Amber Davis
New In Town
Her dark eyelashes fluttered as the potion’s steam rose in spirals. She covered the pot before it
violently boiled and started the timer. The steam began muddling her mind, so she left the
kitchen. She breathed in the twilight air and bathed in the mist of the breezy fog, hoping that this
potion would help her fit in.
Back inside, she removed the lid of the pot and gazed at the opalescent contents. While it was
still hot, she dipped her left hand in, reveling in the burn. Out came her hand gloved in the
potion. She walked to the garage, dripping rainbows on the hardwood.
Her broomstick sat on the concrete. She kneeled beside it. Never to fly upon it again. Holding it
down with her clean hand, she drew a quadrangle on the stiff and fibrous wood with her left. Her
chant was whispered to the broom itself, begging it to accept the new reality.
Suddenly and slowly, the broom transformed. Its wood became rubber. The strands, wheels. The
broom was gone. In its place, a subtly iridescent Subaru. Perfect for a witch to blend in.
Oh, how work is spent communicating velocity to water and back again. She thought to herself.
Weeks she spent creating the potion. Days she spent brewing. All for her beloved broom to
become a grotesque heap of human design. Disgusted with herself for what her life had come to,
she ran outside—searching for absolution from the now visible full moon.