The first time I saw her, she was bathed
in moonlight, drifting in a sea of yellow and
I remember how the wind whipped through her flame
tipped hair, how her dress—white as the moon—caught
on the autumn breeze.
They call her the witch, that whispered wretched
thing, the witch who dances like a harlot and
sings sweet death, who speaks in sugar-coated tongues
and weaves men’s hearts into lightning trees.
They say she carves prophecies into the bones
of our brothers, that only fire will drive her from
our children, our wives.
But she is no witch, no temptress of the night,
she is a girl with pale eyes and a penchant for the
Keila Sato is a senior at Orange County School of the Arts where she is enrolled in the creative writing conservatory. She has been nominated for several writing awards at her school, and her work was recently recognized by the Writers of the Future Contest. Besides writing, she enjoys reading speculative fiction, researching obscure history, and drinking copious amounts of tea.