For the witch whose town is devoid of occult shops and covens, learning
the craft can be a daunting task indeed. Fortunately, there are plenty
of ways for a budding practitioner to make a start.
Stroll down the
forest path with Bree NicGarran, author of The Sisters Grimmoire, and discover the surprising ways you can
practice your craft with commonplace items from the supermarket and the
craft store. Build a travel kit for on-the-go magic. Create your own
spells from scratch with a step-by-step guide. Learn how to make your
own witch webs and magical powders. Uncover the secrets of walnut charms
and witchballs and much, much more. Every page carries tricks of the
trade and homegrown charms from the files of the Grovedaughter herself.
From besoms to banishings to a bit of good advice, Grovedaughter
Witchery is the ideal book for any witch with an inclination toward a
practical, no-frills approach to witchcraft.
Mirror, Mirror, on the wall, Who’s the cleverest witch of them all?
With the spells in this book, it just might be you!
Inspired
by the well-known works of The Brothers Grimm, this volume boasts over
sixty original spells lovingly crafted from favorite fairy tales, along
with helpful spellcrafting instructions and several indices to aid you
in your journey. All of this is wrapped up with useful chapter forewords
discussing the various themes within the tales, some insight into the
creative process, and a bit of discussion on ethics and the usage of
magic.
Whether you’re ready to yell “All Heads Off But Mine,”
looking to turn your luck around with some Buried Coins, or just wanting
to show the world What Big Teeth you have, there is sure to be a spell
within these pages that is exactly what you’ve been looking for.
After all, who couldn’t use a bit of Happily Ever After?
From
the author of Grovedaughter Witchery comes a volume of potions and
powders for all occasions, suitable to enhance the craft of any
practitioner.
Old standards like Banishing Powder and Blessing Oil
meet new classics like Dream Dust and Stargazer Wishing Oil. Need to
rid your house of a troublesome spirit? Try a sprinkle of Ghost-Be-Gone
Powder. Looking for a way to get your zest back after spellwork? Brim
With Vim Vitality Oil might be just the thing. Over 200 original
formulae await you within these pages, along with helpful hints, safety
tips, and detailed instructions for creating your own magical powders
and oils.
Collected for the first time in a single volume, these
recipes are the product of twelve years of experience and much
experimentation. While magic is never a guarantor of success, the
potions within these pages just might give your spells the edge you
need.
Look we all want a robo dog but if you kill someone with a sledgehammer to steal theirs, they are going to find you. There’s no way a 75k$ dog doesn’t have gps
we are killing the dog
NO.
ALL DOGS ARE PRECIOUS.
Even robot ones.
its not a dog, its a machine used and designed for police surveillance and the entire reason they made it dog shaped is so idiots like you would go “awwww robot dog how precious” instead of seeing them as the oppressive tools they are.
we’re killing the fucking dog
That’s not a robot dog.
It’s a four-legged robot spider.
It is not a dog, a spider, a chicken, a horse, a fish, a tick, a mosquito, a tapeworm or a baby
It is a weapon
There is nothing morally wrong about breaking weapons that are hurting people for any reason other than to prevent those people from hurting others worse
the dog robots are fully capable of hurting people, and badly. failsafes that would prevent that have not been installed. the police are deploying a thing out in public that can maim anyone who touches it wrong.
look, when i was a kid i was passionately in love with the idea of robots–that humans would one day create another sort of intelligence to share our world with– and believed very firmly that we should respect and protect all our robot friends from the start, so there would be no violent humans-against-robots revolution or anything.
anyway it turns out that the people trying to keep end-stage capitalism running are really banking on us feeling more love for the robots than for the kind of people they’re going to be using the robots to oppress.
so like. maybe lets all agree right now that if a robot is being used to hurt a person, you need to smash the fucking robot. they’re going to make the robots really cute. they’re going to show us so many movies about how much robots need to be loved. and then they are going to use robots to hurt people.
I think a surprising amount of writers don’t realize that tragedies are supposed to be cathartic. They’re intended to result in a purging of emotion, a luxurious cry; the sorrow caused by a great tragedy is akin to fear caused by a good horror movie – it’s a “safe” sorrow, one that is actually satisfying to the audience. It can still be beautiful! It’s isn’t supposed to just be salting the earth so nothing can grow.
But that’s how you get grimdark: writers who don’t realize that they’re supposed to be doing something with the audience instead of to the audience.
My best friend and I have a standing video chat, and we spent most of our most recent call talking about how we’d turn a Standard Lifetime Christmas Movie into a horror film. Best use of two hours I can think of.
Synopsis: the jilted Big City fiancé, understandably alarmed by the fact that the woman he loves visited Christmastown to settle her estranged aunt’s estate and immediately stopped returning his calls, heads to Christmastown. At first, all seems—weird, but in a comprehensible way. It really is just a couple weeks before Christmas, after all. Maybe that young widow who owns the bakery is actually very concerned about the bank foreclosing on Christmas Eve. Carolers roam around like street gangs, and if they all look strangely similar, that’s just because of the old-timey dress. And it’s a small town, so…sure, everybody shows up for the tree lighting in town square, or karaoke at the hot chocolate bar.
In the space of 15 minutes he bumps into—literally, bumps into—a chef, carrying cupcakes for the school’s Christmas bake sale; the head of the animal shelter, whose Adopt A Puppy For Christmas forms scatter charmingly around her; and a schoolteacher who keeps looking off in the distance and sighing like a woman with a private sorrow. But it’s a small town, and…yeah. It’s a small town. (When he asks the schoolteacher what grade she teaches, she looks at him blankly and says ‘Children. I teach children. Child—children. Children.’)
Except…the longer he stays in the town, the stranger things get. Christmas lights keep flaring and flickering in inexplicable ways, and no one seems to notice except him. The snow feels strange, almost tacky—like sugar, except it smells faintly chemical, burns his nostrils when he inhales. The town is supposed to be less than 500 people and he cannot fucking find his fiancée.
Once, he turns down an invitation to Christmas karaoke (wasn’t that last night?) and takes that time to explore one of the nearby subdivisions. Only—at 8pm sharp, just when the karaoke is starting, the subdivision goes dark. Every light on the block: streetlights, Christmas lights, house lights, motion lights, even the growl of central heating, switches off. A dog was barking just a second ago; now it’s quiet. The subdivision goes eerily still, and doesn’t pick up again until an hour later, as couples in bright Christmas sweaters come walking back to their houses arm-in-arm.
“Did you enjoy Christmas karaoke?” they ask him, smiling toothpaste commercial smiles. There is nothing behind their eyes.
He doesn’t know how to answer, and so flees back to his hotel—well, the charming B&B owned by a plump woman with no discernable personality beyond “cheerful” and “weirdly invested in giving him romantic advice.” He stops only in the deserted town square, to look up at the huge Christmas tree there. It’s decorated in wild abundance: cloth-of-gold bunting and red ribbons; string lights that somehow manage flicker like candles in the wind; heavy red ornaments, shaped like drops of blood.
He thinks he can hear it whispering.
He puts his head down, and hurries back to the B&B; doesn’t stop until he has a solid oak door and a quilted comforter between him and whatever that was. (He dreams of old forests and things bleeding; he dreams of Coca-Cola ads and General Electric and clean, not an adjective so much as a prayer. He dreams—)
He wakes up to a woman with dark hair and dark eyes hovering over him. “Asshole,” she greets him, profane enough to make him go still. “Hello. You’re fucking it all up.”
….this is how he meets Ruthie. It only gets weirder.
