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320 pages, Hardcover
First published October 1, 2019
”Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and caldron bubble.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the caldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg and howlet's wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and caldron bubble.
Cool it with a baboon's blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.
“
-William Shakespeare, Macbeth
Here’s a partial list of things I don’t believe in: God. The Devil. Heaven. Hell. Bigfoot. Ancient Aliens. Past lives. Life after death. Vampires. Zombies. Reiki. Homeopathy. Rolfing. Reflexology. Note that “witches” and “witchcraft” are absent from this list. The thing is, I wouldn’t believe in them, and I would privately ridicule any idiot who did, except for one thing: I am a witch.
Witchcraft is not supernatural; it's hypernatural. Witches are by default attuned to the thrumming network of connections that exist just beneath the obvious surface layer of reality we all experience. They are able to visualize an outcome to such a powerful and intense degree that something on the quantum level is triggered; a particle feels observed and thus decides whether it is in this state or that state.
Possibility was my fuel. It was the One Thing that prevented me from slitting my wrists on any given horrid day. The fact that at any moment, everything could change. As easily as you could be hit by a car, so you could be carried away by one.
This is a conglomeration – a rally, really, of rats that have traveled to get here. Not the relatively small “maybe-it-was-a-big-mouse” creatures that scuttle across the subway tracks, the hipster playground rodents are massive, overstimulated from munching on the Adderall tablets that tumble out of smock-dress and jeans pockets during the day. These are meaty, fleshy, muscular rats on stimulants, dragging their weighty genitals over all the bright yellow, sky blue, and fire-engine red child-friendly surfaces.
“I'll show you the master bedroom next,” he says over his shoulder, expecting us to follow, which we do, across the hall and into a large bedroom with a centrally positioned four-poster king-sized bed draped with multiple mink blankets, beneath which is a deep red velvet bedspread, beneath which are deep red satin sheets. Perhaps a dozen – probably more – pillows are positioned at the head of the bed, each “dented” perfectly in the center with one decisive karate chop of the hand. On the wall opposite the bed is a collection of framed photographs – Jefferey in Paris! Jefferey in the snow wearing a fur and laughing, his teeth one shade whiter than the snow itself! Jefferey in a white tuxedo, arms crossed and smiling! Jefferey in a powdered wig and waxed moustache! And in the center of these photographs is a gigantic oil painting of his face set like a rare blue diamond into a gilt rococo frame. His own face would be the first, second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, and ninth thing he'd see each morning.