Distinct Dilemmas of the Witching Kind
She hung from a deformed brute of a tree, black against the moonlight, a silhouette of terrifying proportions. Caught up in between two grasping finger-like branches, the tree was not prepared to let her go. Despite her wails of piteous proportions, her wet hair dangling like fishnets and the hat that was her pride and joy, pointed and angular, lying on the ground thirty-feet below her, I had a decision to make: should I aid a witch?
There was not a doubt in my mind as to her profession. The broomstick, which protruded from the branch above her, removed any doubts I’d had.
However, it was when she started to cry that I could bear it no longer. So, I strode over with purpose, and was about to climb up to free her when…
’I’ll rip off your head and suck on your eyeballs,’ she screeched.
’Fair enough,’ said I, gave her a gesture, (I shan’t describe as children might be present) blew a raspberry and was on my way again.
If truth be told, I was quite pleased. Not only had I remained true to myself by offering help, I’d also not taken her badness without a suitable reply. That’s when I heard a branch break and a thud from down the road. I span around; she raged in the dust.
Fortunately, her broom had not followed her down. Even then, I thought she might hitch up her skirts and run. But when she put on her hat, the one she’d crushed in the fall, its point buckled and generally in disarray, and started to cry again, I knew her broken.
That’s why I gestured once more for good measure and then ran as fast as I could.