Editor’s Note: This story retains intentional variations in spelling, pacing, and stylistic form. These linguistic choices— including unconventional punctuation, capitalisation, and rhythm—are part of the author’s voice and the atmosphere of the piece. They have been preserved as written to maintain authenticity, tone, and character.
She took a fitting spoonful of the soapy substance in her well-gloved hands, for as beautiful as it looked to the naked eye, if careful, it wouldn’t be one for long. Hissing and bubbling as she gingerly placed it into her tiny little copper pot, the soapy crystals crackled as if they were their own fire, and soon enough it was, heating up the little copper pot with fervour, quite literally effervescently transforming the pure water into a frothy and forbidden soup. She couldn’t help but stare in ever so permanent fascination at her concoction; so fascinatingly gentle on the outside but filled with a passion and potency that could erupt any minute if handled with or without care.
Lye. It most certainly fit its metaphorical assumption with how someone hearing it for the first time would find it to be; from innocent soap glass to potent and volatile when used wrong; powerful and dangerous enough to destroy everything on sight and biting through its corrosive powers like a foamy tidal wave, Or was it truly, as an imaginative overthinker would call it, a symbolic lie?
The soapmaker shook her head out of her trance. It was time to get back to work. The dangerous solution which she would transform into cleansing and fragrant bars was not to be delayed too long, as this left zero room for error. Quickly, but ever so deftly bringing her copper pot to her workspace in the kitchen, she scoured to look for her cosmetic oils… but oh she hated that name. Cosmetic. Oils. Butter you can’t eat. It took the fun and the magic out of this exciting process; ever so teetering close to danger if not careful but knowing well that it was worth it, just to produce a few bars of soap just to call oneself self-sufficient. Self-sufficient! Just the title she loved to hear! She dreamed of its virtues and its oddities as she scrambled herself some olive oil and some coconut oil as well, mixing them together with fervent vigor, just as much enough as watching some shea butter melt in her oven. “It’s working!” she thought to herself in glee while watching the sun go down and heaving a sigh of relief knowing that now both her hands and her lye were safe and sound.
The sunset looked majestic as she looked towards her window to give her a mental stimulant from the repetitive tasks of boiling and stirring. It was almost dreamlike to have the privilege of living far off into the rolling green hills full of flowers in a little wooden cottage, without a care to think of anything but her potions and her dreams. A well-lit and ventilated house it was, with gifts from all over the world and her travels throughout the marvels of education all packed and designed into this little house, a fitting parting gift from her parents. It was rustic yet elegant but looking through that large window, she couldn’t help but wonder what it truly was like to be, a successful modern-day witch. She was no evil person, mind you. However, the appeal still drew her right in that aimless day, as she watched each of her former passions just burn out and fade away. Painting filled her life with light and color, but very rarely enough pennies. Music was also a dream come true, but the band… yes, the band grew apart both professionally and personally, and that often weakened her dimming spirit. It was a joy to play on that baby harp, or as it was called, a lyre….
Lyre, lyre, lye…. Oh….OHH! She caught the now burnt shea bubbling into an ugly pulp. The soapmaker turned off the heat and watched her now deceased butter in dismay. Butter one most definitely can’t eat. Her soul temporarily left her body, rendering her limbs weak. It was expensive and futile.
“I wasted it. I wasted my life now DIDN’T I?” She started to scream, feeling her heart’s rendition finally pop out as a rude aftershock. This wasn’t her first rodeo, but it didn’t change the fact that it was yet another failed attempt and an ineffective one at that. She looked at her humble soap station. “Ha, soap station my paw!” she screamed yet again, and this time the tears flowed. Failure after failure after failure to launch; from itchy skin to coloured skin; from burning palms to rancid oils, some of them too ineffective to even become a washing soap. Smelly garments rank with deceased oils now their permanent graveyard, and in a cruel case of situational irony: the anti-soap.
Oh yes, the anti-soap. She couldn’t help but laugh wryly. The anti-soap made with butters of cocoa, mango, and coconut oil, but sadly cursed with too much pigment, only to end up staining her beautiful hands and body. In science, it would be a laughable miracle, in the cosmetic world inexcusable. In art, it was peak humour, just this time at the maker’s expense.
“I am a joke.” She repeated a few times over and over, “I am a failed witch!” the laughter turned to tears again until her sleeves were as damp as petrichor-filled soil. The aspiring witch in her couldn’t help but break down as she reminisced of the grandiose stories told about her great-grandmother; a scientist, soapmaker, plant-lover… witch. She grew the most useful plants and crafted her scientifically accurate potions with expertise and care; from aloe vera to kukui to rosewood, all through her deft green thumb. She always though she’d carry it on, this beautiful legacy…
Was it really in vain?
“It’s all lies, isn’t it?” It was hard to prevent descending into a volley of expletives, until she noticed her plants.
They were thriving. Every kind word as aftercare… It worked like magic, akin to the power of love. The fragrance oils she’d blend wafted all over every day, almost permanent. She was a fine witch!
Just like her name,
Lyra.
DoubleSpeak 