Fungal Halo

Nobody else in the room matters as you drape yourself across your Goddess’s lap, perfectly content to lay your head down on Her while She strokes your hair and the other woman lounges at Her feet.

She likes to keep Her most treasured possessions close at hand.

The way it usually goes is this: you take your vitamins, you draw the door on glass, you speak your goodbyes, and then you slip through to the other side.

Then your life is hers to play with for a while, and oh, how her pleasure makes you smile!

In the dream, the Queen of Spiders sneaks up from behind you and sinks her fangs into your neck.

Your Gem is missing. Your power does not answer your call. But the venom in her bite fills you with indescribable heat and desire, and you don’t care.

The moth emerges from its chrysalis, reborn at last into the form it was meant to be.

But, wait, no—

This can’t be right.

It can’t be this.

What does it do when infinite, hopeful possibility crystallizes into such disappointing certainty?

A doll is a hollow thing. Not all are physically so, of course. A doll certainly may have physical internals: gears, perhaps; a solid wood core; or even a fleshy mimicry of human organs. All are common enough.

Yet no meaningful selfhood fills it. Its mind is still.

Dolls filled with venom hide among the empty ones.

Somewhere a doll, once well-behaved, bites a sister. That night, for the first time, that other doll dreams.

They are wild dreams, full of running naked in the woods, screaming, howling, laughing exultation with others.

Touching nib to fang, the Spider Witch draws on her own venom for this part of the ritual.

With practiced movements, she inks fine lines onto her canvas. The securely bound creature does an admirable job of not flinching as its skin burns under each stroke.