Witchy Magic Circle by Marina Zrnic

Foto de Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa en Unsplash " Be careful what you wish for, you may receive it."— Anonymous Part I Without, the night was cold and wet, but in the small parlour of Laburnum villa the blinds were drawn and the fire burned brightly. Father and son were at chess; the former, who possessed ideas about the game involving radical chances, putting his king into such sharp and unnecessary perils that it even provoked comment from the white-haired old lady knitting placidly by the fire. "Hark at the wind," said Mr. White, who, having seen a fatal mistake after it was too late, was amiably desirous of preventing his son from seeing it. "I'm listening," said the latter grimly surveying the board as he stretched out his hand. "Check." "I should hardly think that he's come tonight," said his father, with his hand poised over the board. "Mate," replied the son. "That's the worst of living so ...

Foto de Analia Ferrario en Unsplash                                   Los muertos no nos dejan en paz. Los muertos forman parte de la vida diaria igual que los vivos. Ellos no hablan, no vocalizan, pero hacen ruidos, raspan, huelen a tabaco y a la ropa después de la lluvia. Ellos van y vienen. ¿A dónde van? ¿Por qué se van? Tendrán sus razones, igual que los vivos. Los muertos a veces nos despiertan con el silencio profundo. Te despiertas de repente y sabes perfectamente que no estás solo, lo ves tan normal y tan ordinario como cuando volvían del trabajo por las tardes. Son dos mundos que se interponen, dos realidades con sus reglas y energías, con sus pasados y memorias. Los muertos tienen sus colores y sus melodías, sus pensamientos y sus esfuerzos. Los más cercanos los notan, la gente que les conocía a profundidad. Igual que cuando andamos por la calle y vemos a nuestro familiar y le reconocemos...

  Foto de Stanislav Filipov en Unsplash “Ferme tes yeux à demi, Croise tes bras sur ton sein, Et de ton cœur endormi Chasse à jamais tout dessein.” * * * * “Je chante la nature, Les étoiles du soir, les larmes du matin, Les couchers de soleil à l’horizon lointain, Le ciel qui parle au cœur d’existence future!” I The animal paused on the threshold, interrogative, alert, ready for flight if necessary. Severn laid down his palette, and held out a hand of welcome. The cat remained motionless, her yellow eyes fastened upon Severn. “Puss,” he said, in his low, pleasant voice, “come in.” The tip of her thin tail twitched uncertainly. “Come in,” he said again. Apparently she found his voice reassuring, for she slowly settled upon all fours, her eyes still fastened upon him, her tail tucked under her gaunt flanks. He rose from his easel smiling. She eyed him quietly, and when he walked toward her she watched him bend above her without a wince; her eyes followed his hand until it touched her...

Photo by Liudmyla Shalimova: https://www.pexels.com/photo/person-holding-silver-round-bowl-with-fire-9463936/ The village of Maxley, where, last summer and autumn, these strange events took place, lies on a heathery and pine-clad upland of Sussex. In all England you could not find a sweeter and saner situation. Should the wind blow from the south, it comes laden with the spices of the sea; to the east high downs protect it from the inclemencies of March; and from the west and north the breezes which reach it travel over miles of aromatic forest and heather. The village itself is insignificant enough in point of population, but rich in amenities and beauty. Half-way down the single street, with its broad road and spacious areas of grass on each side, stands the little Norman Church and the antique graveyard long disused: for the rest there are a dozen small, sedate Georgian houses, red-bricked and long-windowed, each with a square of flower-garden in front, and an ampler strip behind; a...