Baba Yaga, her house ever spinning, casts dizzy spells: multiplies weeds’ thorns, exterminates unicorns, allows toxic fungus to fester, boils it in her tea. She piles her human-boned boundary sky high, ten thousand eye sockets blazing.
None can enter.
She’s grown weary of peasants’ petitions: food, shelter, clothes, cures. Endless. (Although, if pressed, she’d confess to finding revenge requests amusing.)
But now, her garden rots, unweeded. Her tunic needs mending. Her chicken-toed shoes stir up her floor’s thick dust. She coughs, covers her warty nose with her head scarf, exposes her balding crown.
Deprived of tender company, Baba Yaga starves.
words and photography ©️2024 Tanya Cliff
This is startling Tanya but I love it
Thank you! ☺️ And, yes, it has a dark twist at the end. 😂 Baba Yaga mythology is fascinating. Thanks for giving it a read!
Your beautiful words paint a vivid picture and remind me to keep up with the dusting and mending, most importantly, to keep up with connections!
Thank you. I love your read! ❤️
I’m looking forward to catching up on your other posts, Tanya!
Same, Kim! ✨💖✨
Wonderfully written 👏👏
Thank you so much! ☺️ Glad you enjoyed this piece.
You’re welcome
OMG.What a haunting folklore. A funny post,dear!!❤😂❤😘❤
😂Glad you enjoyed it!😊
Yeah.that post is most haunting but funny too,dear Tanya!!😂😍❤🙏❤
❤️