Not my kitchen, not my pots, not my mess…

Not my kitchen, not my pots, not my mess… …nor my castle–what the hell happened here? I changed my skin to evade the Witch hence. (She’d never stoop to chase a house cat here.) And either I changed planes of existence on my romp-and-mice-stomp, or that witchy brat had a  trans-dimensional gewgaw. What’re the odds of getting to my duchy unharmed without chalk dust or hands to draw the spell circle that’ll cut reality a new hole that leads to my comfy chair? Just a hair’s breadth’s all I need to be free. Maybe my claws can scratch it out, repair the dislocation of my person and set … Continue reading Not my kitchen, not my pots, not my mess…