Hopkins' Witch Pt. 2 (Short Story Series 1, Pt. 4)

The worst mistake I've ever made.

This forest is slowly eating me alive. All the myths were true; all the fables lived up to their names. This place has a heartbeat and I hear it every night as my torn head rests on cold, unforgiving dirt. I'm well aware of what may happen to me, but at night I hear him shouting. Hear my father shouting my name, shouting for his life, but he gets no reply. It keeps me going; keeps me aware. My paranoia has hit an all time high, never walking two steps without checking behind my shoulder, and it all began with those first few moments on Hopkins' Witch.

My confidence was at an all time high, thinking that I would certainly find him in no time; that no man can just disappear into the trees. Little did I know that the path soon drifted into the pure dark that overcomes the forest at night. The moment the sun sets, you belong to the trees. Distance shrieks of animals foreign to my village in the distance and the chilling sound of twigs snapping all around. These things soon became the soundtrack to my nightmares and all I want is to hear his voice, to see that now unfamiliar face. I know one day I will find him, or rather his corpse. I'll trip into a dried creek and find him there, eyes wide and blank, just like in my dreams.

The witch-like abilities I thought I once harbored have long since abandoned me. I must be tethered to the village, or maybe the sun. I have no certain way to determine it. The first night I tried to conjure fire, mere sparks left my fingers, enough to create a small puff of smoke on a stack of leaves. My defeated tears soon extinguished the small hope of warmth that night, and from then on I have been nothing short of frozen. Sometimes I feel the vines on the ground wrap around my legs, or maybe I imagine them. I can never quite tell what's real any more.

I have been here for what feels like months, but I have no definite way of telling. The number of sunsets doesn't seem to match the number of sunrises. I wake up from slumber to a completely dark forest, sometimes thinking I'm back in my room, and for a moment I find comfort in it. For once in my life I actually want to see my old cot, or maybe just smell my home. The small berries growing around here have kept me living, but with a skeleton figure. Each day I stumble around, looking for food, looking for shelter, and looking for him no matter how harshly my legs protest.

I catch small glimpses of him. He looks around the trees and drinks from the mud. He never acknowledges me, though. He looks back and forth then disintegrates like dust in the wind. I believe he's a ghost, or maybe the forest is playing tricks on me. All of these delusions and insanities always leading to the ultimate disappoint of sunset, when the forest blinds all those that walk the ground. It is now the end of my day and I stare at the canopy of the forest, mulling over all of these thoughts in my head and preparing for darkness. It falls on me like a thick blanket and soon I see nothing, but hear everything. I take a few more steps, considering adventuring in the dark, but soon realize it's impossible as I trip over a vine and make my way to the ground. My cold head resting silently on the dirt, I accept this spot as my bed and await slumber.

I spring awake in what feels like mere seconds. A sharp pain on my ankle makes me flail wildly at my leg, trying to stop whatever may have latched onto me. My hand connects with a slick, scaly creature which I mistake for a vine initially, but soon realize I have no such luck. The snake squirms in my grip, but I have just enough strength to keep it under control. I rip it off my flesh and throw it across the forest floor, but the damage is done. Blood drips from the tiny wound and my heart beats out of my fragile chest. I must be poisoned, my leg begins to feel numb and my hands shake harder than my heart beats. My fist grips dirt and I try to scream, but only small cries escape my ragged throat. Any sliver of hope I had before is extinguished. A suffocating weight on my chest. I'm done for. In this place, an injury means your life. Without my leg I can't search for food and can't search for my father. I've let him down. My head begins to feel light and I'm sure I will be dead before I awaken, but all I can focus on is the stabbing pain in my leg. Maybe this is for the best.

The worst mistake I've ever made.

I awake colder than I've ever been; fully convinced that this is the afterlife. My eyes barely open to the slightly lit forest, and I once again know that I'm still in hell. The skin over my skeleton is a ghostly pale and my voice is a raspy mess. The poison still circulates through my blood and I peer down to my ankle as I lay in the fetal position. A puffed up, purple lump on my leg tells me that travel won't be simple, if at all possible. I look around the forest and realize that maybe not all is lost. It takes all of my strength to press my fist into the pool of vomit by my face and try to bring myself up. My fragile spine manages to keep me upright and my eyes finally focus. I collapsed mere feet from a path barely visible through the trees.

