(alternatively titled: What if the supposed seasonal memory lapse of people who have winters turned out to be an actual and true thing, caused by something they've been putting in the water, to keep us around past summer?)
Sarah: I am watching VH1 Behind the Music: Motley Crue
Bridget: I have been watching NCIS for the last hour
Sarah: I think these horrors have adequately prepared us for Tyra
At the beginning, in the beginning, there were would be months without magic and the villagers would be relieved. It was the period of incubation, when deep down at the ocean depths, the Sea Witch would carefully tend her nest, culling the dead eggs, cradling the hatchlings with the longest limbs folded inside their embryonic shells like fluttering birds. The ocean currents rocked them to sleep, and the creatures of the sea floor sustained them, their tiny little claws learning to grab quick and quietly from the shadows an unsuspecting lobster or crab, their tiny new little teeth cracking the shells with little horrible snaps and cracks, the tinkling of shiny clean enamel and shiny new purpose.
In the spring, as the winter icebergs floated away to the far away dimensions fleeing the sun, the storms came, and in her cave, the Sea Witch surveyed her survivors, tall and young and proud, and pronounced them fit for the trials. The villagers saw the winds changing, knew what the red sunrises predicted, red like patent leather, red like lipstick, red like blood soaked manicures. One night, when the lightning flashed the brightest, the mothers stowed their babes safe away and locked the windows tight, and up from the raging waves came the initiates, encased in plastic placentas, stumbling on their recently formed perfect limbs, swaying newborn colts. And the games began, the annual curse of every man and woman who chose to make their livelihood on this wretched coast.
Sarah: "give me another runway without a bubble on it"
if I had a nickel for every time I said that
The witch laughed at herself, knowing the faces of her children already, since they were the same faces she conjured every year. The Vulcan. The Trailer Park Queen. The Southern Belle. The Art Student. It didn't matter to know their names now, most of them would not survive the coming tests, they would crumble and cry and turn to dust. But she searched the faces, looking for the one she knew had something, a taste for sweat and sex and money. It hid in their doe eyes, underneath their dewy fresh cheeks. One of them had the beast in her. She would strip them down, peel their souls like old paint until they stood exposed in front her, and the fangs bared.
The first trial had been survival from the waves. The second trial was a portrait painted by a blind man with glass eyes. It was all very boring, the beginning. The witch cracked her knuckles, and scratched new catchphrases on her thighs with a small butter knife. She pictured them falling one by one, and smiled, but only with her eyes.
Bridget: That weird curly brown haired one is my enemy
Bridget: I don't know, I just missed her name AGAIN
I'm just going to pretend she doesn't have one
The full transcript of our liveblog can be found here. Welcome back bitches.