Granny Elara’s Guide to Mischief: 3 Spells You Can Practically Feel

Ah, so you’ve stumbled into Granny Elara’s little corner of chaos, have you? Good. You want magic that bites, hums, and makes life a little… interesting. Not the dainty fairy-dust spells of pure nonsense, mind you—but real, zingy magic you can actually feel. Lucky for you, I’ve got five spells that’ll make your fingers tingle, your hair ruffle, and maybe even make your cat roll its eyes. Pay attention, or don’t. Either way it’s your problem.

Getting in touch with your magic

1. Get in touch with your magic

Oh for stars’ sake, another one. Nose in the door, eyes wide, looking for sparkles and party tricks. You think magic’s about fireworks and floating teacups, do you? Hah. Shows what you don’t know. Which, incidentally, is everything.

And here’s your first truth, so brace yourself: you know nothing. Nothing at all. And don’t you dare argue—knowing nothing is the only decent start you’ve got. Because in that nothing, in that big empty hollow of yours, is where the everything lives. That’s the gap witches slip their fingers through. The silence where the world finally whispers back. Of course, most people can’t sit still long enough to hear it. Too busy flapping their gums. You’ll have to do better.

Second truth, and this one really separates the witches from the idiots: the world is alive. Every stone, every crumb on the table, even the mould in your cupboards—it all has something to say. Oh, don’t pull that face. Just because you’ve never listened doesn’t mean it isn’t talking. Humans stomp about deaf as fence posts. A witch? She listens. Really listens. And when she does, the whole blasted world starts answering. Sometimes politely, sometimes not.

Third truth—and this one you’ll choke on if you’re not careful: belief is stronger than knowing. Knowing makes you smug. Belief cracks you open. It’s the hinge, the doorway, the thing that lets the impossible saunter right in, boots muddy, asking what’s for supper.

So there you have it. The roots of the whole messy business. Sit in your nothing, listen to the world, and believe without needing proof. Do that, and you might survive long enough to try the small stuff. The crumbs. The scraps of old spells even the stones remember.

And if you’re still here after all that, well—congratulations. You’re stubborn enough to deserve a taste. Just don’t come crying to me if you set your eyebrows on fire

Lesson One: The Crackling bite.

Right, sit up straight and stop looking so hopeful. No witch worth her cauldron ever started with something dainty like whispering to spoons. You want your first spell? Fine. You’re going to learn The Crackling Bite.

This one’s a classic. Old as thunder, sharp as a slap, and guaranteed to get someone’s attention. It’s a spark, a sting, a crackle of air right at your fingertips—perfect for giving some fool’s backside the shock it deserves.

Here’s how: hold your hand out and focus on the empty air just above your skin. Still your mind—yes, even you chatterboxes. Wait until you feel it prickle, like a bee thinking about stinging you. That’s the Bite, waking up. Then you snap—sharp, clean, no flapping about—and let it fly.

Results? A neat little crack of energy that’ll jolt the air, make candles flicker, and if you’re feeling wicked, whip the trousers off the nearest idiot. Harmless? Oh, mostly. Unless you get carried away.

When to use it:

To remind yourself magic isn’t your pet, it’s your partner.
To keep troublemakers in line without lifting a broom.
Or, frankly, whenever you need a good laugh.

Warning—and don’t you come snivelling to me if you ignore this—magic can smell arrogance like a fox smells a chicken. Do it tired, do it sloppy, or think you’re cleverer than the Bite, and it’ll turn itself right back on you. My left eyebrow still hasn’t forgiven me, and that was fifty years ago.

Lesson Two: The gusting fool.

Ah, you survived the Crackling Bite without setting fire to your hair? Pity. Well, on we go then. Lesson two: The Gusting Fool.

Now every good witch knows: If it doesn’t have flare, its probably worth ignoring. This little charm is nothing like that. This one’s got flair. Done just right, at the right time on the right person and ohhh boy does it have flare.. With a flick of your fingers, you can conjure a sudden whoosh of wind sharp enough to blow hats off heads, flip up skirts, or scatter someone’s precious papers right into the mud. Practical? Not especially. Entertaining? Always.

Here’s how you do it: Plant your feet firm, pull in a breath so deep it feels like the air’s rattling your ribs, and hold it there. Don’t let it go, not yet, wait until your skin prickles, until the room itself seems to lean in. Then you push. Not with your lungs… don’t be daft. Use your will. Out through your fingertips, sharp as a shove.

If you’ve done it right, the air will leap like a startled dog, and the nearest fool will look like they’ve walked into a gale on a calm day. Hats go flying, skirts betray their secrets, and dignity is swiftly evacuated.

When to use it:

To deflate pompous windbags (poetic justice).
To scatter quarrelling children before they tear each other’s ears off.
To cause generalised chaos at dull gatherings.

One word of caution: never, ever do it indoors unless you’re prepared to spend the next hour chasing crockery across the floor. And if you’re fool enough to try it in a privy — well. Let’s just say you’ll only try it once.

Shopping on Amazon? Because who needs human interaction anyway

Lesson Three: The Tongue tangler

Still here, are you? Not blown out to sea by your own backside gale? Impressive. Or lucky. Either way, time for lesson three. Now you have a bit of practice, started to believe in your own power and so I won’t be treating you like some damned fool with no experience. This is not for the faint hearted.

This one’s a favourite of mine. It’s more mischievous than dangerous, but oh, the chaos it causes. With a mutter and a twist, you can knot a person’s tongue so thoroughly they’ll be spouting gibberish instead of sense. Imagine the pompous lord in the marketplace, ready to make a grand speech… only to find he’s suddenly declaring his undying love for turnips. Priceless.

Here’s the method: don’t look at the mouth, look at the throat, where the voice rumbles up from. Picture the words as ropes, coiling, twisting, knotted in a heap. Then flick your fingers, sharp and certain, like you’re tugging the end of a string. If you feel the tug in your gut, you’ve got them.

The effect? Splendid nonsense. They’ll babble, stutter, or burst out with the first ridiculous thought in their head. Lasts only a few moments, but oh, what moments they are. Long enough to derail an argument, stop a liar in their tracks, or make a miser confess his secret stash of biscuits.

When to use it:

On pompous idiots who love the sound of their own voice.
To stop quarrels before fists start flying.
Or when you simply need a laugh.

Now, warning time—and don’t say I didn’t tell you: never cast it on a singer unless you’re ready for the wailing that follows. And never, ever cast it on a witch. Tangling another witch’s tongue is asking for curses in places you didn’t know you had.