by Beth Sherman
I.
The moon reflected in the bedroom window, white as a scythe. Outside, fireflies bedazzle the sycamores. Ghost branches moan. Ice bright sky cloistering stars. Something alive here doesn’t know it’s alive. Hunched. Hair prematurely white. Talon fingers. Neighborhood hag. They say she has snails for eyes. They say she hasn’t gone out in years. They say she hears voices of dead lovers.
II.
A witch needs a cauldron, a broomstick, one toad, a black dress, a pointy hat, revenge spells, at least one wart, a black cat, a fixer upper on a dead-end street, flying lessons, a book of shadows, a night job, assorted herbs, a wand made out of rotten wood, salt, heartache spells, a willing mind, Tarot cards, false teeth, Snickers bars to hand out to the punk kids and the emo kids and the brave little mite who ventures up the weed-strewn walk and gently taps the bell, who waits there at the weathered door and when it opens – slowly, with a sinister creak – hooded eyes blink back.
III.
This witch in the house with its sagging wallpaper, leaking roof, wainscot gnawed by termites. Is it me or the ghost of you? Rain from the ceiling plunks into a pail. Stars haunt the moon, sending shivers of light through the bedroom windows. Something alive here doesn’t know it’s alive. Still, there’s practical magic: remembering summer nights on the lawn, cicadas flirting, thrum of bees sipping nectar from old roses. Two wood thrush in the poplar tree. One flies away. The other stays. Years crumble underfoot like dry leaves. I toss a chunk of time in the cauldron, watch it sputter and melt.
Beth Sherman’s writing has been published in more than 100 literary magazines, including Flash Frog, Gone Lawn, Tiny Molecules, 100 Word Story, Fictive Dream, and Bending Genres. Her work is featured in Best Microfiction 2024. She’s also a multiple Pushcart, Best Small Fictions, and Best of the Net nominee. She can be reached on X, Bluesky or Instagram @bsherm36.
Emerge Literary Journal 