Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-12217886-20140607071622

This is my first pasta I am posting to the site-I was told before that it was deleted for Grammar issues which I have now corrected, (and hopefully I got them all this time.) I would very much appreciate it if someone out there could review this story for me and tell me if it is good or not, and what I could work on to improve it. :) ~ Thank you very much for taking the time to read this story, and I hope you enjoy it. D0llie. <3

Every Slavic girl has at some point in her life heard the tale of Baba Yaga, a cannibalistic witch who lives within the heart of the dark Russian forests. She lives inside a large and unnatural cottage that is set on two giant chicken legs. Baba Yaga's hut comes to life with a muttered charm from her cold, thin grey lips-and with those vile legs move the hut around the forest at her whim. Her home is surrounded by a fence made of bones. Little bones, children's bones, bones from the bodies of people of all ages; The bones from men, women, and little children make up this fence-even the bones of other monsters or creatures that have attempted to enter the witch's domain. Worse yet, upon each spike made from the bones that hold this horrifying fence together there rests a skull. The skulls of these skeletons are lit with an unholy and undying green fire that will never flicker or go out-not even when submerged in water, or blasted by the coldest of winter storms. These skulls are used like lanterns to illuminate the wretched and deadly garden that surrounds her house as a warning to warning to anyone who dares enter her territory that if they come to her house, that if they enter this forsaken place they will not survive, nor escape the clutches of this fearful witch Baba Yaga. What skin is left on the bodies after she has cooked and feasted upon them is then boiled off inside a large iron pot she keeps inside her home, The broth of which is used later for a terrible gruel-like stew she makes to feed her various familiars, and any remaining victims who are left captive within her home. It is thought that any old Baba, or Grandmother, traveling alone by herself late at night is thought to be Baba Yaga for that is when the witch is most well-known to wander the lands in search of disobedient children or deceitful adults to take back to her hut and feed upon. However, she is not hesitant to appear in the daytime if necessity calls for appearing at such a time. She is capable of flying through the wind on a giant enchanted mortar and pestle, using one to navigate the other-a shard of jagged glass acts as her compass, directing her to the person she shall soon spirit away. Baba Yaga is described as being as thin as a skeleton, and as old as the mountain's themselves. She has a long, pointed nose and teeth black as iron. She uses her broom as a walking stick for one of her legs is so wizened and so thin that it looks as if it were taken by some sort of horrible disease, looking like nothing more than a piece of bone that has some old and greying skin wrapped around it. Her bony hands are thin, the fingers long, and the nails like that of the talons of a bird of prey. The old witch is sad to be able to smell the blood of Russian-born children who are nearby her home like a wild animal is capable of smelling its den-attempting to hide or deceive her within her own territory is pointless, and why you should always speak politely of Baba Yaga, so as not to anger her, for with a wave of her hand the witch can call upon the vilest of plagues. With a shout, she can raise the mightiest of storms, and with her eyes she can burn a hole through your very soul, leaving you physically paralyzed with the coldest of fears. According to legend, there are several ways in which to reach the house of Baba Yaga. One way is of course by following the old roads and paths through the forest. You will have to walk all night along the old paths, avoiding wolves and bears, walking farther than anyone ever walks. As the sun comes up, a rider all in white with white armor and white sword and a white horse is said to approach you on the horizon as the sun comes up. He will tell you the first path you must take to reach the witch's house, but in return you must give him some bread or food. In the noontime when the sun reaches its zenith, a second rider will barrel towards you dressed all in red with a fiery sword and cloak. The horse he rides on as deep a red as blood itself. If asked he may tell you the next way to go, in return for water or drink. After you have walked, and walked and walked, and the woods become darker, more wild and untamed, and the sun begins to sink once more, a third and final rider will come. A rider with a black stallion and a black cloak and clothes with a hood covering his grim, sad and tired dressage. In return for food and drink he will point you in the direction of the final path to the witches' cottage. By the time this happens you must go forward with haste, for if you are still wandering on the path after the sun sets the wolves Baba Yaga nursed as pups will surely hunt you. They will feed upon your flesh as if it were a feast fit for a King. If you are quick and quiet however, you may make it to the house of Baba Yaga. You will know it for the green, burning lights that will shine in the darkness like thousands of eyes watching you on her fence. Another is the use of water, or mirrors said to have been used to summon Baba Yaga in the past if you are brave or foolish enough to hold one. They say that if you chant Baba Yaga's name three times to a mirror, then write or say the name of a person you wish to be cursed she will descend upon the one who has wronged you and drag them into her cottage, and bring down all the malice, hatred, and pain you have suffered by their hands six times over. However, as it is with most things in fairy tales, the best way by far to find Baba Yaga is to get lost and not want to find her in the first place for that is when naturally, your deepest fears emerge when you wish for them the least, and it is these fears the witch will use by means of her keen sense of smell to find you. For hundreds of years she has instilled fear and terror into the hearts of both children and adults alike-the very mere mention of saying Baba Yaga's name is thought to be one of the most horrible of curses, one you should only wish upon your worst of enemies. You see- my tale is often used as a warning to those delicious little children-young, nubile girls in particular, as a way to warn them of the possibilities of what could happen if you are wicked or as the old housewives say, impure, for your actions might just summon me to your bedside late at night when you are sleeping, and result in me taking you away from your homes and families. I am always watching, you see- the mirrors I keep in my hut show me your face and your name, you wicked little child. Any time a child within this world has done wrong- I will always know. All I have to do is wait for the call, and I will know exactly where to find you, thanks to the help of my mirrors. I have watched you since you were a little thing. I would lie in wait just in the corner of the shadows, in hopes you yourself would summon me to stop those who had wronged you. I would listen attentively as you summoned me once. By the second call I would have my mortar and pestle prepared to fly to your home to the home of the person you hated most. But you never had the courage to summon me the third time. Foolish little child-I could have taken away all of your suffering if you had just called One. More. Time. But no- you always hesitated and stopped yourself that final time, you were afraid of me so, weren't you? So afraid you could not bring yourself to call that final time. But there was one person whom you feared more than me, wasn't there my dear? That is simply the reason late in the night you would stare into your mirror and call for me the first time. Tears would form under the corner of your eyes. Your little plump red lips trembling as you recalled the harsh words and harsh fists that marred your young and cherubic face. You would call me a second time, your sobs of regret and frustration like the sweetest of music to my old ears. I would wait excitedly for that third call. I imagined enjoying the feeling of ripping the very meat from your torturer's bones, devouring the sweet juicy morsels by the handful as they watched the life leave their bodies in terror. The fat from under their skins I would savor as young women savors sweet chocolate that their lover's bring to them. Their blood would fill my cup- and you would be free for a time until I called upon you. But you never could call for me that one last time, could you? Some time has passed now, you are older. Not as young as the last time you called me, but young enough to still believe. It is a shame; your flesh would have been sweeter and tenderer if you had called sooner. But you are here now, and I am in need of a nubile, young child to feed my belly. That is all that counts for me. I wonder who it is that has made you suffer this time; your mother? A step father or brother? Perhaps even a lover? It does not matter to me most of the time, but perhaps, you my dear may prove to be an interesting story for the fireside. For now, I am content with waiting for your final call- and for my feast to begin. 