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Hello there. 8D
Well, this story was inspired by The Wizard of Oz (“Jeez, do any of these witches have brothers? … AHAHA, I HAVE A PLOT.”) and Howl’s Moving Castle. The latter should be obvious.
Oh, by the way, I’m appalling at updating, so there’s a chance that this story might not update for a year. However, I will try my best to have reasonable updates and not be the lack-of-updating horror that I am on fanfiction .net. :D
Melinda hadn’t always been a Bad Witch. She used to be a Good Witch and pretty to boot, but one day she decided that black magic was much more interesting than white magic and, naturally, she pursued it. Indeed she learned many interesting spells and brewed many interesting potions. However, she also became very ugly and her voice became unpleasant, because that was the unfortunate fate of Bad Witches.
Even though Melinda was a Bad Witch, she wasn’t horrible to Michael. Actually, she mostly ignored him, since she spent most of the day experimenting in the cellar. When she wasn’t ignoring him, she took Michael with her to collect potion ingredients, go on raids, or test out spells and potions on wild animals or in open areas. Michael didn’t like going out with Melinda. She always went at night, and she always went on her broomstick, which was terribly uncomfortable for Michael. He would sit behind her, trying to keep a firm grip on the broomstick while Melinda’s black dress (for Bad Witches always wore black dresses) would flap around and obscure his vision. So besides being cold and uncomfortable, he would also be terrified of what could be looming ahead.
During the day, Michael would usually sit at home and listen to the little explosions, breaking glass, and cackles of his sister coming from the cellar. As one can well imagine, Michael was very bored, so he resolved to go into town during the day, which he had never done before except when he was very young. He was somewhat hesitant at first since he was sure no one would like the brother of a Bad Witch, but when he worked up the courage to go, he found that the people there were actually very accommodating and wholly sympathetic.
“It must be awful for you,” the lady at the chemist’s said to him. “I knew Linda when she was a little girl, and she was so sweet and kind and pretty. It’s a shame, really, what she did to herself. If she’s ever mean to you, you tell me and I’ll give her a good talking to.”
Others were more aggressive.
“Don’t let her bully you, boy,” the butcher said as he tenderized an oozing slab of meat. “Younger though you are, she’s still a female, isn’t she? Yell at her and she’ll cower.”
“Melinda would yell right back at me,” Michael responded. “She’s very strong-minded.”
“Is she? Well, try it anyway. Or borrow my meat cleaver if she bullies you.”
The thought of attacking Melinda with a meat cleaver so upset Michael that the butcher was made very uncomfortable and he gave Michael a package of bacon for free.
Before heading back home, Michael went to the sweets shop and had a chat with the young lady working there. She leaned over the counter and said, “You know, being a Bad Witch isn’t practical. No one likes you, your spells are all unkind and dark and ultimately useless, you have to wear… black all the time. Ugh!” (She was wearing a bright pink dress with blue trim and a blue bow in her curls.) “Don’t tell your sister that I said that, though,” she continued. “She might turn me into a nasty little newt.”
Michael proceeded home, carrying bacon and taffies and feeling happier than he had ever been. Although he did feel a bit bad about how everyone felt about Melinda.
That is, until he saw the cat.
Melinda, being a Bad Witch, had a black cat which she liked to call Precious when she was in a good mood and Beast when she was in a bad mood. Michael heard her shouting from the cellar, “Come back here Precious, let me see you!” The cat was on the rocking chair, hissing at the sound of Melinda’s voice, its fur a horrifying maroon color.
“She tested a potion on you, didn’t she?” Michael said to the cat. The cat mewed piteously in response. A moment later, Melinda hobbled up the stairs, cackling (for Bad Witches always cackle and never laugh) and looking uglier than she did that morning. She saw Michael and said, “Look, look, my potion worked!” She hobbled over to the cat and clapped her hands together with glee. The cat hissed and Melinda said, “Oh, none of that, Precious. I have the antidote here.” She pulled a vile filled with a murky liquid out from her sleeve. The cat eyed it suspiciously. Before it could escape, however, Melinda grabbed it and forced the potion down its throat. The cat writhed and struggled and yowled as its fur slowly turned black again. Melinda let go of it and it hid behind Michael.
Michael thought about what the butcher had told him and he said in the angriest tone of voice he could muster, which actually sounded more similar to someone crying out in pain than someone shouting irately, “You shouldn’t test on our cat, you know. He doesn’t like it. He’ll end up hating you.
Melinda looked vaguely surprised at Michael’s attempt to have an angry outburst.
“I changed my mind, of course,” she said. “We Bad Witches are very fickle.” She cackled at him and went back down to the cellar. The cat mewled and dashed out of the room. Michael was upset and began to think that he didn’t really like Melinda, either. She didn’t do anything directly horrible to Michael like she did to the cat, but didn’t she constantly neglect him until she had use for him? Didn’t she test spells on innocent little rodents in the fields and forests? Didn’t she grow ugly to a point where merely glancing at her made Michael’s stomach churn unpleasantly? The lady at the sweets shop was right: being a Bad Witch really did lack in practicality. Michael sighed, realizing that there was really nothing he could do about his situation, and went to cook the bacon.
That night Michael was sure Melinda would take him with her somewhere on the broomstick, but, to his surprise, she didn’t. She came up from the cellar, telescope in hand, and announced, “I’ll be outside searching the skies for omens and misfortunes that may be written. Spells work best when ominous is in the forecast.” She cackled and went outside. Michael was about to tend the fire in the fireplace when Melinda opened the door and stuck her head in and said, “Oh, don’t touch that fire, dearie. Let it burn out. I don’t want my vision obscured by smoke.” She left. Michael huddled up on the rocking chair in the dark, shivering and alone and miserable. He soon dozed off.
He was awoken a few hours later by Melinda slamming the door shut behind her as she came into the house. She was muttering to herself about a peculiar falling star. “Looks enough like one,” she mumbled, “but much too slow. Shall I interpret it as a bad omen? Gave me a queer feeling. Might be a good omen, then.” Still muttering, she went down to the cellar. Michael, besides being shivering and alone and miserable, was now cramped and sore. He went to his room, got into his bed, and pulled up his blankets. He lay still, falling asleep in only a few minutes, which was the only good thing that happened since he arrived home that afternoon.
Meh.
It gets better. Really. D:
Oh, and in case you were curious, Melinda would usually get food and clothes for Michael, which is why he never had any reason to go into town.
So, yeah, I hope you liked it far. :3 Concrit is appreciated!
