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Occult power of femininity

Last updated on 04.06.2020

They were electrifying, their very presence turned heads. Silky black hair and olive skin, they were completely and indubitably unique, free-spirited and all knowing they made the small town people uncomfortable.

We were told to stay away from them. To alienate them from all community engagements.

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Small town people with small minds.

The women were threatened and the men were scared.

Despite all the warnings I couldn’t help but be curious. There was something about them that just lured me in, a magnetic pull.

They were a promise of a life fulfilled. Everything about my life felt dull and purposeless.

I was waiting for mother outside the shop, my head started to spin so I sat down. I could feel a sickness coming on, I could feel mucus blocking by nasal an oral passages, there was nothing I could do however except wait for it to pass.

The spinning had stopped and I laid my head against the cement wall behind me and close my eyes. I open my eyes an nearly jump out of my skin, three shadows loomed above me.

“Are you alright?” A soft voice asked

I couldn’t believe my eyes it was the ‘witches’ staring there, talking to me, instinctively I start thinking, what do I do? Do I run? Do I scream?

They seem to notice me fear, as one bends down, eye level with me.

“We’re not going to hurt you, we were just checking that you’re alright. Here stand up” she says holding out two hands.

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I glance around and noticing there was no onlookers to crucify me, take hold of her hands and allow her to pull me to my feet.

“There you go, she’s alive!” She jokes, flashing a grin, the other two laugh, it wasn’t malicious, more like I was part of an inside joke, I found myself smiling and laughing along too. The laughter soon dies down and I erupt in a sudden coughing fit, someone pats my back. When its over I look up.

“Thanks” I say with a side smile, embarrassed at my sickened state.

“Here take this, it’ll help” One of them says, pulling out a small glass jar filled with an orange-yellow powder. “Mix it with warm milk before a goodnights sleep and you’ll be fixed up in no time!”

I’m apprehensive at first, but I remember how it felt to laugh along with them, so I take it.

Reaching into my pockets, searching for my purse I ask “how much do you want?”

They laugh in unison, a sound reminiscent of a heavenly choir.

“Don’t be silly, just have it”

I give them an appreciative grin, but as I’m about to continue the conversation a high pitch scream erupts, stopping me.

“Get away from my daughter! You whores!”

I turn to see my mother storming out of the grocery store doors steam practically coming out of her ears.

I turn back to them my mouth wide open in shock, I’m so sorry, I’m embarrassed, I’m speechless.

They shoot me an apologetic glance, “we’re used to it” they say with a shrug, before they amble down the street away from the train wreck which was my mother.

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She reaches me red-faced, gripping her arms around me, clutching on to me as though she almost lost me. I can feel a few tears slip onto my shoulder.

I couldn’t help but think, what was she so afraid of?

——————-

She lifted the cup to my lips, I could taste something vaguely metallic.

Every sound was echoing in my ears, increasing in volume and aggression .

A candle is held out in front of me two hands wrapped around it, the fingers were blackened at the tips, wax dripping down black shapely nails … I blow it out, darkness envelops, the once bright moon has disappeared into the black void along with everything else.

We’re dancing, circling round and round”,

Chanting, singing, laughing.

The water were mesmerising, light dancing on the surface.

After all, the Devil encourages discord.

When we’re outnumbered by men, us women tend to become each others worst critics and biggest competition. But why? Surrounding yourself with successful and powerful women shouldn’t make you jealous – it should lift you up, encourage you to become better, when us women shine together we shine brighter then we do battling for the spotlight.

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