Notes on manifesting familiars (and other bewitching tips)

Considering the current pandemic situation our coven quilting bee scheduled for the November 30th Beaver Moon has been cancelled. Stay home with your familiar, they should be sufficient in any spells requiring two witches to bind your magic into holiday gift projects. Be safe, wear your masks and hopefully we will merrily meet in person again soon. Blessed Be!

“Holy shit,” said Lilith. “Limp! Look at this message! I can finally bind my own magic without getting big-eyes from one of the Becky Home-ecky witches who can sew a straight line!” Lilith was elated by the thought.

“I can’t read,” said Limp, Lilith’s beleaguered familiar, “As a matter of fact, I don’t really know how I can talk, since I don’t have a mouth,” she said.

“It’s ESPN. Hahaha! Get it?” Lilith guffawed at her little joke. She loved referring to ESP as ESPN.

Limp did not laugh.

“You’ll understand my jokes when you get used to me,” Lilith said to a still-silent Limp.

“I don’t think so,” said Limp. “I’d appreciate it if you’d send me back to the dumpster you conjured me from,” she asked, for the hundredth time since Lilith manifested Limp as a familiar.

“Look, I can’t help it if every other bored intuitive person on earth decided to take up Witchcraft during the pandemic,” explained Lilith, “Pickings for familiars are slim right now,” she said.

Lilith went on, “I wasn’t really that good at it to begin with and when we started Zooming the coven meetings, I fell behind.”

The admission was no surprise to Limp.

“That might explain the “how,” Lilith, but it certainly doesn’t explain the “why” you don’t send me back,” said Limp.

“I’m lonely,” admitted Lilith. “There’s this here pandemic on and it’s just crazy,” she whined.

“Lilith. I’m a rancid boneless chicken breast from the KFC dumpster on North Main,” said Limp, as emphatically as a rancid chicken breast could.

“But you’re a self-aware rancid chicken breast, Limp. And you have a name. That’s an accomplishment,” said Lilith.

“You named me Limp, Lilith. Would you like to be called “Limp” your entire self-aware existence? I think not,” pontificated Limp, in a very self-aware manner.

Limp continued, “I’m also deteriorating. If you don’t send me back, you’ll soon have pile of smelly goo as a familiar,” she said.

“I bound you with a no-smell spell, so ha. Got ya’ there,” sniped Lilith.

“You did not bind me, Lilith. You have a head cold and a stuffy nose,” said Limp.

“You’re pretty lippy for a breast,” said Lilith. She again guffawed at her own joke. Lilith never ceased to think herself hilarious.

Limp did not laugh.

“Please Lilith,” she said, “My destiny was to feed the ground from which I came. You are denying me my righteous path,” said Limp, clearly more self-aware than ever.

“Ok, I get it,” Lilith conceded. “But can I just throw you in the yard instead of taking a chance on fucking up and sending you to the moon, or something?” asked Lilith.

“In light of the extraordinary circumstances with the pandemic and all, I think that’s a fine idea, Lilith,” said Limp.

After releasing Limp into the night (by throwing her out the back window) Lilith vowed to take better notes on summoning familiars.

In the meantime, she’d adopt a cat.

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As a former transportation industry writer, I learned that a regular paycheck is nice, but writing about something you're no longer interested in is miserable. Apparently, I like writing more than money - so I'm back to freelancing at 52. It's not as altruistic as it sounds, I'm also cranky and difficult and refuse to fit in anymore, making steady employment pesky and potentially dangerous to my psyche.

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