Salvation was implausible twenty-four hours ago, but now I feel like I've found hope. If I can just move my legs enough to get me on the path, maybe I can crawl my way to wherever it leads. If it leads to the exit of the forest, then I can come in contact with the sun for the first time in ages. It's been so long since I've felt the warmth of true sunlight, and not that which I receive from the canopy's filter. Hope slowly wells in my chest and tears appear in my eyes. They stream down my face, both from pain and happiness. I put weight on my injured leg and bite down hard on my tongue, feeling as incompetent as a new-born, but more hopeful than ever.

My brittle bones wobble pathetically over to the trees and my hands barely support me as I slump onto them. Sharp bark from the trunks scrape over my skin as I squeeze myself through the small opening and fall onto the path. Swiftly surveying the area, I take in every bit of scenery I can see. It feels like I'm being deceived, that there was no way I couldn't have noticed this before -- But here I am, as sickly and dumbfounded as I have been since I entered. Everything is suddenly so familiar. A dark dirt path, a torn up girl, and a forest looming overhead. I stare off to the right, where the path seems to lead forever into the forest, but never turn over to see to my left. Dirt fills my fingernails as I push myself up once again. I turn myself over and stare in the opposite direction, dumbstruck by what is there.

In the distance stood an eerily spotless white church, looking as if it was just built. The trees cast an ominous shadow around it as if a colossal man stood observing the small building. My mind immediately went to my father. Maybe this is where he's been. Maybe he's been hiding here and has become a refuge in the church. Maybe I can be saved. Maybe I can hear his voice one more time.

My feeble body limps back over to the trees and I use them as a crutch as I make my way down the path. The bruise on my leg pulsates but I give no thought to it, my mind set on touching the door of the church. I feel as if I may collapse at any second but I don't let that hold me back. My mind conjures blurry images of my father and I grin for the first time in months, feeling my motivation slowly seep back into me. I start to think about what brought me here in the first place; start to think about my village and all the wrong they've done. Maybe I can go back someday...

Mere feet from the church and I hop silently along, smiling like a maniac. A sharp pain in my foot catches me off guard and I nearly fall to the ground. I look down and find a splintered road sign. I'm almost surprised by what it reads, but I knew since the second I fell onto the path where I was. I was meant to find this place, meant to avenge my father. The witch of Hopkins' Salvation has a calling, and it lies in this church. I don't allow my mind to dwell for too long, and I keep going. My feet reach the steps and I nearly slip and fall, but catch myself and eagerly make my way up to the door, feeling a tension grow in my chest. I stare at it for a bit, hoping that among everything that I've seen, that this is real. My pale fist grips the doorknob and I turn it swiftly and slam the door open.

A run-down, dilapidated church greets me with a wicked, deceiving smile. I let my excitement get to me, and it led to me a dead end. There was no way anything would live in here; the ceiling was falling through, though I couldn't see it from the outside. The floor is coated with a thick layer of dust and dirt, small bugs sped away from the door, and the windows were broken out. This entire cursed forest is a trick and I fell for all of it. I break down on my knees and sob uncontrollably, all hope flooding right back out. Is this a cruel joke? I'm just a girl. I just want my father. This must have been designed by the village. Nothing so cruel and mocking could be done by anyone but those monsters. All the rage living inside me shows itself again. Every bit of hate and sadness swells together until I'm punching the floorboards with my weak fists. The boards creak and slightly split. I'm surprised by my strength, but I don't stop.

I pound the floorboards with a burning intensity and soon the board is coated with my blood, but continues to split. I hear an odd, unfamiliar noise as I break it further. Soon it becomes a dull hum, growing louder and louder. Finally I realize I know this sound. I had just merely forgotten. The sound of running water has been so long lost from my ears. One last punch, I think each time, never pondering whether or not this is another trick. It takes one last, hard pound for the board to finally snap. My fist plunges down and is immediately soaked in cold water.

The blood from my broken fist colors the water a dark crimson, but it soon clears. Water rushes fast under the floorboards, and my mind is boggled at the thought. It runs in from the right side of the church, and takes a sharp turn straight ahead of me, toward the back of the church. I scoop up as much as I can and fill my mouth, my thirst unbelievable. The flow of water down my cracked throat clears my head of any thoughts and removes all pain from my body. A full release from everything that's plagued me the past weeks.

