Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Look Out for Falling Athames
The bottle slips from my hand just as I'm turning to put it into the recycling bin. Instinctively, I hop backwards, out of the plane of trajectory.
Standing beside me, my friend laughs.
“Wiccan reflexes,” she says.
I laugh along with her. As I retrieve the fallen bottle, we trade tales of dropped athames down the decades. Bare feet and falling blades make an uncomfortable pairing. No few witches bear the scars.
“What's the difference between Christian and Witch stigmata?” she improvs.
I laugh, and give the necessary response.
“No holes in the hands,” I mug.
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