Turning Tales Week 1: Cinammon Sugar – Bite-sized stories

[Bizarre.Dais]

I Thought for Once You Could Relate

Every pill I sucked down had a funny smell. I still remember it, along with the smell of other odd things. Newspaper and rubber bands, and the cookies you made when we first moved in. They had a funny smell, and with it, they did funny things. Designed to stop fits, the shaking, the dumbstruck staring and drooling, the dropping sentences as I…

Where was I? That’s right. It seemed like forever until the miracle came. But by then, those pills had done irreparable funny things. It consumed my energy until I had little will except to sit and eat and bathe in an alternative lifestyle of self-consciousness and pity. Those funny little pills that seemed so big in my tiny hands robbed me of many things, a normal life and a decent sense of smell. If I had been older, would I have stopped the cycle? But at five, all I understood was that my invitation list was empty, but the fridge was full. Now everything sort of tastes the same.

I think I adjusted well as I grew older. I found that I can navigate a world of smells by the kindness of a stranger in the perfume aisle, or waiting until my hormones shift so I can sniff and hope that what I perceive is accurate. Sometimes I can smell a picture, because I still remember that even rubber bands and newspapers have a smell, but all cookies smell like the ones you made when we moved in. You said I’m a liar because I can, but I can’t, but I don’t know when I’ll smell it again, as though my brokenness should have some consistency. All I can say is that those funny little pills did funny things.

Now that the world changed in a year, and you too felt the side effects, I thought you would for once relate. You bit into a sandwich, layered textures between a dry, gluten sponge. The grease from the burger and the juice from the tomato mingled enough to help the sponge slide down your throat, but all you could taste was salt. You set down the half-eaten burger and sigh. “You know, since I got sick, everything tastes the same. I mean, it’s good, but it’s just like - different layers of sweet or salty.” You poke at your food as I shove a bite of chicken into my mouth, covered in hot spices to create a variety of tastes. “Maybe it’s because I lost my sense of smell when I got sick?” Mm-hmm I can relate, but out loud, I have to ask. “I thought you complained about the smell coming from the neighbor’s grill?” You roll your eyes and take another bite, dropping a piece of bacon onto the plate. More salt, but it adds a nice crunch to a mouthful of soggy meat and limp vegetables. I get it. “Yeah, 2020 did some funny things. It’s like I can’t smell, but then I’ll get a whiff of something. Even then, it’s not as strong or quite the same.” You said I lied, but I won’t do the same to you. For once, maybe you can relate. “Funny,” I agree. The chicken burns a little, but at least it’s more than salty.

[marilynfoxworthy]

When I was a kid, a lot of stuff was canned. Spinach, peas, corn. Stuff you don’t want to eat from a can. Popcorn came in a metal pie plate with tin foil over the top that you heated on the stove. It was the beginning of the Atomic Age.
We ate things called Space Food Sticks as snacks in our lunch. We drank Tang… because astronauts drank it. You could buy freeze-dried ice cream.
One of the things that came in cans that should never have been put in a can was pasta. Spaghetti-O’s. Chef Boyardee Ravioli.
One thing that did not come in a can was soda pop. Nope, that came in a tablet called Fizzies. It was like an Alka Seltzer that we thought tasted good for some reason.
Meat came in cans. Vienna Sausages. Spam. Deviled Ham. Chipped Beef. Yep, it was the dawn of a new age. The promise was that someday, all we’d need were pills. Complete Thanksgiving dinners in pill form. Willy Wonka was working on it and so was NASA.
We had whole meals in tin foil trays. TV Dinners. Because we need to watch TV while we ate as a family. Salisbury Steak with corn and a brownie. All in one convenient frozen package. Mom didn’t have to decide what to cook. We got to choose for ourselves.
We were going to the moon, and we needed food suitable for moon men.
I can still taste canned peas. It’s like a trauma memory. I can still taste Spaghetti-O’s. For some reason, we wanted Spaghetti-O’s. They weren’t forced on us. They weren’t any good, but maybe Mom was a terrible cook.
We made it to the moon. We quit putting so many things that were supposed to be food in cans. I never see TV commercials for Alka Seltzer anymore. Now we take Alka Seltzer when we have a cold or flu. It’s a whole new world.

