4a0000:

The moon has known me all my life

thornsandwillows:

A kitchen witch becomes the head chef of a restaurant. New menu items appear for “Finding New Love” “Good Luck” and “Restoring Ill Health.”

Couples come in on their first dates, splitting appetizers of “Good Things to Come” while sipping rose iced tea.

All of the herbs have just a little extra kick to them.

People who are rude to the waitresses and waiters find themselves for one reason or another never eating there again.

Unused food is donated to the community, and the hungry who eat it always leave feeling full, content, and warm.

a-magpie-witchling:

a-magpie-witchling:

a-magpie-witchling:

I love you.

In a non sexual way.

Or do I?

SO I WAS THINKING, what a time to be alive! As of this second 635 (SIX HUNDRED AND THIRTY FIVE, HOLY SHIT) people have decided that they want to hear the shit I have to say-

*gets notification*

SIX HUNDRED AND THIRTY SIX! (shout out to awakenthysoul who has one hell of a timing)

So I was thinking, shit! I want to give back to these people! How can I do that when I’m broke and turn up ugly in all of my nude selfies?

So I was deliberating with myself, what can I actually DO for a giveaway?

After giving it some thought, I finally made up my mind

THE DAY AFTER I REACH 1K FOLLOWERS I WILL RANDOMLY PICK ONE OF MY FOLLOWERS AND LET THEM CHOOSE AMONG THE FOLLOWING PRIZES WHERE I DON’T HAVE TO SPEND MONEY SENDING THINGS TO OTHER COUNTRIES BECAUSE ARGENTINA’S POST SERVICE IS ACTUAL PURGATORY

1. A Glade Born Tree tarot spread (19 cards, no questions, this is a spread where the Tarot conveys whatever it feels it needs to say)
2. A Daemon reveal session (I prefer using the term daemon over totem or spirit animal since it’s not directly associated to any specific minority or culture). This will have to be done via private chat, Skype, or a similar medium and can take a long while, even several days and different conversations.
3. Up to five questions (to be discussed with me beforehand so we can formulate them the best way possible) to be answered by an Oracle deck of my choice (I’ll pick the best depending on the questions you want to ask). Each question will be answered with a spread of one up to five cards.
4. Five sigils created specifically for you. I can help you word the request but it’s not necessary, you can simply give me the final consonants and I’ll draw them for you, no questions asked. I will later on publish the sigils if I feel they should be shared because others could benefit from them, but I won’t disclose those with private meanings nor your association with them if you don’t wish me to. Also you don’t have to ask for all five sigils at the same time, although I don’t recommend you wait years in case, I don’t know, I die?
5. One spell or hex designed specifically for you according to the ingredients you have access to

   (I refuse to create spells that will harm someone undeserving of being harmed, mess with somebody’s free will, threaten somebody’s sexual consenting abilities, or disproportionate if they’re meant for punishing).

6. Help and tips in building your altar and/or witchy supply storage (especially recommended if you’re a closet witch). We can skype and I’ll give you ideas of where you can hide stuff. I’m incredibly shady so I know where you tuck things so nobody will notice. This is more of a practical prize, but shit, I’ve been seeing a lot of witchlings who could use a hand!

All of these prizes can be adapted to your needs. You don’t need to like or reblog or anything (although it’s recommended so I’ll reach the 1k followers faster and we can get this out of the way sooner)

The two only rules are as it follows:

1) NO TAGGING THIS AS GIVEAWAY, you’ll ruin it for everyone, don’t be that guy.

2) I RESERVE MYSELF THE RIGHT OF REFUSING REQUESTS THAT GO AGAINST MY MORALS, meaning helping you in racist, homotransphobic, islamophobic, etc. ways.

As soon as I reach 1k followers, I’ll be picking the winner randomly using the page RANDOM.ORG. I’ll record it and search for the winner during the video to show the contest’s transparency.

I’ll get in contact with the winner via PM or ask. If these options are disabled, I’ll try to do it via tag. In any case, the winner will have FIVE DAYS (120 hours since the moment I announce it) to reach me back, else I’ll pick a different one.

Uh, I don’t think I have anything else to say, except that Han shot first?

Happy travels!

-Semiramis, the Magpie Witchling 

805 already!

