La petite maison de sorcière…
Nous avons lancé un concours sur Instagram qui consiste dans le fait d’écrire une petite narration entre 100 et 200 mots pour raconter l’histoire de cette photo.
Ces photos ont été prises du coté de Kaunas en Lituanie, dans une forêt de pins. La petite maison paraît irréelle et pourtant elle est là, indemne, protégée par sa forêt, comme un bijou dans son écrin. Avec la flamboyante chevelure d’Elenah et de son ami, l’Irish setter Ango, l’atmosphère est parfaite.

Nous avons reçu presque 80 histoires et poèmes en moins de 4 jours. Nous sommes très émues par votre générosité et créativité.
Choisir 3 œuvres parmi toutes ces beautés, était trop difficile. Nous avons donc décidé de récompenser et publier 2 histoires et 2 poèmes, ainsi que les 7 finalistes, car ils nous ont tous touchés et que les différences étaient trop subjectives. À vous de plonger dans la lecture et de vous laisser transporter par la variété créative de auteurs.

The little witch's house ...
We ran a little social media contest around the idea to write a short narration between 100 and 200 words to tell the story of this photo.
We posted the best story on our blog. Click here and check out the little Halloween tale.
These photos were taken near Kaunas in Lithuania, in a pine forest. the little house seems unreal and yet it is there, unharmed, protected in its forest, like a jewel in its case. The atmosphere is perfect with Elenah’s flamboyant hair and her friend, the Irish setter, Ango.

We received almost 80 stories and poems in less than 4 days. We are very moved by your generosity and creativity.
It was too difficult to choose 3 works among all these beauties. So, we decided to reward and publish 2 stories and 2 poems, as well as the 7 finalists, because they all touched us, and the differences were too subjective. It's up to you to dive into the reading and let yourself be carried away by the creative variety of those incredible authors.


The four winners


A shelter for forgotten dreams.  

A path overgrown with weeds, snakes between centuries-old trees.

There, in the heart of the forest, a house woven from the shadows, with dull windows peering into the void.

Every wrinkle and crack on the carved platbands and walls holds memories, wooden floorboards creak under the footsteps of ghosts.

The whispers of the past rustle with fallen leaves on the velvet moss embracing the roof.  

Interrupted and forgotten dreams flock here from all over the world, like wounded birds that have lost their voice and songs.

The red-haired witch Autumn, who lives in the mysterious house, gives shelter to poor things.

She patches their wounds with rusty pine needles soaked in the flames of the dying sun.

And the winds forge new voices for dreams to sound sad lullabies over the drowsy thicket.

by Natalia Drepina @yourschizofrenia




Elenah and the little witch house

It was time. Elenah woke up one cold foggy morning and felt prickling in her fingers like every year. The magic was waking up at last. She was packed for days just waiting for this moment to set off. She locked the door to her apartment and briskly walked up the street.
After having reached the border of the nearby forest, she finally slowed down a little and took a deep breath. Her lungs filled with fresh chilly air and colourful leaves crunching under her feet, that was exactly what Elenah needed to awaken her magic. What she was looking for was just after that old linden tree standing on her right-hand side. Yes, there it was! Her own little witch house was waiting for her like every year before.
Elenah unpacked and got straight to work. First thing on the list – a spell to call her faithful dog companion Ango that was always there for her during her stays in the little witch house.

by Hana Simkova @slovacoeur




Up a hill that isn't far

Though not for anyone to find,
One waits there to grant your wishes,
Should your heart be brave and kind.

Do you see that plume of smoke
As it rises wispily?
That is from the witch's chimney,
As she brews her morning tea.

Do you hear the eerie song,
In the wood of oak and pine?
Singing makes the work go faster,
And her voice is very fine.

Though the wolves live in the forest,
And the night grows dark indeed;
Though the house is small and modest,
Choked with mushroom, moss and weed

Up the hill, your fortune beckons,
Up the path and past the gate
Go with courage, go with kindness,
When the time comes, do not wait.

Do not journey seeking treasures,
Pleasures to appease the vain
Those who seek such turn back quickly,
For the risk outweighs the gain.

Do not trample o'er the helpless,
Those of weaker stuff, befriend,
Find the meek beneath your notice
And you'll find a wretched end.

Up the hill, it isn't far,
Though it is farther than you knew;
She will grant your wish, good-hearted one,
Should you be brave, and kind, and true.

Teja Johnson-Lewis @morethanprinceofcats




It was said that at dawn, when colors settled in the glade, silently, she danced.

Her velvet raiment swallowing the night, a new sun shimmering in her hair.

A gleam of hope between the leaves, a gleam of life between sorrows.

But once the glistening ended, it was warmth that her silky hands sought.

It was said that during the day, there, she would flee, waiting for the return of someone who is no longer, her fire crackling to the sound of crows.

Some said she was only a shadow, an illusion of the night, a cure from dreams.

But those who wandered in the hour of dew could never lose the memory of her mystical dance, of a meaning never discovered, her light feet gliding through the mist of a flickering tenderness.

And to this day, no one has ever uttered her name. Yet, her warmth never withers.

