witches ovenbird My dreams take the panic_attacks that have been preying on my daughter and turn them into a man, or something that used to be a man and is now a monstrous sorcerer, surging with dark magic, slowly devouring my beautiful child night after night. My mother and I are witches. Her mother was a witch and her mother’s mother was too. We’ve been fighting this demonic force for generations. Our book of spells is written in the blood of our ancestors, the binding sewn with thick strands of hair plucked from the head of my great-great grandmother. My mother and I confer in whispers as we stand outside my daughter’s room. Inside, the air is humid and smells of sickness. We find my daughter sitting up in bed, pale and thin and ghostly. Her face is slick with a sheen of sweat, her eyes are fevered and huge. She’s been fighting as hard as she can for days, without sleep or food. Her body rejects everything she tries to swallow. The spells take everything inside her and burn it for fuel. “I’m tired,” she says, her voice transparent, so nearly not there at all. “I know,” I say. “But you are strong.” I say this firmly, because if I make my voice as hard as rock I can make the statement true. My mother and I prepare her for the night’s battle–place a cool wet cloth on her forehead, peel the sweat soaked pyjamas from her body, dress her in a fresh nightgown. We can’t fight this force for her. It’s something she needs to learn to do on her own. I kiss her damp forehead and whisper the words that she will need to summon when the demon comes for her. She nods. She remembers. She is small against her pillows, small in the sea of twisted sheets, she is small but wild with the will to survive. This war is hers to win. 251002 what's it to you? who go blather from