[bonnyro]

Many, Many years ago we lived in a small midwest town. There was a radio station that was run by the local community. Seldom did anything run on time, but it was fun to listen to guys who ran the station explain that the 10 am news was happening at 10:11 or 9:57 due to needing to feed the chickens or because chores ran long. Mom loved the recipe hour, she would pose with paper, pencil, and cup of coffee and write down the recipes that sounded good or she thought the family would eat. The DJs would give the recipe and then repeat it slower to make sure that the listeners were able to get each step. Then people would/could call in and ask questions about the recipe. The most famous of these recipes at our house was the “radio cake” (as my younger sister called it) better known as " the Buttermilk Chocolate cake" This cake was more brownie-like than cake-like if made correctly. It had a deep luscious chocolate flavor with a hint of cinnamon with a moist crumb and velvety icing. The aroma as it bakes announces to the whole neighborhood that a wonderful treat will be available soon.
This cake has tamed family fights, fed hundreds of people at church potlucks, and graced every holiday table since 1968. It is the most asked for at celebrations and birthdays. It pairs with a steaming cup of coffee or a cold glass of milk or even the right kind of wine. This cake has been sent all over the world to family members in the armed services or in missionary work. The recipe has been passed down to 2 generations of bakers each trying to make it as they remembered it. Many have played with the recipe by adding different things like baking powder instead of soda making it a lighter crumb, and adding coffee to the chocolate base giving it a different depth of flavors. No matter how they play with it all almost all of them go back to the original time and time again.

[hovea9]

Hi I would like to join in on this challenge but have not been part of the community before, can you tell me how to post something, not very experienced on posting online.

[christineslee2021]

The salty tang of the sea hangs in the air and mingles with the burning driftwood as the four of us gather eagerly around the fire. Just a small fire, surrounded by a neat circle of stones, on the beach. The flames have died down now, and the embers are glowing hot.
I sit cross-legged, inhaling deeply, feeling the heat on my face and lift my eyes momentarily to look around at the others. Like I had been, they’re all staring into the fire, holding their little foil parcels, waiting - waiting for the right moment…
My brother, the oldest in the group, is sitting on the big log that he has declared as his because he is in charge. As well as his parcel of foil, he’s also in charge of our mother’s big old roasting pan on which is piled a heap of tiny shellfish. I don’t know their real name, but we call them pipis. Suddenly, he lifts his eyes up to meet mine, smiles and nods.
“Okay,” he says, “chuck 'em in.”
We all - me, my friend Linda, my brother Frankie, and his friend Wayne - throw our foil parcels into the hot embers, poking at them with sticks to make sure they’re sitting well within the hottest part of the fire. And, once more, we wait…
The fire is glowing red and hot on our faces, but we don’t care. We don’t say much. It’s as if the fire has mesmerized us. Our bellies start to make noises as, soon, the smell of hot potato mingles with the sea air and the wood smoke.
Then, my brother gets up from his log and places the roasting pan over our foil-wrapped potatoes. He pulls a small bottle of vinegar from his pocket and sprinkles it over the shellfish. It won’t be long now. We lean forward, eager now, inhaling the delicious aromas that have now been joined by roasting shellfish.
Then it’s ready. We all stand back while my brother and his friend coax the roasting pan off the fire with two sturdy sticks and settle it down on the sand to one side. Then we each approach the fire and, with our own sticks, scrape our foil parcels out of the embers.
We pick them up with whatever we have to hand - I use the thick sleeves of my sweater, which I’ve pulled down over my hands - and gather around the pan of tiny open shellfish. We sit and open our foil parcels - carefully, because we know the steam will rise up quickly - and smash the skins open with the end of our sticks. We help ourselves to a handful of shellfish and pile them onto our foil. My brother hands around a small wooden box containing a packet of butter and a shaker of salt and pepper mixed together.
And we sit in the diminishing glow of the fire as the moon rises above the hissing sea behind us, and we feast like kings on our meal, thinking that nothing could possibly taste better than this. Nothing could possibly smell better than this - sea air, burning driftwood, hot seashells, fish laced with vinegar, and potatoes cooked in their skins and dripping with butter.
And I can’t remember when I ever had a meal that tasted better.

