The Urban Witch

The Urban Witch walks about the streets of Chicago, waiting for mothers to turn their backs on their children. The Urban Witch has hair the color of raw steel that sweeps her waist. Taking utmost pride in it, she is sure to tangle it 100 times before bedtime. Her skin is draped about her face like tanned leather over skull. Taking utmost pride in it, she is sure to dry it out in front of a smoldering radiator for at least 2 hours a day. Her nails are yellowed and clubbed and caked with grime. Taking utmost pride in them, she is sure to gnaw at her cuticles upon waking every morning.

When she walks the sound of a tuba waltz echoes off the skyscrapers. Little ones look up from their ice-cream cones and lollipops to see the source of this music. Is there a circus in town? The wind kicks up in salute, disguising itself as a cold artic gust off the shores of Lake Michigan. The sun fearfully ducks behind a cloud. Birds, perched in rustling trees above, hush their song uneasily to watch her pick her next prey. The Urban Witch’s icy blue eyes are alert, darting from side to side, and waiting. Her pointed ears are listening for sounds of laughter. Her sharp cliff of a nose is worming and twisting to the scent of fresh-washed ears and baby powder wafting in the breeze.

Just as Mom turns around to ensure that her mocha will be served “sans whip,” the Urban Witch will briskly snatch her little apple cheeked darlings and take them back to her Urban Witchhole, her studio apartment in Uptown. Her little Hate Nest smells like cat pee and coffee and cigarettes and grapefruit and steak and is cluttered with a jungle of plants in macramé holders that have been trying their damndest, for over 15 years, to end their own misery. She will deposit each screaming toddler in his own antique curio cabinet, where they will stay until there are no longer cute. Then she will chop them up and eat them in a stew.