My mind free to finally think, I scan the area and try to assess the situation; still guzzling down as much water as I can. Immediately it hits me and I press my ear to the dusty wood that covers the stream. I hear the stream moving and I follow it, slowly making my way toward the front of the church. My body scraping against the floor makes a trail in the dust, my fingernails leaving small impressions as they move along the floor. Small splinters sink into my face and body but I pay no mind, my focus entirely on hearing the stream. I nearly reach the podium at the front of the room before I heard the noise break off.

I look down in disbelief. Is that all? It just stops? No, the flow was far too strong for it to just cease. It must have changed direction or gone down. My mind races and I search around for a sign of anything I could use to break through the wood, my fists unable to do the job again. I knock over the worn down podium at the front of the room and notice the most critical part of the church. Where the wall meets the floor, there is a gaping hole with jagged pieces of wood sticking out. The opening is covered in dust coated vines, but I can barely see the reflection of water inside. I move closer and press my face into the vines, ripping them out of my way as I claw desperately to try to reach the water.

The vines give way to my weight and I fall face first into the hole, my skeleton-like figure somehow fitting. My skin crawls the second I hit the water and I realize where the creek led. It fell off into a much larger pool at the bottom, which flowed just as fast. I immediately panic and try to claw at the walls but my hand connects with nothing. The flow takes me through a pitch black tunnel with only the sound of rushing water to fill the air. Another drop takes me down to the bottom and my skull hits hard against the rocks. A brief second of pain and then nothing. My weary brain is done for. Please let this be death.

Two hands hold my head up and a pair of lips greets my forehead. Everything on me hurts, my lungs are torn to shreds, my head is screaming, my leg is corroded, and my fists are skinned -- But none of it matters. I open my eyes to see who holds me, and know everything is okay. There is a blinding sun in the sky, but it is shaded by a tall man. Tears drop onto my face as I see my father standing above me, smiling like I'd never seen him smile before. His eyes were pouring and he pulled me to his chest, holding me tight. We both sobbed and shook, knowing no words to say. I hear other footsteps around me, but take no notice. I reach my feeble arms up and squeeze him back, his old hunting vest just how I'd remembered it. Everything was worth it. Everything is okay. Everything is beautiful. My father is alive and so am I, but only just. I hope their words were worth this. I hope they know what comes when we return. When father and daughter travel back on Hopkins' Witch.

Searching For A Pulse/The Worth Of The World Review

When it comes to spastic, raw, and emotionally drenched hardcore music, you'd be hard pressed to find two bands that do it better than La Dispute and Touche Amore. With their new split, they show just how well they can hone their skills and craft themselves another bleak and suffocatingly intense musical experience. Throughout the four short songs, the vocalists lend themselves to each other in small snippets to form an impressive and enjoyable contrast between the two. However it is unfortunate that the EP is rather lacking in its length, with TA only holding three minutes of it. This is of course nothing new for the band since they are known for having extremely short songs, though it works to great effect with their expertise in brevity. La Dispute, on the other hand, holds the majority of the time on the record, contributing two very solid songs. The release in whole is a fantastic addition to both of the group's slowly expanding discographies and is a nice listen to hold us over until we get some new material from each of them.

Touche Amore starts off unsurprisingly energetic with I'll Get My Just Deserve. As per usual with the group, each line is delivered with a swift punch and the music pulses angrily in the foreground. Jeremy Bolm's shouts bounce between barely decipherable and pleasantly furious throughout his two main tracks. His flawless desperation continually builds the angrily pounding atmosphere that remains strong throughout the EP. Helping with this is Jordan Dreyer who appears in small doses on both songs. They bounce seamlessly together on TA's second track, I'll Deserve Just That, which moves smoothly up and down from softly pounded drums, up to explosive guitar. The production value is spot on with what is needed for this type of release and helps accentuate each aspect of the bands, both their shrieking vocals and extremely strong musicianship.