[sharynlodge]

It took me a while to figure it out too. Just click the ‘Reply’ button after the original post by Chris Brennan, and write in the little box that pops up - just like you did when you posted your request

[hovea9]

Thank you Sharynlodge. Much appreciated.

[hovea9]

Cinnamon Sugar.

“Hi, Joseph how have you been” were the first words he said to his friend as he opened the door to his community housing unit. Joseph was a Chinese man who had Parkinson’s Disease, he had been a leading chef when he was younger and traveled the world with a major hotel company. He had also been a spy for the Chinese Government. He had once been in charge of large numbers of staff and had opened his own restaurants where he served the most delicious variety of plates of seafood. He said his market was in the sea, but it was what he could do with a fish, a lobster, a crab, or any other item from the sea that he had become famous for. Joseph knew so many secret things to do with seafood that your mouth drooled just thinking about it, they were his and his alone, except when his friend had offered to take care of him when his illness got too bad and he had started to lose his ability to walk and take care of himself he enlisted his friends to help in the kitchen. It was his speech that seem to be deteriorating the most, his usual Chinese accent, mixed with English had become very difficult to understand except for his good friend that patiently waited for him to repeat what he was trying to say until they both understood what he was asking. He couldn’t write anymore because his illness had also affected his hands and at times it was impossible for him to remember what he wanted to write. Communicating with Joseph was like unwrapping some of the delicious meals he had prepared in the past, slowly and patiently and at times with great anticipation.
His friend was not Chinese but together they walked the daily needs that were dictated by Joseph’s illness, his NDIS meetings with managers, coordinators, and workers, his medical appointments, and his therapy sessions, but what Joseph and his friend loved most of all was his fishing trips. Joseph loved the food of the sea; he loved the hunt and he loved the cooking of his hunter-gathering. There were pictures of Joseph in the local newspaper of the two times he had been washed off rocks while he was fishing in the same place. Sometimes he spoke about his past but very rarely about his work as a spy. He had a picture hanging on his wall in his navy uniform when he was a young naval officer, he looked so young and so proud to be serving his country. He had explained that his training as a chef came as part of his spy training, with a job like that he could be sent to many countries to listen in on conversations and make contacts at very high levels usually at political gatherings and dinners. It amazed him how the serving staff and chef were invisible to parliamentary officials from other countries the perfect way to gather information then sending it back to his headquarters. He was from one of the most prestigious families in China, with a long history going back to the beginning of imperial rule, the other members of his family had very high official positions in China. He emigrated away from his home and was advised that he could not return because the risk was too high, no one who leaves China is ever allowed back.
Joseph loved to cook for others, anytime he could volunteer his wonderful skills to help someone else he was delighted to serve, today he and his friend would travel to a rehabilitation centre for ex-jail residents. It would be a long drive but he was cheerful and happy to be able to share his skills in preparing a luncheon for the thirty residents of the centre. He couldn’t see very well, he stumbled as he walked and now leaned forward in an awkward stance, his speech was not clear and he knew that others could not understand what he was asking. This did not matter, he was back in his kitchen again, preparing vegetables, sauces, seafood, and meat with noodles, oysters, and prawns, including seaweed and herbs and spices. Joseph had packed everything he needed for this wonderful feast. His friend’s wife loved Joseph’s Chinese hotpot, especially the dipping sauces and the variety of raw sliced meats, prawns, squid, bock Choy and greens, she wasn’t too sure about the chicken blood or some of the sausages and she definitely could not eat chili but the beauty of this dish was she could pick what she wanted from the banquet of foods. So, after feeding the thirty or so starving men at the rehab, he spent time preparing a special dish for his friends’ wife, just for her he reminded his friend.
It was sad for his friends to see how Joseph was slowly losing all of his amazing skills, he could do anything, fix his car, build anything, repair electrics, and tackle any problem that presented itself to him. He fought his disease with unrelenting enthusiasm and forced himself to walk each day, do exercises, and go to therapy but it was clear that the disease was winning, slowly but still winning. He was in a foreign country, his friends of the past had passed or no longer made contact, his current wife had abandoned him and gone to live in another city to look after her daughter, his children were finding it hard to visit him, but his one friend stayed loyal adding flavor to his life, like cinnamon sugar in coffee.

[BucketOfMud]

Everything is lava today. No one sees it. Well, I do.