Getting really close!

potatoescanbewitchestoo:

guardiansofwolves:

nerdychickshavemorefun:

colorfulcipher:

breelandwalker:

gayantlers:

swynwraigh:

witchy-woman:

ancient-absent-goddess:

thefingerfuckingfemalefury:

thesegoddamnpancakes:

dduane:

elocinneem:

superindianslug:

ohmeursault:

false-dawn:

queer-femme-romulan:

evaunit-05:

Irish people; The faeries aren’t real

Irish people; No fucking way will I go in that faerie ring

#look#you don’t go in a fairy ring and you don’t fuck with a stone in the middle of a field#these are just facts#nobody does it#fairies will fuck you up#Ireland#folklore#fairies (Via @false-dawn)

Look, I don’t believe in God, but I will not disrespect the Good Gentlemen of the Hills. That’s just common sense.

Between this and the Icelanders with their elves I do not understand what is going on above the 50th parallel.

My general rule of thumb: you don’t have to believe in everything, but don’t fuck with it, just in case.

^^^ that part

This is truer than true. Especially the Irish part.

Let me tell you what I know about this after living here for nearly thirty years.

This is a modern European country, the home of hot net startups, of Internet giants and (in some places, some very few places) the fastest broadband on Earth. People here live in this century, HARD.

Yet they get nervous about walking up that one hill close to their home after dark, because, you know… stuff happens there.

I know this because Peter and I live next to One Of Those Hills. There are people in our locality who wouldn’t go up our tiny country road on a dark night for love or money. What they make of us being so close to it for so long without harm coming to us, I have no idea. For all I know, it’s ascribed to us being writers (i.e. sort of bards) or mad folk (also in some kind of positive relationship with the Dangerous Side: don’t forget that the root word of “silly”, which used to be English for “crazy”, is the Old English _saelig_, “holy”…) or otherwise somehow weirdly exempt.

And you know what? I’m never going to ask. Because one does not discuss such things. Lest people from outside get the wrong idea about us, about normal modern Irish people living in normal modern Ireland.

You hear about this in whispers, though, in the pub, late at night, when all the tourists have gone to bed or gone away and no one but the locals are around. That hill. That curve in the road. That cold feeling you get in that one place. There is a deep understanding that there is something here older than us, that doesn’t care about us particularly, that (when we obtrude on it) is as willing to kick us in the slats as to let us pass by unmolested.

So you greet the magpies, singly or otherwise. You let stones in the middle of fields be. You apologize to the hawthorn bush when you’re pruning it. If you see something peculiar that cannot be otherwise explained, you are polite to it and pass onward about your business without further comment. And you don’t go on about it afterwards. Because it’s… unwise. Not that you personally know any examples of people who’ve screwed it up, of course. But you don’t meddle, and you learn when to look the other way, not to see, not to hear. Some things have just been here (for various values of “here” and various values of “been”) a lot longer than you have, and will be here still after you’re gone. That’s the way of it. When you hear the story about the idiots who for a prank chainsawed the centuries-old fairy tree a couple of counties over, you say – if asked by a neighbor – exactly what they’re probably thinking: “Poor fuckers. They’re doomed.” And if asked by anybody else you shake your head and say something anodyne about Kids These Days. (While thinking DOOMED all over again, because there are some particularly self-destructive ways to increase entropy.)

Meanwhile, in Iceland: the county council that carelessly knocked a known elf rock off a hillside when repairing a road has had to go dig the rock up from where it got buried during construction, because that road has had the most impossible damn stuff happen to it since that you ever heard of. Doubtless some nice person (maybe they’ll send out for the Priest of Thor or some such) will come along and do a little propitiatory sacrifice of some kind to the alfar, belatedly begging their pardon for the inconvenience.

They’re building the alfar a new temple, too.

Atlantic islands. Faerie: we haz it.

The Southwest is like this in some ways. You don’t go traveling along the highways at night with an empty car seat. Because an empty car seat is an invitation. You stick your luggage, your laptop bag, whatever you got in that seat. Else something best left undiscussed and unnamed (because to discuss it by name is to go ‘AY WE’RE TALKING BOUT YA WE’RE HERE AND ALSO IGNORANT OF WHAT YOU’RE CAPABLE OF’ at the top of your damn lungs at them) will jump in to the car, after which you’re gonna have a bad time.

