The broom seemed innocent enough. Just a standard kitchen broom with yellow bristles, hanging there on the broom hook, next to the washer and dryer. But if its secrets could be shared, you would see amazing, otherworldly, magical things. Things you might never believe.
No bristle have touched these grounds, grounds that seem like a fresh December snow. Caked in the dust of the past untouched, waiting to be moved, to be stirred, to be lifted in the air. But, it continues to grow. But, with one swift motion it could be swept away and yet it lingers untouched.
She swept furiously, knocking dust everywhere. “Hey, hey, slow down.”
He took the broom from her hand and she walked to the opposite side of the room and placed her palms on the wall. “Sorry.”
“What’s going on?”
“It’s just this fucking day.”
It’s a long way. Hey, do you remember that story that the foreman told my Dad when I was an apprentice in high school? He said I didn’t know how to hold a broom and that I couldn’t sweep. Real nice guy, that foreman was.
Tough bristles used to catch dirt, dust, and debris. Long handle to shoo away pests, pets, and proselytizers. Sturdy construction to suffer repeat bangs, booms, and bashings. Brooms: a modern engineering marvel.
There was one outside my door. I kept it for the cedar tree that deposited on my porch each fall… there was one for me to use to keep things clean, but someone took it away from me.
the broom swished side to side,
the puppy danced merrily to meet it,
teeth snapping in sticklike bristles,
paws treading air.
the girl giggled
the man smiled
for a moment transported
In the dead of night I wander. Sweep past the streets where souls have lived, died, and linger a little longer than is proper – faded memories that shift with the shadows and evaporate in the light – I collect these framgmented afterlives like hunter on the trail of injured beasts. Their stories are my feast. But then I hear it: two cackling women on the corner watching me watching you. In the window you stand stick straight like a broom. Lingered longer than you should. Are you dead or alive? That is your question, not mine.
Your silence speaks volumes.
More emptiness that scuttles like tumbleweeds across a banal plain.
The wind is there to guide you.
Yet I’m the one swept away to the moon.
Cast me on a broom. If there’s a witch hunt coming, it’s for the the likes of me, not you.
Why didn’t the witch wear any underwear?
To get a better grip!
The broom is useful for me, it helps me clean up the messes I make. I seem to make a lot of messes, but I don’t get to upset about it because it can always to cleaned!
Everyone stood over the weeping woman as if their feet had taken root underneath the floorboards. No one said anything as the mother’s wails crescendoed.
All around me was evidence of chores half done: laundry baskets of rumpled bed linen, dishes with bits of breakfast now cold, a broom and a dust bin.
I grabbed the broom and swept the floor under the dining table and the baby seat where the woman’s little girl had once sat.
A plush monkey, flopped over the tray, looked up at me. Its glass eyes seemed to beckon to me to find his mistress and the man who took her in broad daylight.
Witches, Women with the name Hilda who sweep in houses far away from her Norwegian homeland. Houses with children and wives and husbands and babies. Even houses without any of the normalcy. Dirty spaces. Mice and rats. Drats.
She whisked herself away, her breath taking in the crisp autumn night as she kicked off with her feet and fell upward. She could feel the sting of cold on her face as she picked up speed through but it was nothing when paired with the warming rush of excitement. She knew she wasn’t supposed to fly on Halloween, but that was perhaps, the most satisfying part. This was a secret. Something that she did just for herself. People talk about how great it can be to share something with just one person, but it can feel just as exhilarating to hold something just for you. Inside your chest caged next to your heart.
The puppy saw the broom come out, and her tail started to thump. As it swept across the floor in a calculated arc, the pup crouched low and watched. It brushed against the floor once, twice… The puppy pounced, jaws open wide and paws landed firmly on the bristles, halting all movement, and pushing dust and loose fur wildly into the air.
The broom slipped from my fingers as I was backed up against the kitchen counter.
“W-what are you doing?” I stuttered in a whisper. His lips an inch from my face and I could hear my blood pounding through my ears.
“What I’ve been waiting so long to do.” His lips curved into a boyish smile and I just about died. Before giving me a chance to respond, his soft lips came down onto mine and all rational thoughts flew from my mind.
He leaned on the broom and watched the woman walk by. There was something in the way she moved through the light on the sidewalk. He was transfixed by it.