Once, I see a lava monster stomp straight through it (lava monsters can do that because they have to get ready for work.) He doesn’t know he is a monster, so I tell him so.

“Oh, am I?” he asks.

“Of course” I just told you so. “And I’m a lava explorer.”

“And what does a lava explorer do?” he asks.

“Explore lava.” I thought that was obvious.

Another time, I warn an innocent villager that she is surrounded by dangerous magma.

“That game is for babies,” she says.

I tell her that she’s on fire.

When the monster is at work and the villager at school, I jump from pillow rock to pillow rock, exploring the hidden cushions deep inside the volcano.

“Are you hungry for lunch?” Another monster calls to me.

I think it through and update my job description.

Lava explorers—number one: explore lava—and number two: eat lunch.

I stomp through the lava. (I can do that because jumping is not safe to do in the kitchen.)

I forget that my mom is a lava monster as she puts jars on the counter and gives me a table knife.

I take two slices of soft, spongy bread and put them on a yellow teddy bear plate. (It is the best plate because it is yellow and has a teddy bear.)

With my little hand, I pull a splat of peanut butter out of the jar—I can do this part myself now. I put the splat on the bread and spread it around until it is gooey and smooth. (Well, smoothish.) I sniff it, and it gets on my nose, but it is peanut-y and not buttery, but called butter anyway.

I wipe my nose and scrape the knife off and dip the knife into the jelly. Jelly is hard. Jelly comes out in glops that don’t spread. They just jiggle and slide around. But I can do this part by myself too.

Glop, glop, glop. The little pieces of purple sit like dark clouds over the top of the sandwich.

One more bread.

Bread is the easiest part.

I push the sandwich down to make sure everything will stick together and give the knife to my mother. I can’t do the cutting part myself.

“How do you want it cut?” She asks.

“Triangles!” An idea suddenly comes to me.

Two cuts later, four triangles are carved out of my magnificent creation. And my mom has a surprise.

Cheetos! Real Cheetos— with the Sunglasses Cat on the bag and everything. Mom shakes a handful onto my plate beside my sandwich and brings it to the table.

I could eat lunch, but not yet. With sticky hands now turning orange, I stack the triangle pieces into a tilty pyramid. I beam with pride and grab the Cheetos (I eat two by accident) and place them on top of my pile, and then spread them all around.

It’s a glorious explosion of orange! An eruption! A volcano sandwich.

“Oh, it’s lava!” Mom says.

I beam. Everything is lava today, and she sees it.

[Sqthomas.author]

Did you know cheeseburgers bounce? They do, if prepared properly. In the buffet style of a long cafeteria line, feeding hundreds of thousands of children. My meals were free, but the lunch ladies always acted like I paid so I didn’t stand out.

Today we get cheeseburgers and vegetable soup. My favorite meal. You wouldn’t think they go together, the tomato based broth of the soup teetering between sweet and bitter with the miscellaneous vegetables tossed in, but the salty savoriness of the cheeseburger dunked once, twice, three times creates the perfect sogginess to the bread.

I rip my small cheeseburger into pieces and dunk it in my soup. The way the bread absorbs the hot liquid almost instantly is fascinating, and the juices would dribble down my chin if I let them.

A loud noise echoes around the cafeteria and trays clatter all around me as people react. Someone had dropped their food in the middle of the line again, and as their lunch hit the floor, so did mine.

But my cheeseburger bounced. Not high, not enough to come back up, but enough for me to notice it didn’t fall flat to the floor.

It didn’t make any sense. Bread is not a particularly bouncy substance, and neither is meat, but when these two ingredients were put together, with cheese in between, they bounced.

An abandoned half of burger laid untouched on my friend’s tray.

“Are you going to eat that?” I asked once the commotion had quieted around us.

“Did you not get breakfast again? I am hoping your parents feed you dinner.”

“They do,” I say, for the most part. “I just wanted to test a theory.”

“What theory?”

“Do cheeseburgers bounce?”

My friend burst into laughter, shaking her head. “For the sake of your stomach, I hope it bounces into your mouth.”

“Are you going to eat it or not?” I ask, rolling my eyes.

“Alright, go for it.”

I picked up the burger and tested its weight in my hands before forcefully dropping it on the table. And sure enough, it bounced.

