She Comes Cloaked in Blue Feathers

Pen on Paper (Frankenstein by Mary Shelley)

As the Seasons change and the leaves fall off the trees, I feel the cold bite of Summer’s end. Sometimes there is a gentleness in death, sometimes Death is more harsh. Crushed roadkill lines the streets, and I feel the weight of the lifting veil. The spirits are louder now, my dreams are different. I wake up in total darkness, the shadows clinging to my skin like sleep in my eyes. 


This is not the season for processing bone, the cold air slows decomposition, and I am relieved, even if I know that I need more patience for any who come to me now. 

It is time to lay out the feasts for Hekate and the Restless dead. Old charms will be renewed, new charms will be made. Poison and Bone intertwine like Ivy on a tree. This is a seven day feast of stories, poison and the dead…

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