“Hey babe”, said the witch, “mind helping me with this? I think I cracked a bone the other day.”
The doll looked up from her book. “Sure, but isn’t that the third this month?”
“… yeah.”
“Shouldn’t you have someone look at your spells? Wood should last longer, even without plasticizing it.”
“No, I’m fine. I just … look, give me a hand? It’s one of the supports in my chest, I’ve already got the replacement out.”
These stories were originally posted to Twitter in mid-2021. The still have a place in my heart.
The doll lay on the beach, watching the waves. They went in and out so relaxing, just like how all her thoughts flowed out of her head when her witch looked at her; and the cry of seagulls above was oddly nostalgic, though she could not think of why.
The witch sat on the beach, her arm possessively resting on the closed hamper of food next to her. Across the beach towel a delegation of seagulls balefully regarded her; several more circled the doll, their eyes full of menace.
This story was originally posted to Twitter on May 7, 2022. It is the end of a story, written out of order.
Today the two of them are nestled up in the boughs of a vast tree, one of the few around to weather the flood unscathed. Beneath them the water swirls and dances, unsure of what it is and unsure of what it wants to be and as hungry as the tide ever is, but up here they’re safe.