From that day on, whenever we had vegetable soup and cheeseburgers, we would always dip the burger into the soup to soak up the broth, while saving a small bit to pass back and forth, bouncing it lightly on the table.

[sharynlodge]

New Zealand in the late 1950s. A Sunday in winter, just a couple of months after my father died suddenly. My brother, my little sister and I are on the sitting room floor doing a jigsaw puzzle. We can hear our mother out in the kitchen and we can smell the smells of the Sunday roast as they permeate the whole house because our house isn’t very big. The kitchen runs off the sitting room. There is no hallway to break up the delicious aroma of beef, potatoes and pumpkin roasting with Yorkshire puddings in the oven of the coal range, with beans and carrots boiling furiously on the stovetop.
Beneath the aroma of the Sunday roast, though, is the faint whiff of the very best part of the meal, the part for which we will gladly clear our plates of the vegetables we might not be so keen on - our mother’s Bread & Butter Pudding - the bread spread with butter and raspberry jam, sprinkled with sultanas, all soaked in a creamy egg custard, with a delicious topping of meringue.
Outside, the weather has turned cold and wet. Tomorrow, we have to go to school. But right at this moment, inside our house, we are warm and cosy and we don’t have to go anywhere if we don’t want to.
“Lunch is ready!” our mother calls. “Come and get it!”
We jump up, follow our noses out to the kitchen, the jigsaw puzzle forgotten.
Life goes on, even when one life is over. We’re too young to know how tough it is for our mother, who keeps to these mealtime rituals for us, because it’s what we know, what we’re used to, and she knows it helps us to adjust to our new normal.
But we’re too young to realise how our mother might be feeling about that empty chair at the table, about the one less place setting as she serves up what was our father’s favourite meal, about the empty space beside her as she tries to sleep in the double bed she has shared for so long.
She looks up and smiles at us. And then quickly looks away as we all sit down to eat.

[samcassidy]

@RTGraver

Yikes! I have to admit i was reluctant to read this because of the length but as soon as i started reading the first sentence i was hooked. Loved this. Really drew me in and kept my attention to the last, very creepy, line.

[RTGraver]

Thanks for the positive words! As I’m sure you’ll come to discover, most of my stories are horror or thrillers. I’ve done many writing challenges in the past with prompts, and I always seem to find a way to turn them into something scary. Always a concern when I get carried away with the length, but a story is always as many words as it needs to be.

[ash.miller]

Having finished a two-hour workout at the local gym, Toni was sitting in a window seat of the bar opposite her office. She flicked open her iPad and glanced through a few documents that were waiting for her to deal with, but her mind wasn’t in it. She was looking forward to the large bowl of chips that she had ordered. It was something that she realised was ridiculous after a workout, but she couldn’t help herself. Sipping at her glass of mineral water, dreaming of vodka and coke, she thought back to the crisp, crunchy chips that her dad used to make for her. The Rolling Stones were playing on the bar’s sound system, loud enough to be heard but still quiet enough not to be annoying. Toni’s bowl of chips finally arrived at the table, dumped in front of her by a surly barmaid covered in tattoos, the chips looked limp, under-cooked and unappetising.
“That’ll teach me to order them.” Toni said to herself. “That’s another hour in the gym, tomorrow.”

[annmarie4512016]

When I was at high school I always took the packed lunches my mum made for me.
She made them the night before, for my sister, my dad and myself, and stored them in the fridge til morning.

Sometimes i would stand watching while she made them. It was a chore for her I could tell. She was superfast, no pride or care went into the sandwiches she made. Robot- like in her actions , she wanted this job out of the way asap!

More or less the same dinner was made each day - chicken or ham, and a slice of tomato, perhaps some lettuce but usually not. I watched her thinly spread the butter, slap on some packet meat and a slice of tomato. Then lastly came the roof of the butty, always a white thin slice of bread. Taking some foil to wrap them, she would press our sandwiches down with one hand, yet she did it so hard that she left her small handprint on the bread. I never knew why she had to press so hard. It wasnt like they were bulging with filling and wouldnt fit into the wrapping! I never asked why as she wasnt the type of mum to have her actions questioned.

At school the next day, when i took out my lunch box and opened it, an inedible soggy mass stared sadly back. Where she had pressed so hard had made the tomato juices run into the top slice of bread, so it was soggy and wet. I could actually visibly see where the tomato ring sat underneath!.

