Phobetor struck:
The witches take flight, our coven flying over the sea in a ship of brooms meant to harvest the ocean. Baba Yaga, my witch mother, is at the helm, and she calls me Latke as a nickname - I ate too many potatoes, I am assuming.
"My child, we are the wind and rivers given life, the soul of the world is a witch! You are simple yet soulful like a Latke, and potatoes are the might of the Russian soul." She churns her mortar and pestle and arabesques through the air. Our horde of witches and cherti ride aback a soulful gale. Dancing With Mr. D could be playing in the background as we reach land, a small St. Petersburg dockyard with snow that comes from the blankets on our brooms. "Never forget you are the earth given shape in a woman, as all women are, and cherish your peculiar magic."
