Witchy Magic Circle by Marina Zrnic

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...

  Foto de Max Muselmann en Unsplash Although every word of this story is as true as despair, I do not expect people to believe it. Nowadays a "rational explanation" is required before belief is possible. Let me then, at once, ofer the "rational explanation" which finds most favour among those who have heard the tale of my life's tragedy. It is held that we were "under a delusion," Laura and I, on that 31st of October; and that this supposition places the whole matter on a satisfactory and believable basis. The reader can judge, when he, too, has heard my story, how far this is an "explanation," and in what sense it is "rational." There were three who took part in this: Laura and I and another man. The other man still lives, and can speak to the truth of the least credible part of my story. I never in my life knew what it was to have as much money as I required to supply the most ordinary needs--good colours, books, and cab-fares--an...