When the male witches flew into the river they made a male raft, an enclosed circle of men, and spat from their shoulders, spinning like a wheel.
We chased after them over many bridges, their lips like lilies opening, as they swiftly swept through river towns. I caught the attention of one witch. Our eyes met as we men galloped down stones and they male witches roared up the river. Our lips parted identically–Witch.
Witches are formed from nothing if not from solid air or light, or, at the very least, a haunted coat falling up from the floor. When you are drenched in rain and crying into your wrists, a witch emerges from the trees. He is the one who stands behind you. The witch fills up with magic as the ground fills up with men.
We lost them in the mouth of a bridge. We had run until our shoes were scraps and we knew no language, all because we had now seen magic. The witch at the bar had appeared a rosebud from his sleeve. We had seen him snap his fingers, and we had seen the rosebud bloom before us. We needed more.
Ben Crowley is from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. He is happy to get back to writing because he has already paid a kidney, three molars, a finger and a thumb to Deep Overstock and is weighing the value of his sensory organs. Ben used to sort books for the Amazon warehouse, in our beautiful backcountry of western Pittsburgh.