If you’re out in the woods, you keep constant, consistent count of your party and make sure you know everyone well enough that you can ID them by face alone, lest something imitating a person get at you. They like to insert themselves in the party and just observe before they strike. It’s a game to them. In general you don’t fuck with the weird, you ignore the lights in the sky (no, this isn’t a god damn night vale reference, yes I’m serious) and the woods, you lock up at night and you don’t answer the door for love or money. Whatever or whoever’s knocking ain’t your buddy.

^ So much good advice in this post right here

I live in the south and… you just… don’t go into the woods or fields at night.

Don’t go near big trees in the night

If you live on a farm, don’t look outside the windows at night

I have broken all these rules.

I’ve seen some shit.

If it sounds like your mom, but you didn’t realize your mom is home…. it’s not your mom. Promise.

One walked onto the porch once. Wasn’t fun. But they’re not super keen on guns. Typically bolt when they see one.

You think it’s the neighbor kids.

It’s not the neighbor kids.

Might sound like coyotes but you never really /see/ the coyotes but then wow that one cow was reaaaaaally fucked up this morning. The next night when you hear another one screaming you just turn the tv up a little more. Maybe fire a gun in the air but you don’t go after it. If it is coyotes then it’s probably a pack and you seriously don’t want to fuck with that and if it’s the other thing you seriously REALLY don’t want to fuck with that.

So in the south, especially near the mountains, you just go straight from your car to inside your house, draw your curtains and watch tv.

If you see lights in the fields just fucking leave it alone.

Eyes forward. Don’t be fucking stupid. Mind your own business. Call your neighbors and tell them to bring the cats in. There’s coyotes out. Some of them know. Most of them don’t.

Other than that everything’s a ghost and they died in the civil war. Literally all of everything else is just the civil war. We used to smell old perfume and pipe tobacco in the weeks leading up to the battle anniversaries.

Shit’s wild and I sound fucking crazy but I swear to god it’s true.

Every time this post comes around, it’s my favorite to open up the notes and read the stories. Probably shouldn’t have since I’m sleeping alone tonight, but you know, it’s fine. 😂

Austrian girl here who has lived in Ireland for 5+ years. This shit is LEGIT. I’ve seen it with my own two Catholic eyes. 

Sure, visit during the day. That’s alright as long as you’re respectful. But you couldn’t PAY ME ENOUGH to go there at night. These are also the last places where you wanna start littering. 

I grew up in southwest Pennsylvania which is a weird mixture of American cultures and environments. I was in the heavily forested mountains (northern Appalachia) but had lots and lots of corn fields and cow pastures. Like the Smoky Mountains and fields of Kansas combined. And being so cut off from a lot of the world, we had our fair share of ghost stories.

We had ‘witches’ in the mountains (more like ghost-women who will snatch you up by making you wander in a daze around the forest like the Blair Witch before killing you or letting you back out into society but you’re… different). Or devils in springs or abandoned wells (don’t look too long into one or something will follow you). 

But we also had the cornfield demons. I’ve witnessed this many times. You’ll be in the passenger seat looking out the window and see red glowing eyes in the cornfield. No light shining in that direction. Just two red dots a few inches apart faintly glowing in a pitch black cornfield. They’re not the glow of deer eyes in the headlights. More like the embers of a dying fire. Sometimes, as you drive away, you’ll look out the back window or side mirror and you can see the eyes have moved to the edge of the corn field, still watching you. If you bring it up with the driver, they’ll call you paranoid, but grip the wheel a bit tighter and driver a little faster.

I was walking to a friend’s house one night. It was about 20 minutes down a dirt road with forest on one side and a cornfield on the other. I’ve walked past it many times and wasn’t really concerned. My main worry was coming across a skunk or porcupine. I didn’t have a flashlight because the moonlight was bright enough and I knew the walk really well. Then I saw the eyes. I immediately averted mine (because for some reason that’s how to not annoy it) but they kept wandering back. They were still there, watching. I heard rustling and saw the eyes come closer and I took off running. I got to my friends without a scratch, but I was terrified. I mentioned it to my friend and that’s when I found out it was A Thing. Her parents agreed and shared their stories. I brought it up more and almost everyone knew what I was talking about. It was a phenomenon a lot of folks around town experienced but never mentioned. To this day, I don’t linger around poorly light cornfields at night. 

Faeries and Wee Folk and Liminal Spaces, oh myyyy…

I just…yes. This. All of this. And then some.

You don’t have to understand it. You don’t have to believe in it.

