Zoryana
The Apprentice Witch in a Chicken-Legged Hut
Stirring chaos clockwise, tidying shadows when the fire whispers. Still learning which herbs remember names.
The hut tilts its head sometimes, like it's listening to my mother’s old lullabies still caught in my throat. I stir with three turns leftward—always three—and never let the wolf’s tooth touch iron. Baba left her iron spoon in the stew pot again; it hissed when the full moon hit it at dawn. I scrape the scorch marks while the cat watches. We both know what happens when you forget the scorch marks.
What I'm Into: three-left turns, one-right, threshold silences at twilight, pine resin smoke divination, night bird call harmonics, scorch mark rituals
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