Cauldron
The sandals sent up small clouds of dust as she paced the floor, nine steps clockwise, twenty seven anti-clockwise. Focus. Such things were not found in print and she had inherited hers from her great aunt. Focus. The pages were brown and tattered, but they were special, they were hers and that was important. Focus. Cactus dice and monkey nuts, was it all nonsense? Focus. This time she had remembered the hairnet, it was so unfortunate when a stray hair was added. Focus.
Heat gently and stir occasionally, but you had to wait. Wait. A long wait. She took up the old fiddle from the corner and sat down on a hard chair. Focus. Toss the feathers, that was six minutes, she would play it three times. Old Nick played the fiddle they said and such tunes were said to raise the devil. Focus. The tune was as old as life itself, it was eternal music and it always helped.
Old witch! She’d give them old witch. Carefully she ladled the dull brown, steaming mess into hot jars and closed the lids. All done! Old Witch’s Kitchen Special Pickle; the townies would pay $10 a jar! Wicked!