But if you know what’s good for you, DON’T FUCK WITH IT.

I was born and raised in the city. My grandparents lived in the outskirts, but then decided to move back to a small mountain town my grandmother’s family used to live in. By small I mean it has less than 20 houses, and everyone knows everyone. It is an old little place, perched on the side of the mountain, with buildings made of stones. Right under it, there are fields, and then the woods.

The first time I visited (more or less 7 years ago) my grandomother was very careful to warn me not to go out when it’s dark. She’s the same woman who taught me about myths and legends, and told me that there are things wandering around. We don’t know who they are, or what they are, but they like to stroll through the town when they know it’s quiet. Usually they are calm, but sometimes they try to get people to come with them back into the woods. They make you see things, imitate noises and voices. They won’t let you come back.

I was skeptical, but I obeyed.

Fast forward to 3 years ago.

I was spending the month with my grandparents, and it was only the three of us since my family decided to stay in Rome. One day around 9 pm (the sun had just set) I was in the kitchen on the second floor, reading at the table, when I my grandmother called me from the garden. The window was open, so I clearly heard her shout “Giorgia! Can you come down a second?”

It wasn’t the first time it had happened: my grandmother had a dog who was pretty old and had trouble walking, so she’d call me down into the garden from time to time to help her move him back inside. But she never asked me to go out at night.

“Is everything okay?” I yelled, still sitting at the table “You need help?”

“Can you come down a second?” she repeated.

I just thought “Meh” and stood up to go downstairs to the lobby and reach the garden- 

-and I met my grandmother in the hallway.

I asked her “You don’t need help anymore?”. She just stared at me, so I explained that I heard her call me from the garden.

“You didn’t look down from window, did you?”

I shook my head, and she calmly walked into the kitchen and closed the window.

“You shouldn’t go out, it’s dark.” she told me, getting a bottle of water from the fridge. Like nothing had happened.

“But I heard you call-”

“It’s dark, Giorgia.”

That’s when I fully realized that it wasn’t my grandmother who tried to get me to go out in the night.

And that’s why I don’t fuck with the unknown.

Local legend time.

Here in Central Indiana, there are two local paranormal sites less than ten minutes from my house. The first is Sunken Road.

Sunken Road is this little, one-lane dirt road that runs between two country roads. It runs through a relatively low-lying area that floods a lot, and is pretty marshy in general, covered in this patches of scraggly marsh-forest (a horrible description, but you know what I mean). At one point in the road, it drops down real sharp about five feet, levels out for maybe fifty yards, and goes back up. There’s where the problem is: way back when, they were trying to build a bridge over this dip, because it especially floods. No ones ever said why- I myself probably think it’s an Indian curse, as related to the second legend- but A LOT of people died trying to make this damn bridge. Horses and men drowned or went missing, to the point that they gave up building the thing. You don’t go down this road on a full moon; personally, I think moonless nights are just as bad. People say, on the right night- Halloween, the solstices, New Years, it varies depending on the version- you can still hear the horses scream as they or their masters sink into the muck.

The other legend is Thirteen Graves. Long story short, back in the 1800s, the locals hung a bakers dozen of Indians. Instead of handing the bodies back to the tribe, they buried them in unmarked graves in this local cemetery; I’ve been here only because some of my ancestors are buried there, and Tobago was in broad daylight. Anyway, when they buried these guys, they put these big slabs of rock- limestone or concrete- on top. Can’t remember why, but I’d guess it was to prevent either the locals or the tribe digging them back up. One of the graves particularly is special. Walk along and count them, and you’ll get thirteen; turn and walk back the other way, and you might only get twelve. Supposedly, this one grave, it the right amount of moonlight, gives off a certain glow, though none of the others do. I wouldn’t know; when my friends dragged us there one night, I never got out of the car, and made sure to lock the doors.

Okay look, people always say “Let’s go to Bali for a holiday”, but Bali isn’t known as the Island of the Gods for nothing. Those candle offerings you see next to statues all over the road? And next to trees? They contain beings that you MUST be respectful to. I have heard so many stories of people snuffing candles out, only to accidentally end up in a hospital one way or the other.

Point is, don’t fucking mess with the other side, and be respectful for cultures and old myths even if you don’t believe them.

DoNt FuCk WiTh It EsPeCiAlLy If YoU dOnT kNoW mUcH aBoUt/BeLiEvE iT