A Colaberation Between Anika Oberg and Becca Theriault - Untitled

It was All Hallow’s Eve
And Wiccans grasped hands over flickering candels
Thirteen in a circle
Eight with eyes bright
Staring out into the mist
Wind howled, naked trees stared back
Faces twisted in the old gnarled trunk
The leaves on the ground crackled and snapped
And filmy fingers reached through cold grey stones
With lines slashed and faded
In some desperate tribute
To a life long past
It parted slowly
And the carpet rustled as the candels blazed.

The ninth Wiccan opened her eyes

Their misty bodies floated
As if gravity did not matter
The fog of their minds and bodies
Flooded the cemetary, filling the edges
Of the Wiccan’s minds
Trying to invade, to take over
To live once again
They drift on air currents
And swim through the thickening night
Closer, closer still to the circle of light
At the Cementary’s heart
Forward they move, forever forward
Pulled by the light’s magnetic forces
Called by the Wiccan’s chants

The tenth Wiccan opened her eyes

It shook in the wind
Brushing icy chilled clothes
A spatter of dew on the rocks
Cold breath over the sleeping
And Awakened
Whisper, whisper through the dark trees
Candels roared in the blackness
And flesh moistened as grips turned knuckles white
Chant, Chant to hold back their streaching fingers
the mist thicked
Ans the whispers shushed
Held tight and muffled
By the cold blanket

The eleventh Wiccan opened her eyes

Even as the soup of mist distorts their veiw
They press on regardless
Desperate to reach the flickering light
Desperate to end the torment
Of the endless night
Of unrest and discontent
The chanting voices calling them on
Beckoning, calling, pulling them through
The mist gathering arround their waists
And creeping slowly up
Threatening to engulf them
In it’s cold damp blanket
But still their need overwhelms them
Forcing them to move faster

The twelth Wiccan opened her eyes

Cold fingers enclosed on living skin
Ice seeped up into the warm pounding blood
The mist swirled, surrounding them
Choking on their breath
Slick hands grasped in week grips
Chant, prayer, desperate plea
Lost to the vague shapes
Obsured by the mist
Hands grabbing
Leaves rustled
Mouths shaped with no words
A soundless shout, swallowed by translucent hands
The cold fingers pressed in, shifting, grabing

The thriteenth Wiccan opened her eyes

All was still
And the moon shone clear into the Cementary
The Wiccans bowed their heads

A Colaberation Between Anika Oberg and Becca Theriault - Untitled


Oshawa, Canada

  • Artist

Artist's Description

It’s a long one be forewarned, and just in time for that magickal night too!

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