The Licorice Witch

Ron Koppelberger

The Licorice Witch

He had an aversion to the Licorice witch, in his intimate confession he had expressed his deeply furious concern with the green eyed monster. The Licorice witch, a compliment to the sorcery of willing darkness and the blackest of magic’s. An abhorrent proof in the existence of evil, she was a restless exception to life.
The cottage was askew at oblique angles to the sun and the windows were painted black. The view from his secret vantage was limited. He contemplated by design of devoted vermillion fury, a fury that shook him to the core. He watched her thrash a large ornate rug on the clothesline strung between the cottage and the small copse of oaks next to her house. “ As if she were a hitten me……..” he thought without reason. Obsessed, he found himself watching her as she emptied her wash water to the ground near the cottage. “As if she were a drownin me……” he thought in the gloom of twilight.
He sat in his small asylum staring out the window toward the licorice witches house when a knock came at the door. It was her. “ Strange crony, I perceive yer joy in billowy ash and ills, ye would have my soul witch!” he screamed in fear. Stumbling backward he fumbled for his musket. In passions of delirious fright he tripped and hit his head on the floor, killing him in unfettered delivery.
The woman made merry in her cottage. The cascade of rain defended the sound of her laughter; she rejoiced. The faithless clever witch consumed the nocturnal potion, “Mystic darkness, backward and forward nearness, gainful, baneful pots of gold the revolutions of bedlams old.” She sang as she danced in glee.