mmmcccxcvi

The Witch’s Unbearable Relief

Chips on
shoulders
rust tin men,
give cowardly
lions shoulder
blisters, leave 

a taste of dend
rite and bat
tery acid in
scarecrows’
mouths, give
Toto a case of
the incessant
round and a

rounds and
empower Dorothy
with a sense
that, if things
continue along
in this part
icular traj
ectory, she
might soon
find that she’s
grown some
wings and is
able to fly ho
me on her ve
ry own.  As
for the witches,
each are empow
ered by a love-
hate relationship
with their own
power, although
only two ever
give a second
thought to the
real feels of that 

power, and neither 

of them gets even 

a tingle of the potent

cy of the darker arts 

in which being a 

scoundrel with such 

power might involve.  

The words formed

within their mouths 

might be chewed,  

swallowed and 

digested, often 

quite uncomfortably, 

might as easily be
projectile vomited
from the landing of 

each crumbled spell
sitting in the pits of

their green stomachs
after sliding like dark
centipede-like creatures
down their elongated 

esophagi; no matter 

which direction spells 

go, the damage is
the same.  The life 

of a hag, especially 

one so constantly 

scared shitless of 

a little damp spot, 

a rainstorm, much 

less a full-in thunder

storm, the oceans, 

a tidal wave, rivers, 

creeks, sexual clim

axes, men sweating, 

the fear of a tiny 

teardrop emanat
ing from one
of their lonely
eyes, such things

have them filled 

with such elevated
anxiety.  Hence

they sound so
tormented,
demonic, how

ever they might

communicate.  

How long had it

had been since 

either had part

icipated in such?

Be they words 

filled with absurd
ities, filled with 

emotions (e.g., 
excitement, gid
diness, fear, loss):
“I’m melting!
Melting!”  But
let me offer up
to you that what
sounded like raspy
horror was the most
immense relief, the
greatest joy she’d
ever known.  She
was a witch, cursed
with a raspy and
nasally voice that
could make any
utterance sound
as if it were her
dying words.  But
these, her actual dy
ing words, the screams,
what came at us as
the horror, were 

of relief, sheer 

release, the closest 

thing to pleasure 

she’d gotten since

when?   After those
moments when

the bit of water

from that pail

at first began

to shrink the

screaming,

warted

witch, and

inevitably

took her
into the
ground,

she would

flow many a 

separate way,

somehow
making her
way to one
vast expanse
of ocean after

another, the 

wet expanse

from which 

we had all

originally

arrived.  The
relief would
last at least
until then,
although it
would dis
sipate as
what was
left of her
became more 

dispersed.  Once

a witch is gone,
she’s gone, but
there nevertheless
come out of the
intoxicated earth
the fundamentals
for more to arise
and fall, just as
this one had done.
As Dorothy began
to fall deeper and
deeper into that
feverish slumber,
as the tornado
twisted and
swept through
the dusty cor
ners of several
states, the in
cantations
that took her
over, “There’s
no place like
home” “Foll
ow the yellow

brick road!” 

“We’re off to 

see the wizard,

the wonder
ful Wizard
of Oz,”
these
were the
spells of
Dorothy
the Kansas
Witch.  It had
already been
written.  Not
in books, mind
you, but in the
stars, and with

in the tattoos
deep-set upon
the skins of the 

flying monkeys 

and a few of the

more drunken 

munchkins.