Don't Fall for the Beast of the White Witch
Braxton Langston-Chapman
Eating the funny mushroom around a campfire. Lost between reality and an internal fantasy, find
yourself through your insanity. Smile ear to ear from the absence of trouble. She is beautiful without
psychedelic elements but there's something about this setting. An open field closed in with trees that
mirror skyscrapers, lush grass acting as carpet with each blade wrapping in between your toes,
undecided with whether to cross your arms because of the brisk air or to reach out to the fire
profoundly contributing life and warmth to the scene. Either way the situation is pushed to the back of
your mind, keep your balance, just work your way to her.
It used to be brown but now it's blonde again, it's indescribable, they call it, “dirty blonde.” Then again
why would you care, here it is nightfall and you are visualizing rainbows. The light from the fire
illuminates a fourth of her face. You see her eyes peek inside of you, verdant in color, glassy, in the color
spectrum in between green and golden. Marks are none to find, you must travel three quarters down
her arm where you will find a birthmark on lateral side of her forearm. Her posture is mid 1940’s and her
location supports her personality, alone, independent soul. It's just you two and you cannot help but to
get distracted by her summer dress. It is long enough to stay down when the wind blows from the south,
it's also floral print yet she hates flowers, it's cut low in the back showing her spine. She is cold but she
does not care because you are there. Then you notice it's half passed two but you do not care because
she is there. Lost for words you only open your mouth to smile, your sudden moves only compliment
hers, she is scattered puzzle pieces but you like her. She is translucent but you like her. You consider her
eyes and you can tell she likes you.
Seeds to settle down your stomach, water to keep you hydrated, and a jacket to keep you warm. Your
heart rate is rising while your blood pressure is low. You cannot help but to dance to no music and to
smile wide from internal thoughts. The devil is a lie and your life is in God’s hands. Twirl and dance, twirl
and dance, keep your balance, do not trip on a trip.
“She’s addicted to the prettier things”
Like silverware in a drawer you and her inside of a tent sleeping and returning to reality. She is in your
arms and you have everything you ever wanted.
Ten months later.
The cold can throws chills down to your elbow. Stacked on your mothers China are two uneven egg
whites. The crooked wooden table sits adjacent to the bay window across your studio apartment. You
have goosebumps down your legs from the absence of warmth due to your rose-brown hardwood
floors. Weighed down from last night's shenanigans, your eyes are low, and the coagulation of beer and
eggs sits on your breath.
Groom yourself.
Cycle through the only thirteen stations you can pick up in the suburbs. One hand on the steering wheel,
talking yourself up, you know you are going to see her. Too many parking spaces to choose from, you
mistakenly double-park. You stare at the radio clock, “11:06” you stare at your phone, checking
notifications, scrolling through Twitter, Instagram, Yik Yak, and then you look back at the clock. It has
been something loose for six months now and you still feel the same way you did three hundred days
ago…
Braxton Langston-Chapman is a twenty-year-old writer living in Greensboro, NC. Attending North Carolina A&T where he is a double major in Political Science and Creative Writing. He is currently working on his second poetry collection titled Eggs for Breakfast and a novel titled the Journey to Graceland.