I didnt eat any dinners after that. The ice cream van used to park in our playground so my wholesome lunch comprised of fried egg penny sweets and a can of cherryade.

I was scared to tell mum i didn’t eat my dinners so I hid them in my room, which was ok until dad wanted to decorate, and when he cleared the room he found mountains of mouldy sandwiches under my bed.

I make packed lunches for my family now, and god is it a chore!.
My daughter once asked why i dont put tomato on her sandwiches, and a cringy shudder ran right down my spine.

[flparker1941]

Highly evocative, Orangfeaya. I loved the shock when the egg yolk reminded her of the pool of blood surrounding her dead father. You have set the standard for the rest of us to aim for.

[orangeaya]

@flparker1941 Oh my goodness I’m so flattered! Thank you for your encouragement!!! So happy you like my writing, as I am a newbie to writing. It’s nervous putting things out there that I have never really showed anyone. Your words mean so much to me! Thank you!

[ben-brown54]

Do you know something? Life can be a pain in the ass at times, but as hard as it can be, I’ve never wanted it to end.

When some white coat-wearing dude looks up at you over his glasses and tells you you’re dying, it makes you reevaluate everything.

For instance, am I wasting my life gaming at all hours?

Should I be exercising more?

Should I be eating less junk food?

The answer to all the above is no!

Burgers rock, and exercise sucks!

The thing is, I love sitting in front of my PC, blowing the heads off aliens and zombies alike.

I know that as a twenty-six-year-old male, I should be out there chasing skirt and getting drunk, but I much prefer being at home in my bedroom playing Doom.

The other thing I love doing also means being alone in my bedroom with the door locked.

I know what you’re thinking, but get your minds out of the gutter! I’m not talking about using my downstairs bits as an amusement park, though I enjoy that sometimes. No, I’m talking about my adventures when travelling to other realms and realities.

I guess I should at least introduce myself before I lay out my coolest secrets to you.

My name is Kevin Jones, and I work as a junior systems analyst. I live in Perth, WA, and share a house with two mates I made in uni, Doug and Sarah. Oh, and I have a dog called D-fa.

Why D-fa?

D-fa-dog. Get it?

No?

D-for-dog. D-fa-dog.

Well, the name made me laugh when I came up with it.

D-fa is a cool little mutt who just gets me. He’s my best mate. It’s like we are identical spirits from different species.

Anyhow, back to me and my superpower.

Apart from working and playing first-person shooters, I do something else that will blow your mind!

I can transport myself to other realms and planets. That’s right!

I know what you’re thinking. Cool upon cool to the tenth degree!

The trouble is, I can’t do it at will, but I know when it’s about to happen. You see, I get a warning first.

About an hour or so before I teleport myself to unknown places, I smell freshly baked cookies. The stronger the smell gets, the closer in time I am to my adventure.

Because I’m an analyst, I can pretty much work from home all the time. So, when I start smelling those divine sugary treats, I prepare myself for my trip to places never before seen by man or woman.

I log off from work, shut down my computer, make myself comfortable and wait for my next adventure to begin.

When the smell of cookies overwhelms me, I leave our planet behind and explore the universe.

I’ve visited planets where everyone has two heads, each pointing in different directions.

I’ve travelled to a realm where there is no such thing as butter.

I have soared above mountains made of frozen gas in winds that smell of farts.

I’ve seen and done things that make the games I play seem dull.

Or at least, that was what I thought.

You see, the white coat-dude I mentioned is a neurosurgeon, and he just told me I have a tumor the size of a golf ball inside my brain, and it’s killing me.

It turns out the cookies I smelt were just phantom smells before I had seizures. I don’t have superpowers and never travelled any farther than my room.

Apparently, I messed up my bedclothes because I thrashed around during fits. Fits that caused me to hallucinate all sorts of crazy shit.

Surprise-surprise, I’m not a superhero. I’m just some overweight nerd dying of brain cancer!

Anyhow, Mr. white-coat says he can try to cut the tumor out, but I only have a five per cent chance of survival.

Fuck that!

Do you know what I’m going to do instead? I’m going to buy the biggest cookie I can find and eat it as I get drunk with my friends. Hell, I might even see if D-fa wants to get pissed, too.

