The Proclivities of Witches Leslie Stonebraker (bio) I find, as I age, that I better understand the proclivities of witches. Keep the children safe inside the tower. Provide the children with nourishment: spun sugar windows to lick and hard cake walls on which to nibble. Teach the children useful skills, like sweeping cinders and spinning flax. Protect the children from the prying eyes of princes who see only a pretty face, a lilting voice, an empty vessel to fill with seed and bear their children, so those children can be rescued by more princes to bear more children, and on and on until royal is just another word for average. Naturally we try to intervene—we, the shrews, the crones, shrouded bodies bent beneath the weight of our terrible magics. Only we have the tools to halt the endless cycle of hardly consensual happily-ever-afters. We are capable, independent women. We have the resources, time, and attention to properly grow the little creatures of this world. We understand that a child should know things, like how to ride the current of the wind, how to cultivate a rampion, how to avoid the kind of kisses that cause forgetfulness. Sure, we may have an odd craving or two. But who hasn’t thought a chubby infant thigh looked delicious? Who hasn’t seen distortion reflected in a magic mirror? I find, as I age, that I better understand the proclivities of witches. [End Page 1] No longer do I identify with those following the second star to the right—now my heart breaks for their parents, left behind to sit at a picture window waiting for children who may never fly home. I feel for the pirate endlessly tortured by a tyrannical little boy who can’t leave well enough alone. Why shouldn’t three bears live happily in their own home, undisturbed by entitled trespassers upsetting delicate family dynamics? Kings are right— teenage mermaids are much too young to fall in anything more than lustful fantasy after a dramatic moment on a beach. And sea witches, they’re right too, to demonstrate how fickle young men can be, how poor their recollection of a supposedly magical encounter. That little mermaid should have learned something about life and love, should have more closely examined her happy ending before trotting down the aisle on a shapely new pair of legs. Now, as I watch the Disney credits roll, I’m certain the prince will negotiate a timeshare for winter weekends at the undersea castle as part of the divorce. Now I find myself wondering: when did grown-ups become the villains of these stories? When did I become a grown-up? I find, as I age, that I better understand the proclivities of witches. My tawny summer children are ill-prepared to face the Big Bad Wolf huffing particles of disease, trying to blow our house down. Like a witch, I conceal them from the dangers of this world, shutter every window against the western wind and hang blue-eyed amulets to ward off evil watchers. I closely guard my son’s and daughter’s innocence, banishing the voices of the princes on the television with a wave of my magic wand. I ply my children with sweets when they become uneasy, so I can watch their bodies stretch into the humans they’ll become. I am responsible for this bit of magic, this spark of something that came from the emptiness inside of me. I will not let it be stolen. I am sure one day my children will rewrite me as the covetous hag, envious of their golden youth, unable to let them go. They will tell of their escape from my clutches, revise their childhood fairy tale as a coming-of-age story, a necessary fall from grace, a seductive bite from the fruit of the tree of knowledge so they could finally embrace the real world. But for now, I embrace the witches and cackle as I build an evergreen garden inside my castle, pull up the drawbridge, and shut the world away. [End Page 2] Leslie Stonebraker Leslie Stonebraker lives in New Hampshire with her husband...