A Little Witch's Whim

There was a witch barely three feet tall, who wore her hair in frizzy braids and unruly locks. She pranced in pumpkin patches and weaved trampling feet through decaying corn fields. She terrorized her little brother with hexes and pinches. Mice and bats listened to her every command, fierce defenders and faithful retrievers. High in the sky and close to the ground they scurried and flew in search of her every whim. Whether it be eye of newt or milk for her count chocula cereal. She brewed her potions far below the sewer grates, dropping in weeds, pine cones, and hemlock mixing with stale rain water plumes of colored smoke rising to her nose and seeping down the street.

“Claaaariiceeee!” Her mother’s yell cut through the crisp autumn air and startled Clarice. Jolted, she threw the remainder of the weeds into the sewer grate and dashed across the dying grass.

She bounded through the door, mac and cheese waiting for her at the table. Her little brother gave an unintelligible screech as she came in.

“What’s been keeping you so busy out there?” her mother asked from the couch.

“I was making a potion,” Clarice said proudly, her nose upturning slightly, a spoon of mac and cheese wearily balancing between dirty fingers.

“Oooooh, of what kind?” her mom pushed. Clarice paused, her mouth agape, first to spoon in the cooling mac and cheese but now in thought. “Haven’t gotten there yet, kiddo?” she added, seeing her daughter's confusion.

“To take away people's voices!” Clarice exclaimed suddenly. Her mother's eyes widened, wondering where a 6-year-old would use such a potion, or the need.

“Is that so? What exactly were you going to do with that?” her mother followed. Clarice’s mouth was too full to answer immediately. Excited to respond, she swallowed her noodles whole in one big gulp.

“When brother's being annoying, or this girl in my class who never stops talking! Or when you’re yelling at me, or maybe when my teacher is talking about subtraction!” Clarice quickly began eating again. After her response finished tumbling from her mouth, her mother silently laughed on the couch, she'd ceased to be amazed by her daughters creativity and constant weave of stories. Before she could ask further Clarice had already scraped the remaining noodles from her paper plate.

“I wish I could go outside and finish,” Clarice whined from the table, her small voice sounded muffled, lacking the clarity of an adult.

“I wouldn’t want to hold you from something so important. Throw your plate away.”

So this little witch, fed and excited, edged off her chair and walked to the trash. Once her hands were free she leapt into action, darting through the kitchen and back into the yard.

Later as day turned to dusk Clarice's mom would ask her as she put her to bed what it was she did at school today. The October month welcomed and encouraged her supernatural antics, the chilled breeze turning her imagination towards monsters and ghouls away from princesses and dragons. In her mind Clarice's day had gone something like this. She began to explain to her mother a little less coherently.

She soared on a broom, instead of cramming on her stinky bus, far above the houses in her streets and the fields that surrounded her school; she waved at her classmates who were trapped in reality as they played on the playground. Clarice let loose a cackling laugh that barely reached their ears, her school work long forgotten at her dining room table. When Clarice eventually grew tired, her nose pink from the cold winds that uplifted her, she brought her broom to rest in some decaying wood that bordered a pumpkin patch. Clarice laid for a moment, among auburn colored leaves and dry twigs when a course voice beckoned a question.

“And what exactly are you doing?” asked the undetermined speaker. Clarice slowly rose, fear building from her toes. The only thing she could see were orange pumpkins and a sleek black cat. A minute or two passed; Clarice was skeptical—could it be?

“Are you going to make me ask again?” the cat growled.

“I was tired,” she answered sheepishly.

“And?” the cat retorted unamused.

“My legs needed a break so I could charge them,” Clarice whined.

“And?” the cat asked again, bored. Clarice was shortly annoyed and puffed her bottom lip in a prominent pout.

“I’m done talking to a dumb cat!” Clarice stuck out her tongue and let raspberries blow to the wind, dramatically picking up her broom and kicking off, her velcro shoes almost slipping off from her angered force. She flew straight home after that, following the bus so she wouldn't get lost. Breaking from this reality Clarice concluded to her mom, “It’s that same dirty cat who hisses at me on the street! I saw him! He was talking and he was being mean! Questioning me just like Mrs. Morse does.” Clarice puffed her cheeks, so much pent up anger wasn’t easily expressed within 40 pounds. Clarice's mother suppressed a laugh and kissed her daughter's heated cheeks.

“Can you promise me you’ll go to school tomorrow?” her mother asked.

“I promise mommy,” she answered. Rolling deeper within her comforter she rested her eyes and her antics. Another day of mischief came to an end. Her dreams spiraled and gave inspiration to a new series of stories.