BABA YAGA
I keep my eyes closed, and my ears pressed with my sweating hands as I feel the ground shaking. Green leaves are falling from the tree I’m under, and my feet are slowly being swallowed deeper in the mud. I peek, and I see its claws digging into the ground, throwing clods as it runs in circles. I can only see its legs, and I can hear the rain aggressively hitting the roof. But, suddenly, it sits. The chicken legs disappear, and now it looks just like any other house.
It’s made out of wood, has a broken window, and the front door doesn’t close. I already imagine how nice it would look painted in dark green or burgundy. I walk up to it, and I fully open the door by kicking it with my foot. It’s empty, and I could use a house, now that I’ve been banished from the village. I could live here, in my chicken-legged-magic house, and be a witch. I could gather the black flowers I saw while walking through the forest, milk my wooden cow, and write spells that would use my blood to punish the boys that hurt me. I could cut my hair short, run barefoot, and only ever love girls. I could hex a barrel, fly with it until I reach the clouds, and fly back only after I finished reading all my books.
I put everything I have in my bag on the dusty floor. I take my red summer dress, hang it above the broken window, and watch as the light in the house slowly changes. I feel the house getting up again, but I don’t manage to grab onto anything, so I fall and slide on the chipped floor. I reach the lowest corner of the house, and I quickly bring my knees to my chest. I hug my legs, tightly keeping them together, and I press my lips onto my bleeding knee. My blood tastes bitter.
Ana Molv, 22, Romania ✯ IG: @ana.molv
“Cubitum eamus?”