I loved a witch once. Loved her totally, uniquely—naively. I loved her before she took final decisive steps across lines that separate twilight from darkness, and I loved her after the busy shadow-world hid her from my sight.
Bronwynn and I lived in North Dallas in an upper-middle-class neighborhood. We had just graduated from high school. We lived and looked like the rest of the emotionally charged, music-driven Led Zeppelin generation about us, killing time and brain cells with drugs, alcohol, sex and rock music that was almost as loud as our own inner chaos. We were woven into the tapestry of that milieu.
But the zeitgeist that enveloped our hedonistic generation is only the backdrop for the dark story of witchcraft I need to tell.