Should wavering thoughts be gone
By the wind that stirs the storm
Should hesitation in light
Of the coming turmoils
Pause no further than to sweep us up
In its wake that shall follow
What yield the mighty broom
That we shall yet have forth
To put aside
Our difficult mind
No further done than thought
Long and wooden, with sprigs and kindling tied together with twine. Leaning up against the bricks, throwing a long shadow onto the concrete in the fading light. It was part of the backdrop, part of the wallpaper of their home, but something about the broom caught my eye as I turned to leave. Something shuddered deep inside me, like my heart being caught on a fishing hook.
there was a witch she had a very small broom the found it i her fathers haunted mansion it was magical it gave her powers that no ordinary people have. she started out as a little girl named lila until that broom came along
a mix of gloom and doom
in a dark empty tomb
while the full moon looms
simmer until the phoenix plumes
add the feathers that have bloomed
spell out for the loved whom
wait a bit longer, fall asleep to your favorite piece by Hume
when you stir, stir the pot until it fumes
the brew will start to spit and spume
clear the room when the bubbles blacken (they boom)
when the smoke clears, enjoy your new broom
A broom can sweep up your mess after you dirty a room.A broom is hairy and it is more than just a stick,I can tell it cleans without you bending over but still get exersize
There she lay by the chamber door, a broom all clattered on the floor. She swept and sighed and sighed and swept – for nearly a week, she hadn’t slept. After the evening had elapsed, she stood and, all at once, collapsed. We didn’t know just what to do, and so we left her, black and blue.
Around Halloween, vision of witches, thinking of the women through the ages, guardians of wisdom, of healing secrets, burned at the stakes for being too powerful for male fragility to tolerate.
Once upon a time there was a witch, and she had a fabuolos broom, she would fly around all night looking around for children to pluck up and take back to her home to train to become witches and warlocks, for she was a child not expecting to become a witch when her trainer, Madam grunch plucked her up and trained her to be the amazing witch she is today
I don’t like sweeping it is so boring. And you miss half of the dust when emptying the dust pan on it gets stuck in the bristles of the broom. So to me there is no point in sweeping
There once was a beautiful broom who had to go to a ball and her mean sister broom tore her dress and left then at the ball the broom came and made a beautiful dress and the other mean sisters crush danced with the broom and they got married right then and there.
broom brommmmmmm broooooooom is a funny word its kinda like lemon curd and it smells like bird and it looks like a turd witches ride brommmmmm broooom
The broom seemed innocent enough. Just a standard kitchen broom with yellow bristles, hanging there on the broom hook, next to the washer and dryer. But if its secrets could be shared, you would see amazing, otherworldly, magical things. Things you might never believe.
I have a broom.it’s broken but we can still use it , its a good broom but the handle is gone
i like to sweep somtimes
I wish i was a witch. I would fly on my broom and turn every nasty person into a toad.
No bristle have touched these grounds, grounds that seem like a fresh December snow. Caked in the dust of the past untouched, waiting to be moved, to be stirred, to be lifted in the air. But, it continues to grow. But, with one swift motion it could be swept away and yet it lingers untouched.
She swept furiously, knocking dust everywhere. “Hey, hey, slow down.”
He took the broom from her hand and she walked to the opposite side of the room and placed her palms on the wall. “Sorry.”
“What’s going on?”
“It’s just this fucking day.”
It’s a long way. Hey, do you remember that story that the foreman told my Dad when I was an apprentice in high school? He said I didn’t know how to hold a broom and that I couldn’t sweep. Real nice guy, that foreman was.
I have used a broom upon a hard block floor, but that was as can be whilst the bristles scratch my sense of doing something better such as writing.
WHAT DID THAT BROOM REPRESENT AFTERALL??
MY FOREMOTHERS WERE ONCE BURNED AND TORTURED
TODAY I CAN SPEAK UP, SPEAK OUT, AND BE SEEN
I AM SO GRATEFUL
Tough bristles used to catch dirt, dust, and debris. Long handle to shoo away pests, pets, and proselytizers. Sturdy construction to suffer repeat bangs, booms, and bashings. Brooms: a modern engineering marvel.
There was one outside my door. I kept it for the cedar tree that deposited on my porch each fall… there was one for me to use to keep things clean, but someone took it away from me.
the broom swished side to side,
the puppy danced merrily to meet it,
teeth snapping in sticklike bristles,
paws treading air.
the girl giggled
the man smiled
for a moment transported
In the dead of night I wander. Sweep past the streets where souls have lived, died, and linger a little longer than is proper – faded memories that shift with the shadows and evaporate in the light – I collect these framgmented afterlives like hunter on the trail of injured beasts. Their stories are my feast. But then I hear it: two cackling women on the corner watching me watching you. In the window you stand stick straight like a broom. Lingered longer than you should. Are you dead or alive? That is your question, not mine.
Your silence speaks volumes.
More emptiness that scuttles like tumbleweeds across a banal plain.
The wind is there to guide you.
Yet I’m the one swept away to the moon.
Cast me on a broom. If there’s a witch hunt coming, it’s for the the likes of me, not you.
Why didn’t the witch wear any underwear?
To get a better grip!
The broom is useful for me, it helps me clean up the messes I make. I seem to make a lot of messes, but I don’t get to upset about it because it can always to cleaned!
Everyone stood over the weeping woman as if their feet had taken root underneath the floorboards. No one said anything as the mother’s wails crescendoed.
All around me was evidence of chores half done: laundry baskets of rumpled bed linen, dishes with bits of breakfast now cold, a broom and a dust bin.
I grabbed the broom and swept the floor under the dining table and the baby seat where the woman’s little girl had once sat.
A plush monkey, flopped over the tray, looked up at me. Its glass eyes seemed to beckon to me to find his mistress and the man who took her in broad daylight.
