Fighting words, indeed. That’s what they use. Words swung like hammers – cutting little bits out of words that form us, leaving a house of letters that crumbles on movement.
That’s how they fight us. Nairobi, elbow, concatenation, even biscuit. The sound is what matters. Sound above meaning. You think they cackle, wear black, wear warts.
Chilling. It’s creepy to see a huge ground troop of them, silent but for their fighting words. They never even twitch. Gliding over the minefields.
Sinusitis. Compunction. Porcupine. Turning matter into other matter. Light into sound. I am dispersed over the battlefield, observing, only existing in one witch’s mind anymore. The word used was think.