Beyond the Sphere

“I’m going to get this cake sorted this side of Halloween, if it’s the last thing I do!” Maraganna scraped the recent burnt remains of the cake she’d just ‘baked’ out of the cake tin. She plunged the charred tin into the hot soapy water in the sink, ready to wash it by hand. “I must be using the wrong cook book. That must be it! When I ‘magic up’ a cake they are always perfect, when I bake one,” she looked in the rubbish bin, “not so…” She twirled her right index finger around in the air three times, and watched as the cake tin cleaned itself, and hovered over to the draining board. She then gently blew above the cake tin and a mini tornado appeared out of nowhere, which dried the tin.

Maraganna then clicked her fingers and a book hovered off the bookshelf outside the kitchen and floated to the worktop beside her. “I’ll try another of my recipes.” Maraganna thought. Huffle followed the book into the kitchen, curious as to what Maraganna was up to. He investigated the bin, and noticed the four ruined cakes that were in there. He mewed in disdain, and jumped up to the worktop. The book Maraganna had chosen was her own, handmade, recipe book, ‘the book of the appointed pineapple’. Huffle mewed again, and knocked the book to the floor.

“Huffle! What are you doing?! You shouldn’t even be in here when I’m cooking. Come on, it’s back to the living room with you!” Maraganna lifted her familiar off the worktop and carried him out of the kitchen. Over her shoulder, Huffle watched as a bright orange light appeared in the kitchen and a green-skinned woman step out of it. Straight away the light surrounded the woman and she, and the light, vanished again.

Maraganna re-entered the kitchen, and went to pick her cookbook off the floor, only to find it wasn’t there. She looked under the table. On the worktop. In the bin. On the draining board. She even checked in the sink and in the oven, but the book had completely vanished. She walked back to the living room, in case she’d picked it up with Huffle without thinking. She hadn’t. She checked the bookcase, in case she’d only thought she’d brought the book into the kitchen but actually hadn’t, but her book wasn’t there.

“Hmmm….” Maraganna pondered. “Where’s that gone now?” She glanced back over to Huffle who had curled up and was now sleeping on the sofa. “You’ve done something…” she thought, but then realised Huffle was only a cat and he couldn’t make a book disappear. “Oh well,” Maraganna said to the bookcase. “It looks like another magicked up cake again.”

On the sofa, Huffle pricked his ears briefly, and then settled into a lovely sleep.

Previous parts of the Sinsters’ search below:

Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight
Part Nine

Monique always welcomed the whispered words from her Familiar, although the voice never sounded as though it was from her cat or within her head… more so over her left shoulder. But whenever she looked around, there was no body there. Keep waiting… the whispers told her… it’s nearly here.

She looked on in disbelief.

“How dare they!” she snarled. “How dare they use MY word in such a way. It is my word, my word alone, yet they all use it however they want, whenever they want, without thought. I own it. I created it.”

She hissed. She’d spurt venom, if she could. She was seething.

Her word, she’d decided to claim, was ‘the’.

Convinced so she was the word was her creation, wherever it occurred, she became fuelled by rage. She’d strike through it. Cast a spell upon its user. Claim divine intervention.

As time went by, her true name became forgotten. She became known as simply ‘The Crone’.

And just how that name  riled her spoke volumes. It did ‘become’ her word… only not in the way she wanted it to, or thought it always had.

And others used the word in their own way regardless.

Image from Pixabay, adapted.

Words inspired and shaped by the Powers That Be. This is a piece of fiction. Utter nonsense based upon nobody living or dead. Or undead. Completely devoid of fact. And 150 words long (or thereabouts!)

There was an old witch named Blue
Who thought she always knew what to do
Often times things went wrong
So she just burst into song
Unaware that she didn’t have a clue!

Prowling through the shadows, unnoticed.

Listening to the fading sounds as daytime draws to a close.

Waiting for the right time to run across the deserted street, out of sight.

Now is the time.

Across the road. Up the kerb. Through the gate. Along the path.

Onto the doorstep.

Sit and wait.

Wait.

And sit.

The door creaks open slowly.

“There you…”

In.

Inside.

In the warmth.

By the fireside.

Lie.

Stretch.

Yawn.

Curl.

Purr.