Mother Mosquito


Mother Mosquito shoved an ancient pencil and scrap of envelope into my hands and made me take down the following list of spell components:

Feathers, keys, nesting dolls, figurines, dried flowers, pages from old books, strange stones, egg shells, branches hit by lightning, animal bones, nail clippings, beads, moonlight in a box, red envelopes, spent candles, old love letters, worn records, hand-me-down jewelry, flavored cigars, seashells, wooden spoons, antique mirrors, parchment, hard candies, cornsilk, broken clocks, magazine clippings, river rocks, graveyard dirt, dog hair, rabbit skins, puzzle pieces, glass eyes, fish hooks, mirror shards, hat pins, buttons, photographs, valentines, caustic liquids, rusted nails, brick dust, spiderwebs, teeth, old lace, liquors, menstrual blood, curiously strong mints, brine, razor blades, pine cones, drift wood, dollhouse furniture, honey, mushroom birds, false eyelashes, mardi gras throws, tarot cards, faerie wings, pills, toy cars, whiskers, ribbons, bells, whistles, coins, hair trimmings, shadows.

She eyed me with that sly sideways glance of hers and said, “When you’ve gathered all these things and know how to use ‘em, then you’ll really be somethin’, won’t you? Then maybe you’ll be ready. But not. Until. Then.”


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