The Witch with Words

Hanging hoops line the front window, as well as silver stars on chains. Maybe she can write something here. The mood’s just right. She wanted to feel a spark– that sudden bout of excitement that gets her heart racing from the ideas rushing out. But she doesn’t feel anything. Abandoning the quill, she picks up her wand, swinging it in circles, with no apparent fear of dropping it. Mer mother would kill her if it was found in pieces, but the satisfaction of hearing it smash would be worth it.

Write? Do magic? Write? Do magic? The two options constantly went through her head, but she could never decide which was better, or more productive. A shower of sparks fly out of her wand as she flicks the tip lethargically, and it throws a pile of the books to the floor. Maybe she could trash the room for a bit. That would be fun.

No. She should write, she thinks, turning to her blank pad. But write what? She can’t just do it. She needs ideas. She isn’t someone who has that muse of inspiration whispering to her every five minutes. Maybe she should write about her spells. That would be useful as well as productive. A spell-book. She grins. How cliché.

Bobby, her budgerigar, flies to her shoulder in an audible ruffle of feathers. She traces her forefinger over his soft chest, smooth like velvet and plump like fruit. He doesn’t even flinch from her touch. He just sits and nibbles his plumage while she watches with amusement.

More distractions, she thinks.

A sigh escapes her as she finally picks up her quill, holding it tightly, like she’s determined to create a masterpiece. Maybe she would write about her spells. Just for future reference. For all the important things she would need to remember for battles, move higher up the noble classes, and reach her highest potential.

So, with a new air of inspiration flowing through her, she writes on the page:

Chapter 1: How To Turn a Budgie into a Piñata.

She hums happily. Good start.

It Takes Two

"Stand up for yourself," they say.

"Don't let anyone take advantage of you."

"Be careful when you go out at night."

"Don't wear anything promiscuous."

They tell me to do things. I must be the one to take the actions. I must defend myself. 

If I can be told to do all of these things, then please tell him to stop staring at me. Tell him to stop following me. Tell him not to attack anyone.

It takes two to stop this crime.

Football

"You don't have to be female to be a feminist." - unknown source

*

"Can Allie come with me?"

Joe's father looked up from his newspaper to stare at him. "Why would you want her to do that?"

"She wants to. I said it was fine."

"Well, I don't say it's fine." The expression on his father's face was thunderous, and Joe couldn't understand it.

"It's only tryouts, Dad. Allie's really interested."

"I don't care if she's interested. This is your hobby, not hers. She doesn't need to be there."

Joe frowned, genuinely confused. He may have only been sixteen, but he couldn't see the logic in his father's words. Allie was his sister, and he wanted to support her wishes. Even if he had to grab her hand and sneak her away to do it. "Just let her do what she wants to, Dad. Please?"

From that point on, his father replied only with silence, and Joe was forced to prepare for tryouts without knowing if he could take his sister or not. It was quarter to six when he was almost ready to leave, and Allie came running into his room with a smile on her face.

Dressed in the football kit he'd bought for her.

"Are we going soon?"

Joe paused to check the hallway for any sign of his dad. Then he winked at his sister. "Yeah, we'll go in a minute."

She hopped on the spot, her blonde hair bouncing against her shoulders. A rebellious excitement filling his lungs, Joe pulled his trainers on, ignoring the dirt left on the soles, threw a bag over his shoulder, and grabbed Allie's hand. He deliberately slammed the front door once they'd left, hoping his father heard it.

As long as he saw his sister smiling, he'd be happy.

Minion

This piece is a follow-up to 'Villain'. I recommend you read that first. :)

*

She is everything I wish I could be.

Powerful, intelligent, daring - and a complete psychopath.

I always watch from the sidelines: only a lackey in her eyes, providing her with a drink if she asks for it, waving a fan by her face if she is tired. I don't do much apart from serve her. When I'm not serving her or watching her through the television screen, I nibble on biscuits and sleep in my shabby bunk bed. I suppose being a servant has become my purpose - my image, just one mindless fanatic among hundreds. But I don't mind it. I don't see myself as a slave. Instead, I'm a dedicated follower of someone I believe in.

Those who once knew me would be shocked to see me staring at an image of the woman herself, tearing victims to smithereens with her bare hands. I stuff biscuits in my mouth like popcorn at the cinema. I shouldn't find it so entertaining, and yet I do. I suppose I'm just fascinated by the fact she can commit her crimes so easily, without regret or guilt.

I'll probably serve her for the rest of my life, and I'm okay with that. I can only hope she won't get bored of me and cut me to pieces like the rest of them.