Rated PG. Contains boyhood, and witchcraft, and jars full of preserved things.
by Hilary Moon Murphy
…this girl appeared from behind a door and caught my ball. She was probably my age: several inches taller than I am, with long straight black hair pulled back in a ponytail, plain white t-shirt, denim jacket and jeans with a hole worn in the knee. She stared at me with intense dark eyes and said, “What are you doing here?”
“I was just getting my ball,” I said, stepping out of the way of two movers carrying a large red bureau with multi-colored wax stains all over it.
“No, you weren’t.” She cocked her head to the side, and raised her eyebrow. “You were spying.”
“That’s okay, I like spies.” She gave me back my ball and showed me her hands. “I have nine fingers. I’m a witch.”