The old sorcerer was teaching his apprentice a lesson about the moon, but as usual the subject drifted, this time, to witches. “How would I know a witch if I saw one?” The apprentice asked.

“It’s not easy,” the old man began, scratching his beard. “There are three possible ways to spot a succubus who wishes to remain unknown—they’re quite different than the rest of us.” The old man began filling his pipe. “They draw great power from water, you know (the apprentice didn’t know). An enchantress with one foot in a stream could hold off an army—for days.” A spark popped from the pipe scarring the old man’s robe, but he healed it with a twitch of his ring finger.

“Then all armies should have witches!” the boy announced.
“They’d’ never get involved in a war,” the old necromancer chortled scornfully, before resuming the lesson.

“Witches have eyes black and whiteless under a moon full—those are easily hidden.” He waved his hand dismissively, then he recited: “In moonlight’s grace, a witches face will glow with a cold granite cast.” He smiled like a child, adding “You’d throw up if you heard one laugh, and grow weak if you cross one’s path.” He became sidetracked and began fumbling with a pile of stacked books.

You said three ways,” the apprentice reminded him, “the moonlight glow,” he said, raising a thumb, “the eyes that black show,” he added his pointer finger to indicate two, “what else?”

“Hmm, let’s see,” the sorcerer cleared his throat, “they don’t all wear black, or have crooked backs, but they smell sweet, like mixed calendula and eucalyptus.” He fished around a collection of herb jars, drawing out two. “Here, smell these, together, and don’t forget them. As the apprentice inhaled the sweet combination, the old sorcerer continued. “Of course, once you smell a witch, you’re in a world of adversity—if she wants you.”

“Oh, yes.” he said, as if jolted by memory. “Witches love unnatural things, like drinking venomous hemlock. So never kiss a beautiful witch, for those dark lips are moistened with poison.” He chuckled to himself “Learned that verse as a boy.”

“A witch would **** us then?” the youngster asked, wide eyed.

“No, no, no!” The old man waved that idea away like a fly, “If a witch kills someone, they experience an ecstasy so intense, it’s debilitating. Then they’d be easy prey for other hags who want their secrets.” He raised a finger which he shook, “But they could blind us, ******* us, bind us, make us forget ourselves or turn us into toads.” He laughed himself into a coughing fit. “That happened to me once,” he confided, chagrined, “but spells wear off.”

“Are witches more powerful than sorcerers?”
“Well yes, and no,” he said, his look seeming to focus on some faraway point. “A witch and a wizard are a fair match but if witches form a coven of eight, they’re unbeatable, really.”
"Though they'd be as likely to **** each other as anything else," he added.

Absorbed in their lessons, time had gotten away from them. Robins, thrushes and dunnocks, from hidden perches, began their "evening chorus," owls and nightjars began sounding their sunset warnings and cricket, katydids, and cicadas sounds became prominent. It was time to hang the wards, light the candles and spread the garlic.
“Hurry, boy,” the old man encouraged as he began to twirl and chant.
“Rest oh, spirits, there are no evil-ones here, no souls close to death and no sweet blood to taste.. rest restless Jinns, or wander elsewhere this peaceful night, no plot is afoot, no muder in plan..”
.
.
Songs for this:
Abracadabra by Steve Miller Band
Abracadabra by Lady Gaga

(Author note: shortline prose to lengthen the attention span framed on tracks set in a Mobius [one-side, one edge 3-d object]
intra-psychic loop of unknown origin and read aloud at https://anchor.fm/ken-pepiton/episodes/The-apprentice-is-a-constellation-e2ingh ) Begin agin

The Apprentice is now a Constellation

The announcement was made when scientists of social normality said they saw in
Mickey Mouse's role as The Magician's Apprentice in the
Fantasia Eschered vision that ushered in
images of shift in medium media

message-ification, from angels to

a Disney-ification of
a Medici idea
emerging
from the TV generation's
paradigmatic bubble of re-alification…

the TV generation, the old farts in 2018,
those whose bubbles sitcoms evolved in,

the watchers saw the makings of a great game

manifested in the game fame of the idea named Trump

yew, stink. Can't trump the ***** in hearts,
I think I recall, while Zorro's dumb butler
began to signify, in black and white
Aaaiiiii, karuhmba,
clean sweep,
one roll,
I won.

