December 11, 2015

2015-12-08 13.29.46

Yardith, daughter of the sorceress, sat baking on a rock under heavy hanging heat. The sun burned in the sky. Drops of sweat fell in steady patient rhythm from her nose, enlarging the dark purple blot on her violet satin tunic.

‘Can’t you cast some spell to make it cooler? This is the worst,’ said Yardith to her mother, who was gathering scraps of sage nearby.

‘All things in season, each to its own, my pet,’ answered Fomilla, for that was Yardith’s mother’s name.

Yardith muttered something under her breath.

‘I heard that,’ said her mother. ‘You know my hearing is keen.’

Yardith thought something.

‘I heard that, too, young lady,’ said Fomilla. ‘I am a sorceress, you know.’

Yardith decided to give up and torture herself by walking away and probably dying for all her mother cared. She got to her feet, sighed the loudest, most accusing sigh she could, and trudged off. An hour later, when she passed over a dry muddy stripe that should have been a stream, a snowflake settled on the back of her hand. She looked up. Snow fell. For twenty minutes it fell, unhindered by even the slightest breeze. Yardith returned to where her mother was waiting. Inwardly, she rejoiced in the bliss of winter cool defeating summer heat. Outwardly, she sat on the rock where she had formerly been baking and said, ‘It’s a dry snow. I like moist. You can make snowballs out of moist.’

Moral: Ah, teenagers.

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