Following that trend is La Dispute, bringing the fury immediately on How I Feel. Jordan drops the whiny vocalism he has become known for here and sticks to his fantastic shouting that gives the song the perfect injection of emotion that he has done so well in the past. Along with that he brings his poetic songwriting to Why It Scares Me, perhaps one of the group's best. The shout of "Sometimes I think they're all acting/Times I'm scared that I'm acting too" is a perfect example of everything this band has offer. It's the raw, intense, and emotional fury that has embraced their fans since the beginning. He is of course joined by Jeremy on both tracks, adding exactly what Jordan did to TA's songs. The way these bands flow so easily together is impressive to hear and makes the EP perfectly balanced for each of them.

Perhaps the only gripe to find here is how short it is, but for the eight minutes it runs, it captures your attention and doesn't let go until Jordan sends you off with his final shout. It leaves you wanting more, and that isn't necessarily a bad thing. Both La Dispute and Touche Amore are at top form here and it's clear that they have no intention of stopping. For fans of both bands, Searching For A Pulse/The World Of The World, is an extremely satisfying release and leaves you hopeful for what they have cooking for us next, knowing full well that they have the potential to do something brilliant.

Serotonin Review

Cheesy love pop: Mystery Jet's latest release, Serotonin, has more than enough to power a Grease soundtrack. Throughout the record you're given a healthy dose of that 80's power-pop, synth driven, "Never Gonna Give You Up," type of feel. With their extremely campy approach to this record, it becomes increasingly difficult to take them seriously with each plead for their forlorn love aspirations. And if upon first listen of Serotonin, you think it may grow, unfortunately it really loses any luster after the initial play through. After several listens, it seems to melt together into one overly-long mash up of over the top songwriting and forgettable rhythms. That is where the album stops being toe-tapping pop, and becomes the formulaic, monotonous mess that unfortunately plagues many pop records.

The group utilizes that spacey, distant singing effect that has been done several times, and to a better effect by several other groups in the genre (Arcade Fire for example). Among that there's the less than extraordinary rhythms that fill the atmosphere (Or lack thereof) on tracks like The Girl Is Gone and the title track which all follow the familiar pattern of catchy drum beat, synth pattern, guitar, repeat. There's obvious influences floating through each song, but they never pin one down and do something unique with it, they simply mash them all together for an incoherent, repetitive experience. And the repetition doesn't stop there. The choruses throughout the record rarely vary in their respective songs, and do little to make the track more interesting. The formula of verse-chorus-verse that is abused so often is apparent in several songs and only accentuates the many flaws of the record.

Though it may seem that there is nothing to redeem Serotonin, I'll admit that there are a few catchy rhythms sprinkled throughout. The feel of Flash a Hungry Smile, is a very nostalgic sort of Beatles number. However cliché it may be, some may enjoy this campy approach, though in most of other cases, it will just be put away as unoriginal and overdone, which is no doubt true as well.

The album bounces between sounds more than it should and simply can't decide what it's trying to be which leaves a giant void where substance should exist. It plays off of old formulas and tired rhythms as it stretches each song out as long as it can. Though it has its rare fun moments, for the most part it can't keep up with other power-pop groups who are simply doing it better. The Mystery Jets do, however, have quite a bit of talent as illustrated by their last record, but it simply doesn't work here. It seems that they've become too pop for their own good and wind up being the tired band trying to resurrect old formulas to manipulate the audience. Some will undoubtedly enjoy this for its little camp value, but it simply doesn't stand the test of several listens.

We Have Cause To Be Uneasy Review

The subtle art of creating atmosphere has become an all too rare tool in music lately. An album can be as catchy as possible, but when it lacks a certain atmosphere -- a definite feeling -- it tends to feel fruitless and bare. However for the Alabama quartet Wild Sweet Orange and their first full length LP, We Have Cause To Be Uneasy, there's that definite feel of emotional integrity and a genuine, fully charged atmosphere. It flows from dark and haunting, to bright and uplifting like a creek flowing through a bleak forest with cracks of sunlight breaking through the canopy. Each vivid imagery of death and utter despair are nothing above the norm for groups of the genre, but it all depends on how well it is executed, and for Wild Sweet Orange, they near the pinnacle of emotional depth.

The group is lead by Preston Lovinggood whose daunting vocals begin the album with a chilling performance. He carries this breathy, distance singing throughout the album, until of course he breaks out into total shouting, keeping you engaged throughout the slippery slope that the emotions take. He hits some impressive, inspiring highs on the few crescendos sprinkled throughout the record. The swift uppercut of a shout on Tilt, hits you with a sudden rush of emotional strength and really takes you into what he's saying. He ebbs and flows like this throughout the album, never overusing a tone past its welcome, and it's certainly appreciated.