Witches, Women with the name Hilda who sweep in houses far away from her Norwegian homeland. Houses with children and wives and husbands and babies. Even houses without any of the normalcy. Dirty spaces. Mice and rats. Drats.
She whisked herself away, her breath taking in the crisp autumn night as she kicked off with her feet and fell upward. She could feel the sting of cold on her face as she picked up speed through but it was nothing when paired with the warming rush of excitement. She knew she wasn’t supposed to fly on Halloween, but that was perhaps, the most satisfying part. This was a secret. Something that she did just for herself. People talk about how great it can be to share something with just one person, but it can feel just as exhilarating to hold something just for you. Inside your chest caged next to your heart.
The puppy saw the broom come out, and her tail started to thump. As it swept across the floor in a calculated arc, the pup crouched low and watched. It brushed against the floor once, twice… The puppy pounced, jaws open wide and paws landed firmly on the bristles, halting all movement, and pushing dust and loose fur wildly into the air.
I am an empty person you know.
Where there should be lungs instead is a space, a gaping hole, some nuts and bolts, a veritable collection of dust-mites.
Where there should be a brain instead is a frozen sea, ice concealing something deep and submerging, saltwater overflowing from my nose and ears.
Where there should be a heart instead is a sky, infinitely unattainable, clouds quietly out of reach.
The broom slipped from my fingers as I was backed up against the kitchen counter.
“W-what are you doing?” I stuttered in a whisper. His lips an inch from my face and I could hear my blood pounding through my ears.
“What I’ve been waiting so long to do.” His lips curved into a boyish smile and I just about died. Before giving me a chance to respond, his soft lips came down onto mine and all rational thoughts flew from my mind.
He leaned on the broom and watched the woman walk by. There was something in the way she moved through the light on the sidewalk. He was transfixed by it.
the old woman caught her broom and left the room. she was sure about everything she had to do now nobody whould stop her.
The broom reminded me of Halloween, of all the ghost stories I’d huddled in my bed listening to on a cold winter’s night.
Should wavering thoughts be gone
By the wind that stirs the storm
Should hesitation in light
Of the coming turmoils
Pause no further than to sweep us up
In its wake that shall follow
What yield the mighty broom
That we shall yet have forth
To put aside
Our difficult mind
No further done than thought
Long and wooden, with sprigs and kindling tied together with twine. Leaning up against the bricks, throwing a long shadow onto the concrete in the fading light. It was part of the backdrop, part of the wallpaper of their home, but something about the broom caught my eye as I turned to leave. Something shuddered deep inside me, like my heart being caught on a fishing hook.
there was a witch she had a very small broom the found it i her fathers haunted mansion it was magical it gave her powers that no ordinary people have. she started out as a little girl named lila until that broom came along
a mix of gloom and doom
in a dark empty tomb
while the full moon looms
simmer until the phoenix plumes
add the feathers that have bloomed
spell out for the loved whom
wait a bit longer, fall asleep to your favorite piece by Hume
when you stir, stir the pot until it fumes
the brew will start to spit and spume
clear the room when the bubbles blacken (they boom)
when the smoke clears, enjoy your new broom
A broom can sweep up your mess after you dirty a room.A broom is hairy and it is more than just a stick,I can tell it cleans without you bending over but still get exersize
“What are you doing?!” my mother looks at me with narrow eyes and crosses her arms. “Sweeping, obviously” i say annoyed.
There she lay by the chamber door, a broom all clattered on the floor. She swept and sighed and sighed and swept – for nearly a week, she hadn’t slept. After the evening had elapsed, she stood and, all at once, collapsed. We didn’t know just what to do, and so we left her, black and blue.
Around Halloween, vision of witches, thinking of the women through the ages, guardians of wisdom, of healing secrets, burned at the stakes for being too powerful for male fragility to tolerate.
Once upon a time there was a witch, and she had a fabuolos broom, she would fly around all night looking around for children to pluck up and take back to her home to train to become witches and warlocks, for she was a child not expecting to become a witch when her trainer, Madam grunch plucked her up and trained her to be the amazing witch she is today
I don’t like sweeping it is so boring. And you miss half of the dust when emptying the dust pan on it gets stuck in the bristles of the broom. So to me there is no point in sweeping
broom broom broom broom broom broom broom broom broom, broom broom. broom broom broom broom broom broom broom broom broom, broom broom.
Brooms Brooms Brooms sweep feelings away
Take me away
I love brooms
I love brooms!!!!!!!
Broooooooooommmmmmmmsssssssss!!!!!
There once was a beautiful broom who had to go to a ball and her mean sister broom tore her dress and left then at the ball the broom came and made a beautiful dress and the other mean sisters crush danced with the broom and they got married right then and there.
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrroooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrroooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmMmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmOOOOOOoOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
i love brooms they make it easy to sweep. Witches ride brooms.
A witch once had a beautiful face but her broom took a hold of her powers .she tried to breack the broom but it flew away’THE END