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Authors: Francesca Lia Block
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articles, she knew she would lie awake, watching the darkness break up into grainy dots around her head like an enlarged newspaper photo.
Tonight, when she came to the third article, Witch Baby held her breath. Some Indians in South America had found a glowing blue ball. They stroked it, peeled off layers to decorate their walls and doorways, faces and bodies. Then one day they began to die. All of them. The blue globe was the radioactive part of an old x-ray machine.
Witch Baby burrowed under her blankets as Brandy-Lynn, Weetzie and Cherokee entered the room with plates of food. In their feathers, flowers and fringe, with their starlit hair, they looked more like three sisters than grandmother, mother and daughter.
“There you are!” Weetzie said. “Have some Love-Rice and come dance with us, my baby witch.”
Witch Baby peeked out at the three blondes and snarled at them.
“Are you looking for those articles again? Why do you need those awful things?” Brandy-Lynn asked.
“What time are we upon and where do I belong?” Witch Baby mumbled.
“You belong here. In this city. In this house. With all of us,” said Weetzie.
Witch Baby scowled at the clippings on her wall. The pictures stared back—missing children smiling, not knowing what was going to happen to them later; serial killers looking blind also, in another way.
“Why is this place called Los Angeles?” Witch Baby asked. “There aren’t any angels.”
“Maybe there are. Sometimes I see angels in the people I love,” said Weetzie.
“What do angels look like?”
“They have wings and carry lilies,” Cherokee said. “And they have blonde hair,” she added, tossing her braids.
“Clutch pig!” said Witch Baby under her breath. She tugged at her own dark tangles.
“No, Cherokee,” said Weetzie. “That’s just in some old paintings. Angels can look like anyone. They can look like mysterious, beautiful, purple-eyed girls. Now eat your rice, Witch Baby, and come outside with us.”
But Witch Baby curled up like a snail.
“Please, Witch. Come out and dance.”
Witch Baby snailed up tighter.
“All right, then, sleep well, honey-honey. Dream of your own angels,” said Weetzie, kissing the top of her almost-daughter’s head. “But remember, this is where you belong.”
She took Cherokee’s hand, linked arms with Brandy-Lynn and left the room.
Witch Baby, who is not one of them, dreams of her own angel again. He is huddling on the curb of a dark, rainy street. Behind him is a building filled with golden lights, people and laughter, but he never goes inside. He stays out in the rain, the hollows, of his eyes and cheeks full of shadows. When he sees Witch Baby, he opens his hands and holds them out to her. She never touches him in the dream, but she knows just how he would feel .
Witch Baby got out of bed. She put the article about the radioactive ball into her pocket. She put her black cowboy-boot roller skates on her feet.
As she skated away from the cottage, Witch Baby thought of the blue people, dying and beautiful.
Devil City, she said to herself. Los Diablos.
Globe Lamp
Witch Baby passed the Charlie Chaplin Theater that had been shut down a long time ago and was covered with graffiti now. The theater still had pictures of Charlie Chaplin on the walls, and they reminded Witch Baby of My Secret Agent Lover Man.
Someday me and My Secret will reopen this theater, she thought. And we’ll make our own movies together, movies that change things.
Witch Baby passed Canter’s, the all-night coffee shop, where a man with dirt-blackened feet and a cloak of rags sat on the sidewalk sniffing pancakes in the air. She only had fifty cents in her pocket, but she placed it carefully in his palm, then skated on past the rows of markets that sold fruits and vegetables, almonds and raisins, olive oil and honey. The markets were all closed for the night. So was the shop where Weetzie always bought vanilla and Vienna coffee beans.
Tonight, when she came to the third article, Witch Baby held her breath. Some Indians in South America had found a glowing blue ball. They stroked it, peeled off layers to decorate their walls and doorways, faces and bodies. Then one day they began to die. All of them. The blue globe was the radioactive part of an old x-ray machine.
Witch Baby burrowed under her blankets as Brandy-Lynn, Weetzie and Cherokee entered the room with plates of food. In their feathers, flowers and fringe, with their starlit hair, they looked more like three sisters than grandmother, mother and daughter.
“There you are!” Weetzie said. “Have some Love-Rice and come dance with us, my baby witch.”
Witch Baby peeked out at the three blondes and snarled at them.
“Are you looking for those articles again? Why do you need those awful things?” Brandy-Lynn asked.
“What time are we upon and where do I belong?” Witch Baby mumbled.
“You belong here. In this city. In this house. With all of us,” said Weetzie.
Witch Baby scowled at the clippings on her wall. The pictures stared back—missing children smiling, not knowing what was going to happen to them later; serial killers looking blind also, in another way.
“Why is this place called Los Angeles?” Witch Baby asked. “There aren’t any angels.”
“Maybe there are. Sometimes I see angels in the people I love,” said Weetzie.
“What do angels look like?”
“They have wings and carry lilies,” Cherokee said. “And they have blonde hair,” she added, tossing her braids.
“Clutch pig!” said Witch Baby under her breath. She tugged at her own dark tangles.
“No, Cherokee,” said Weetzie. “That’s just in some old paintings. Angels can look like anyone. They can look like mysterious, beautiful, purple-eyed girls. Now eat your rice, Witch Baby, and come outside with us.”
But Witch Baby curled up like a snail.
“Please, Witch. Come out and dance.”
Witch Baby snailed up tighter.
“All right, then, sleep well, honey-honey. Dream of your own angels,” said Weetzie, kissing the top of her almost-daughter’s head. “But remember, this is where you belong.”
She took Cherokee’s hand, linked arms with Brandy-Lynn and left the room.
Witch Baby, who is not one of them, dreams of her own angel again. He is huddling on the curb of a dark, rainy street. Behind him is a building filled with golden lights, people and laughter, but he never goes inside. He stays out in the rain, the hollows, of his eyes and cheeks full of shadows. When he sees Witch Baby, he opens his hands and holds them out to her. She never touches him in the dream, but she knows just how he would feel .
Witch Baby got out of bed. She put the article about the radioactive ball into her pocket. She put her black cowboy-boot roller skates on her feet.
As she skated away from the cottage, Witch Baby thought of the blue people, dying and beautiful.
Devil City, she said to herself. Los Diablos.
Globe Lamp
Witch Baby passed the Charlie Chaplin Theater that had been shut down a long time ago and was covered with graffiti now. The theater still had pictures of Charlie Chaplin on the walls, and they reminded Witch Baby of My Secret Agent Lover Man.
Someday me and My Secret will reopen this theater, she thought. And we’ll make our own movies together, movies that change things.
Witch Baby passed Canter’s, the all-night coffee shop, where a man with dirt-blackened feet and a cloak of rags sat on the sidewalk sniffing pancakes in the air. She only had fifty cents in her pocket, but she placed it carefully in his palm, then skated on past the rows of markets that sold fruits and vegetables, almonds and raisins, olive oil and honey. The markets were all closed for the night. So was the shop where Weetzie always bought vanilla and Vienna coffee beans.
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