While there isn't an apparent variation among the sounds of the album, what is lacking in variance is made up for in excellent lyricism and engaging emotional charge. The music does its duty to set up the moody backdrop for the sometimes fantastic lyricism. The smooth acoustic licks and simple drum patterns among the slick bass lines and electric guitar never really differ, only merely adjust to fit the next songs lyrics. However there are some really excellent, however rare moments where the music really shines. When the guitars cut out and you're only left with the soft keyboard and Lovinggood backed by Kate Taylor on House Of Regret, it really hits you and remains one of the most memorable parts of the album. The song soon builds back up to hit you hard once again with another of Lovinggood's shouting matches. It's these raw moments that stick out as easily some of the best on the album, and really brings out the beauty in some of the lyrics. Another excellent moment occurs on the chorus of Aretha's Gold, where it's shown that Lovinggood is best with his acoustic guitar.

Because you

You're as tameless as an ocean

I want to love you but commotion

Oh, it ravages me whole

Oh, and me

I'm as dramatic as the thunder

My lightning scares her, she rolls over

Oh yeah, she needs to get some sleep

And as previously mentioned, Lovinggood does a stellar job of portraying each and every dark undertone, but he's not alone. There's quite a few guest singers to help provoke that feeling that Lovinggood is striving for, and they work to great effect. From the simple Ooh's from Rebekah Fox on Atlas To Follow, to a vocal underlay from Katie Crutchfield on Seeing And Believing, it's the small additions that accentuate Lovinggood's atmospheric, moody tones. While the other members pitch in their vocals here and there, it's really Lovinggood that steals the show in every regard. His vocals and his acoustic guitar could easily be used as a one man act, and that slightly takes away from the band's overall merit.

I could be cynical and say it's all been done before, that album's with gloomy atmospheres and images of death has been done better, but I won't. We Have Cause To Be Uneasy, is a refreshing taste of the smooth emotion that is unfortunately absent in most music I've heard lately. It's a lengthy release, and probably not for most casual radio listeners, but for those that can indulge in the sounds and feelings of Wild Sweet Orange, it's a fun, memorable ride. While the band is currently on hiatus, one can only hope that they hone in on their skills and make another excellent LP in the future. For now, I'll just keep Ten Dead Dogs on repeat.

Rain Before The Storm Review

If there's one thing that I can say about former InMe guitarist Ben Konstantinovic, it's that he is unique. On his debut EP, Rain Before The Storm, he uses a technique known as lap-tapping. For those unfamiliar with this method, it is simply this: He sits with his guitar, whether it be acoustic or electric, across his lap and uses quick finger taps against the strings to make a unique listening experience. Sounds simple enough, but when listened to, it's clear that it takes skill and accuracy to create the multi-layered experience that comes with Rain Before The Storm. There are no lyrics, no other instruments, just one man and his guitar, which injects each song with a very personal touch. For those who appreciate a nice night drive, this record is definitely catered to you.

Beginning with the title track, the interesting and immense atmosphere that remains present throughout most of the EP is immediately apparent. The swift, perfectly executed finger taps keep you engaged and interested in what comes next, and it's never the same. Each song feels like a distinct story flowing right from the fingers of Konstantinovic, and for me, I noticed a definite mood for each track. For the title track: A triumph, success over a personal demon. Thoughts of You: A yearning for another and an overall relationship-inspired feel. The Journey: Just that, an adventure and that youthful feeling of journeying out and discovering. Requiem: A fitful conclusion, an end to something important and substantial. Perhaps that's what is most engaging about Rain Before The Storm, the feelings that each person can perceive differently from each song.

As mentioned, nearly every track holds a special uniqueness and sincerity that is seldom felt from modern music. However, the one track that didn't really engage my mind was Thoughts of You, where it felt just a little too much like what you would hear in an elevator, or during the credits of a soap opera. Not to say that it isn't a quality song, it just doesn't hold the same imagination-capturing atmosphere of the three other tracks which tend to overshadow upon listening. Take any of the other songs into a normal situation, whether it be driving, jogging, or simply staring at the ceiling at night, and you're guaranteed to have a relaxed, thought-provoking experience courtesy of Ben Konstantinovic.