[Leon]

Ouch, that turn of events got me

[cflynnbooks]

Happy Hallowe’en

Like me, you probably heard the stories when you were a child, about the wicked witch and the gingerbread house – how was I supposed to know they might be true?

She certainly didn’t look like a witch that day when she met me outside the supermarket, cursing loudly, which surprised me for such a sweet-looking old lady until I turned and saw that the wheel had fallen off the shopping bag she pulled behind her on its small trolley — a bit like those suitcases you get to take on holiday that have a handle you can slide up on the top.

“Here, let me help you with that. That was my first mistake.”

I blame my parents, they raised me to be nice. Helpful. Polite.

No way am I going to claim that their tuition lasted into adulthood, because several of my friends have told me that I can be quite abrasive, loud, not your typical girly girl, but if any of them tried to give me any stupid names like ‘ladette’, I tended to hurt them.

So, that stopped, pronto.

I regard myself as liberated, with actual equality, not being pushy and trying to get more rights than the men had, or even more money than them, I just wanted the same. That didn’t suit my bosses in a couple of jobs I’ve had, so I simply resigned, but I didn’t go quietly.

More than one of them avoid me in the streets now, crossing to the other pavement when they see me coming, after the suffering I’d subjected them to before I left. Especially the ones who thought they could pat me on the ass, or accidentally rub up against my boobs as they went by in the stockroom.

Anyway, I’m getting distracted.

The little wheel had broken off, and I couldn’t see any easy way to fix it as the part that kept it on the axle seemed to be missing.

“I’m sorry,” I told her, “it’s completely busted. You probably need a new one.”

A rich smell of ginger and spices was assaulting my nostrils as I knelt down next to it.

“But I have to get it home, bake cookies for the children, ready for Halloween.” Her rheumy eyes gazed down at me, beginning to fill with tears.

I’m a sucker for a sob story.

“Okay, let’s push the handle down, and I’ll just tuck it under my arm and get it to your car for you.”

“Could you come with me? It’s not far. I won’t be able to get it into the house. I have one of those driveways made out of stones.” There was a tremor in her voice and a tiny smile at the corner of her lips as she appealed to me. “Please. I can run you straight back if it’s too far to walk, but I have to get the cookies started.”

And I fell for it — hook line and sinker.

I admit, the fact that the house looked like something off a gingerbread postcard should have alerted me, but it’s 2022. Witches aren’t real. Everybody knows that.

As soon as we were inside her house, something hits me hard on the back of the head, or neck, I wasn’t sure which. I just remember everything going black.

When I came to, I was trussed up inside a cupboard, and the delicious odour of spices was everywhere. Sugars, gingers — they smelled fresh — and other sweet things, and I seemed to be covered in something very sticky.

I licked my lips. Treacle? Why would someone coat me in that sticky mess?

“Hey, let me out of here.”

“Shush now, dear, we don’t want to disappoint the children do we?”

Okay, she was obviously insane, and even though my head throbbed I actually have amazing powers of recuperation.

“Open this cupboard, untie me now, and I’ll let you live.”

That’s when she cackled. You know they’ve gone too far once they cackle, don’t you? No sane person does that.

There was nothing else for it.

I liked this outfit, it was classy, and I’d managed to keep it whole for quite a while now, but desperate times call for reckless measures.

Reaching down inside my mind I touched that black core that I keep hidden, because I was a nice girl, because my parents had taught me how to control it, because the normals must never find out what I really was, and I’d been successful for years now.

She left me no choice.

I don’t remember much that happened after I transformed, it’s as though the brute part of me takes over. The bonds just snap, the clothes all tear off, my animal twin does its thing and leaves me confused, naked, but alive, and that’s how I found myself afterwards.

Cold, shivering in front of her big black oven, covered in treacle, and blood. The warm metallic taste in my mouth and down my throat, and what I could only assume to be her remains roasting behind the sturdy iron door.

She smelt a lot like schnitzel.

I’d no idea if she was really a witch, or just some kind of underachieving psychopath, but I was hoping she had clothing here that would fit me. I still had to pick up my cat food and fresh pumpkins from the supermarket.

Even a sad, flowery, old lady dress was better than turning up naked, wasn’t it?

Happy Halloween.