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The Golem Envisions his Origins 1- The Golem Obeys the Witchís Summons Similar to the meanest hovel, I am constructed of wattle, wicker, the unpronounceable name of the creator and dung. My mistress, the Witch, needed only a slip of parchment under clay tongue to do the trick. Sorcery requires gall, will, craftsmanship, not wisdom. Iíve been taught my letters, learned to count with cabbages. And thereís always sweeping to do, something that needs chopping, protection, hauling, or a cauldron about to boil over. She summons me to her quilts, tearing my straw hair out by the roots, biting my chest deeply as she cries out that she needs me inside her, that we are made of the same stuff, and when I rise, straw from her straw pallet, there is evidence of me on the sheets, manure flecks, shredded parchment, clay crumbs spilled from her lips. On moonless nights the coven comes scratching at the garden gate, and there are rituals of breaking glass and cacophonous laughter. Afterwards she pants, you are mine in my ear, Iím melting she gasps, molding me within the heat of her thighs. She hisses you are abomination, and I remain silent, the inspired tongue forbidden to speak the un-nameable word of inspiration.
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