This Is For The White In Your Eyes Review

I've never quite understood how the word"big" could be applied to music. It doesn't seem to fit in with the typical vocabulary used to described sound, but for some albums it's the only way to capture it in a single word. It immediately came to mind when I first listened to Choir Of Young Believers' grandiose record, This Is for the White In Your Eyes. The ever-shifting group is captained by Jannis Noya Makrigiannis, who uses his group of supporting musicians to make gorgeous, immense soundscapes. I say ever-shifting because throughout the record only one aspect stays the same, and that's Jannis. The instrumentation is never the same for two songs with the cast moving in and out with graceful ease. You could remove the lyrics (which aren't too spectacular in the first place) and simply enjoy the fantastic musicianship, which of course is a strike against the lyricism itself. In hind-sight, it's really the "choir" in COYB that makes This Is for the White In Your Eyes come together as a grand achievement of a debut LP and not so much the lyrics that Jannis conceives.

It will take only one full listen to understand what I'm incoherently trying to say about this album. Even after several listens, I haven't fully digested this and I think that's what appeals to me most. There's so much that's offered here that it would take many, many listens in order to hear every little instrument, every tiny sound, and every hardly audible supporting singer in the background. The way this is structured could easily be compared to Radiohead, and that would be absolutely accurate. The vocals, the music, and even the lyrics at some times have a very Radiohead vibe to them while still staying mostly unique.

The first taste of the aforementioned comes from the opening track, Hollow Talk, which is among the best tracks on the record. It begins with some simple piano playing, but eventually expands into this huge, powerhouse of a song. The crescendo is one of the top points of the album and really displays the way that Jannis is able to manipulate the music to make it feel enormous. In this song alone there is the ever-present piano, a cello, an acoustic guitar, violins, and drums. So throughout the course of a single song, close to an entire orchestra is piece-by-piece mixed in with Jannis' vocals. The sheer magnitude of that is astounding in itself, but this song also holds some of the stronger lyrics of the record, making it one of the best openings to a record I've heard.

From there the pace of the record never really catches on, which becomes one of the overall cons, but is not entirely negative. Each song has a unique vibe to it, which at time can kill the flow, but is still a musical aspect to be admired. Ambition is a big thing for this group and it's obvious throughout the course of the album that they strive for excellence and stray away from other bands, however much they may resemble a few. While I'm talking about the cons I may as well bring up the other thing that keeps this album from shining, the lyrical slope that begins with Hollow Talk. From there on, the lyrics remain good for a few songs, but by the end of the album they become forgettable and really unnoticeable among the music. There's not a real theme established, nor is there a very coherent flow to what the lyrics are trying to say, they're kind of just there for Jannis' vocals to be present throughout the record.

On the subject of Jannis' singing, it resembles, much like the rest of the record, Radiohead's vocalist Thom Yorke. Whether these similarities were purposeful or if that style is just popular in English music, it will most likely be noted by anyone who is familiar with Radiohead's music. The singing is great for what it's doing, which is just adding to the atmosphere that the music is creating. Though as I mentioned before, what he's singing never really matters in the long run. It's all about the music on this record, which can leave people a little sour depending on how they enjoy their music.

In the end you have to take This is for The White In Your Eyes for what it is to truly appreciate it. While the lyrics may be inconsistent throughout the record, the music more than makes up for it, and for a debut LP, this is damn good. It doesn't surprise me in the least bit that it garnered as much attention as it did in its original country. The sheer size of the album is enough to make you fall into it head first and come out feeling refreshed with modern music. It doesn't blow minds, but it does make you feel something, and that's what is essential in the end.

Hopkins' Witch (Short Story Series 1 Pt. 3)

I stride silently down a beaten country road, a white picket fence to my right and a looming forest to my left. The stick in my right hand makes clicking noises as it slowly pats itself against each post in the fence. I've walked this road hundreds of time, coming here whenever my mind needs to be soothed. Except it's different this time, I don't desire to walk the normal route back -- I wish to walk and never return. I've been living with my mother for the past few years. She's a moping mess, always mourning the loss of my father. I can't stand being around her every day. She hardly says a word, always whispering about how things would be better if my father were there. He disappeared one haunting winter and soon became the gossip of the village. He was a hunter and the last I saw of him was when he was packing his bow and arrows for his final voyage into the forest that hangs over me like a tyrant to my left.

