What Witches Do
The Imagination of a Four Year Old
Writers note: This is a true story, from when I was about 4 years old. This was a writing prompt from Linda Caroll at Hello, Writer! I liked it so much I am putting it here, with some additions past the 250 word limit Linda imposed. If you are a writer, or just a hack like me, go check out Linda’s stack in the link above. She has amazing tips, and helpful stuff.
As witches go, she looks amazingly real, almost, human, and a lot like my Aunt Deb1. I thought witches had smoke around them, and brooms? She has a bandage on her head, and one leg is bigger than the other. Mom says, “Aunt Deb was in a car accident”, but I ain’t buying it. I am thinking, she’s supposed to baby-sit me? Really? Mom are you leaving me with a witch? She looks like a house fell on her.
Aunt Deb the witch got called in to watch me, because Mom is going to visit Dad in the hospital. Dad got knocked off a 3 story roof in a high wind and broke his pelvis, and in 1963 that means full body cast and bed rest for a while.
I ask Mom, “Why can’t I go with you?” She answers “The hospital won’t let a 4 year old in. But you can follow me on your bike until I get there”. I want to argue, because I was just in hospital, but I am not anxious to see it that way again. Bed ridden for a week with a fever. So I’ll just follow. Such a long way; two whole blocks. At the hospital entrance, Mom turns me around with “You have to go home, Aunt Deb will be there waiting”.
Great. Just what I wanted to hear. And now the sky is darkening with angry, coal black clouds. I briefly consider a recon mission on my own, navigating the hallways of the looming hospital. Then I remember the Nuns are there. This is “The Sisters of Mercy” hospital after all. Nah, too scary, too risky. The Nuns might stick me in that bed again.
So I turn around. Pedaling fast on my tricycle. I am like Dorothy, trying to make it back before a tornado comes, whooshes me up, and I fall from the sky like Dad.
I pass an old oak tree, and it looks like it has a face, gnarled and snarling at me. Why do trees look so angry? The branches are swaying in the wind. That’s when the first sting hits. I get stung again, and again. Aunt Deb the witch has sent flying monkeys, or bees, or maybe the tree, to attack me, I am sure of it. I am not looking back; I keep getting stabbed by invisible needles.
Getting home, the witch is trying to calm me down. I have 20 stings; the witch puts mud poultices on them to pull the stingers. Because that’s what witches do. I am crying, and so mad.
I am pretty sure she made my Dad fall off that roof2.
Names changed. I did learn to like my Aunt Deb. But for a long time, I always kept an eye her, just in case!
True story, all of it. I really did believe it, but hey I was four.