks he may be is that he has fantasized about relationships with men, but he has never acted on these fantasies. He asked me a couple of perplexing questions, and I was hoping you may have an answer. First of all, he doesn’t want to be gay, but he says he “just can’t shake these feelings,” and second, he has had sex with a woman, but “it was empty sex – there were no real feelings there.” His questions I couldn’t answer were this:
- Why would God make me homosexual or allow the devil to have this power over me?
- Since I don’t know if I am homosexual for sure [he’s never had sex with a man], should I try it to destroy these fantasies I’m having?