I glance over every few seconds, expecting to see him there with his confident grin and a fresh kill in his hands. I curse the trees and the roots keeping them alive. The local priest tells me that I shouldn't blame nature, but blame my father's tyrannical attitude toward wildlife. I punched his front teeth out. Haven't heard much of him since then. People think it's strange that I'm so violent. Say I'm just like my father, cocky and easily provoked. My attitude is justified. They all forgot about him, even praising his disappearance. I should take his old bow and teach them some respect.

Evil thoughts, not the thoughts a young girl should have, but they stay there; have been there since I first heard one of the boys in my schoolhouse laughing at my father's demise. I had always been a quiet girl, but I changed that day. I grabbed him by the collar and threw him across the room with frightening strength. The teachers are afraid of me, the children are afraid of me, the town is afraid of me. I'm not normal, and that is why I walk this familiar path to my unknown destination. This town is too old fashioned for its own good. Accusations of me being a witch like this is Salem.

Maybe I am a witch. I can conjure the elements right into my hand. The sparks are weak, but they are there. I enjoy frightening the villagers. Put out the fire on their torches as they held their weekly religious gathering in the courtyard. They blame the breeze, but I think they know. They know that I've been watching. I enjoy the feeling of being powerful; different than the other brainless peasants. Retribution is in order for those hypocrites. Claiming their religious killings are justified, but when a hunter disappears they claim his archery is an attack on nature. I should burn them down. Each corrupted hut, each mockery of a human.

No, Angeline. You are not one of them. You are not a genocidal maniac; however much they deserve it...

The fence ends at a crossroads and my stick drops to the ground. Except there's no road to the right, just a barely visible old path. I've never been this far from the village. I eye my surroundings, observing this new land. Back in the town, nobody ever spoke of a trail into the forest. They said it was up to those who enter to make their own paths, but before me was the ghost of a past path. Barely visible, but definitely there. The trail that snaked from beyond the opening in the fence led right into the darkness of the forest. Dare I follow it and risk the same fate of my father? Maybe he's still out there...

I retrieve my stick from the ground and peer for a few minutes into the forest, pondering my options. My eye catches onto a small wooden post lying on the ground. My neck cocks to the side and I'm nervous to even stick my hand into the forest borders to observe it. I realize my foolishness and walk forward and try to pick up the post. It's wrapped almost completely in vines. A small task. I wrap my fingers firmly around it and concentrate hard. In seconds the vines are aflame and the post is unscathed.

Satisfied with my success, I quickly stand the post up, realizing that it was a path marker. A small wooden plank on the top has two words burned into it. Two very haunting words. It reads ominously, "Hopkins' Witch". I stare for a few seconds, silently contemplating whether this serves a purpose or is just an eerie coincidence. The name of my village rings in my head -- Hopkins' Salvation. The story behind the name is as terrifying as the village itself. My eyes read the sign over and over and the connection makes my stomach turn. Is it destiny for me to travel this road? Is this sign calling for Hopkins' Salvation's witch? It can't be... the sign seems over a decade old. I can't pass up the opportunity. I left the village searching for a new home and maybe this will lead me to such a place.

Maybe this will lead me to my father as well. If he wasn't able to handle the woods, maybe I can't either... No, he didn't have what I possess. I can protect myself. I am Hopkins' Witch after all. What can an old forest have that's so dangerous anyway? I could bring the whole place to ashes if I so chose. That's it then. I will travel the path; find what is there to be found for me. My father? My home? There is nothing that can stand in my way. No villagers, no mother, no nature. I am the god of my own destiny and if this forest is where I've been brought then so be it.

I thrust the post back into the ground. It stands strong and I take my first step into the forest, no idea what comes next. I pick my stick back up and hold it as a weapon. No fear to be found, only hope. I consider giving one last look back toward my village, but no, it will only spark the vengeful spirit inside me. My footsteps are mighty and purposeful. The path below my feet is barely distinguishable among the roots and twigs, but I know I'm going the correct direction. There's a small clearing in the trees showing me my destination and I follow it loyally. Goodbye, Hopkins' Salvation. Hello, Hopkins' Witch.