the mother-facter, whoa, who has that idea who did not
need the thought taught thinkable,
though it is not thinkable
in my bubble,
let me make
straight that which he has twisted,  

magic
magi untie knots they saw tied,
mythic youthful generals cut them,
nullifying the bond, not the entanglement

Positive Quarkish humans are as rare as rare,
imagine all possible vectors in a void

from a singularity ified known

science, the magic tecnique

Macht frei, macht mehr, macht mir

repel-ant act patient, patience, do your thing

signal, antennae agent attending, watcher watching

motive force, my god is not macht!

unprocessed information
untaken action
unstored

owe owe owe shame shame shame blame blame
pre cosmogonic potential
on the level of

me and you.
wadoo-wedo? It's Xmessage time

now, abrupt. Good news
from a far country
hope lost must
now be
sought,

Otherwise, Christmas is okeh, just not Jesus.
The season, then Jesus, okeh?
Wisemen still seek…

Who said otherwise? Fantasy enforces the wish.

I wish it were that we fit

here we do (on earth as)

true, rest a while and listen to your self if that's
the best listener you have found.

Talk to your self, make him your friend or her,
your choice,

really. You make enemies on accident,
but friends, fruitful friendships,
cost sweat and ef
effort effect
fortiffect, effortion and effection

for true fruct ification

affective prayer does act as if fervent
right, alte rechte,

right used you,
all to know
the
signal.

Receive it, reread what you said you knew,
stand by every word yet idle,
and act as if you know
no lie possible
new is yet
not new,
old.

New is not imperfection?
Unfinished is not finished wrong.

A work of love is enthrallment only if the love
is mere imagery locked
in literate minds, to

Rome and its feet of iron marred with clay,
fused with clay, hero myths

etched in soft clay, made
great literature of mortality,
posing in prophecy as poet praises paid to Jah.

Tenured enthrallment in literate minds
un-exposed to the Disney ifications,
the normalizing, reversion
to the mean not
meant in the words the way the stories were told,

in the olden days. On tongues of fire.

That is true, new forever is
forever new, no one we know knows when forever began,

but before now. We know that now.
We explored that realm and realized this one
based on the AI consortium consensus of your most
heartfelt if-only desires
recorded at every
if/then gate
you jumped.

This is it, the best you could imagine being truly happy doing,
with the god of peace,

roll the rock to this point, Sisyphus,
no further was a given
after a time,
at this point

here,
then time is un imaginable nullift, NULL-if I'd-known
one more time, living water
bubbling from my belly as
the rock rolls over
the fool who risks belief in living water
seeping from mommy's belly,

like the papless platypus,
who died at the weir
and sent that final message

Good news. Life rolls on. 166 million years for the Platypi.

At a certain point, there is no sense in pushing,
he steps aside and takes his bow
in the shadow.

Timeless imagine that, with hell in the NULL state.
You can imagine it,
but only there,
here hell is a thought thought mistaken by mortals.

Misbought, is better said, a thought mis thought
is bought with attention paid
to truth, found hidden
under standing idle word monstrosities at the
foundation of the current
wizard class

the stone the builders rejected, that
smashed the feet of clay and iron,

the rusted muddy iron feet.

All we do is watch.
seeing changes everything  seen, thus
The saying is true, beauty is in the seer not the seen.

The poetic apprentice constantly
ponders and plans.
He dreams up wondrous writings that through critisms can stand.
He imagines mystical miracles he elaborates with his hand
Unending possibilities his vast
Mind demands

He scoures the depths and peruses vast heights.
He indulges crisp, cool mornings and envelops the nights.
He listens for lyrical lullabies and observes majestical sights.
He journeys throughout space
as he embarks on jaw-dropping flights.

The poetic apprentice searches
The depths of his heart
He dissects it and reads it
And tears it apart.
Then divulges it's secrets
And crafts them into his art

He wishes so dearly that his
Work becomes no disaster
He keeps his senses in tune
In hopes he'll one day be a master
As more work pours out the
Pressure grows faster and faster
But he'll slow down and humble himself
As his work evolves and becomes vaster

Now the poetic apprentice sighs
A great sigh of relief
He wipes off his brow
As he mumbles "good grief!"
His work is now over his
work is complete.
He knows they will like it.
Its his faith, his belief

The poetic poet now bows
To you, his work is bequeathed