By Anna Szmarowska @anna.silmir




The finalists



Down near the bend where the crows all sing, sits a tiny house that’s the colour of their wings. Out on the porch in the dew misted morning you can start to smell a bright potion forming. Woman all around to come to her in secret, asking for favours knowing she will keep it. Her name is in whispers spoken through the lavender she brings, giving them hope that they’ll stop suffering. Knowing her craft is denounced in the churches She feels the pain of the pyre, and sadly it worsens. But the woman still come knowing the risk, calling her name “Elanah, Elanah” lightly as mist…

By Lena Vranna  @Sanktalena




I stepped over the threshold and ran my fingers over the strange swirling patterns carved deep into the door. Beyond it, the house was dark.Why would my dog run into this place? She never leaves my side. I shivered, seized by a sudden, overwhelming instinct to run the other way. The hair on my arms and the back of my neck bristled.

“Hello?” I asked the darkness. Silence answered.
With my free hand, I scaled along the wall, slowly, step by step. The floor creaked. I winced at every sound. I paused, shivering. Again, I asked: “Hello?”
In response, a sudden light filled the room. Fire ignited in a hearth over a black cauldron. Beeswax candles illuminated stacks of ancient books on the table, fresh herbs hanging from the ceiling, and neat rows of small hand-painted portraits on the wall. My dog lay wagging her tail by the fire.
I turned to examine the portraits. Generations of women with the same bright red hair as me stared back.
The last painting in the long row was of me.
Beneath my portrait, the words curled in old cursive script.
“Welcome home, Daughter.”

by Mallory Austin @mallorykatelyn



The Lady of Shadowfall


Elenah in her gown so green


robed in forest tourmaline


roamed the woods of Shadowfall


a vigilant warrior protecting all


her tiny cottage like a beacon, bright


shining hope through the indigo night




And in her quiet humble home


Elenah wove wishes, spoke spells alone


for widows, wives, and heavy hearts


to never let their souls fall apart




for this good witch spoke strength in words


to empower her sisters and nurture their worth


Elenah's magic was in her giving


her empathy, spirit, and joy for living


a warrior for women in her own right


somewhere in Shadowfall, shining her light.


By Laura Kwok @artandsoulcreativeco
Website: www.LauraKwok.com
Art + Soul: www.artandsoulcreativeco.com



"La forêt est le théâtre des ombres malheureuses.

Les sapins dansent en silence et agitent leurs branches rachitiques, l'air embaume la résine. Au sol gisent des milliers de cadavres d'épines, pourrissant. Dans ce cimetière végétal se dresse une maison solitaire. Recelant grimoires et chandelles, herbes et remèdes, la cabane solide est un refuge pour les esprits blessés.

Ici vit une dame à la peau de marbre et aux cheveux de feu, le regard orageux comme les tempêtes qui secouent le ciel. Depuis longtemps elle demeure là, éclairant les bois de sa lumière, cherchant l'introuvable et consolant les âmes perdues. Certains disent qu'elle est une Sorcière, d'autres qu'elle est un Miracle.

Peu sont ceux qui décèlent en elle la mélancolie des cœurs las, l'éclat toujours douloureux du deuil qui dans sa prunelle fait couler une larme."

"The forest is the stage of mournful shadows.

Pine trees are dancing in silence and moving their thin branches, the air smells like resin. On the ground lay thousands of dead pine needles, rotting. In this vegetal cemetery stands a lonely house. Holding grimoires and candles, herbs and remedies, the sturdy log is a shelter for wounded spirits.

Here lives a lady with a marble skin and firy hair, the eyes stormy like the tempests that shake the skies. Since a long time she remains here, illuminating the woods with her light, seeking the unfindable and comforting lost souls. Some say she's a Witch, other say she's a Miracle.

Few are those who see in her the melancholy of tired hearts, the still painful shard of grief which in the apple of her eye makes a tear drop."

By Jeanne Remy @halluneciation



 The gift

In the shadows I must hide

for I was born with the gift.

With herbs and flowers dried,

the worst curse I can lift.


Yet many mean to do me harm

or use me for a spell.

I am hunted for my charms, 

to be locked up in a cell.    


So to the woods I flee, 

to a prison of my own,

for only here can I be free,

no other place to call home.


Yet inside this peaceful cabin

I am never truly alone. 

It is lined with books of latin

to read to creatures unknown.


And remaining out of sight 

I spend my every day,

only leaving at night, 

hidden by the veil of grey. 


And only the crow sings of my sorrow. 

 by Emily Decker @emilyclairedecker




In the dark patch of forgotten woods,

a cabin filled with love once stood.

Its walls were built with devotion and skill,

for a witch whose spirit lingers there still.


Despite his love the builder never got to one knee,

as his love with the witch was not meant to be.

He carved the windows to complete their nest,

when his heart gave in and stopped in his chest.


The witch had magic, power and skill,

but not enough to counter Death's will.

Her amber turned to silver but her smile never faded,

for she knew that across the river another cabin waited.

by Anne Hautakangas





Elenah and the little witch house


There once was a girl, clever and bright

Who stumbled upon a little witch house during the night

In her village she was made to believe

To tread into the forest during Hallows’ Eve

For there a witch lies in wait

In front of her house, an unlocked gate

And any brave enough to embark upon the adventure

May freely enter

But the road to the house is full of dangers

And perilous for those who the forest views as strangers

But the reward was worth the risk, all knew

Because the witch makes any wish come true

So the girl cleverly avoided the perils of the road

And stood before the witch with tons of gloat

Smarts she thought she didn’t need, so knowledge she wanted

“Not that bright, are ya?”, the witch responded

For to the fey, the witch belonged

Who with their trickery and deceit, they enjoyed to see people wronged

And so knowledge the girl received

But way too much for a mere human to be perceived

And now the girl stands at the entrance, only a husk

A reminder for people not to enter the witch’s house after dusk

by Nicole Peeters @thehummingbard