![]() The floor is carpeted with hair it covers the windows and coats the rough stucco walls like the piebald fur of a very large and ill-kempt beast. Some of it is the witch’s hair, and some of it is her daughter’s, dark strands and light intertwined beyond any hope of separation. But so far, all she’s done is startle the pigeons off the roof. He’ll cup a hand to his ear and come riding through the forest on his white steed, trampling wildflowers and slashing through brambles in his haste to reach her. She knows that if she can just sing loud enough and long enough, if she can remember to use proper breath support and relax her jaw, he’ll hear her. She’s been out on the balcony, practicing her singing. She shakes her head and shuts off the fizzing TV. Her daughter comes in and finds her there. Her daughter’s hair would be gold, but, unwashed and uncombed, it’s a dull matted brown. In her youth, her hair was raven-black, as any good witch’s ought to be, but now it’s threaded with silver. One hand cups her stomach the other hangs free, brushing the tangled carpet of hair that covers the floor. ![]() Then she falls asleep on the couch, her nose in the air, snoring faintly. ![]() The witch complains for a while, jiggling wires and prodding buttons and smacking the top of the TV with her hand.
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