If two witches were watching two watches, which witch; would watch which watch?

“If two witches were watching two watches, which witch; would watch which watch?”

“If two witches were watching two watches, which witch; would watch which watch?”

“If two witches were watching two watches, which witch; would watch which watch?”

The gnarled, old face of the worn-out woman looked into the cracked mirror; the blackened edges of the wall mirror were desilvering with age. There was a grimace on her face; but I’m not sure one could classify the movement on her mirrored reflection as a smile, after each successful rendition of the tongue twister. At the end of the third successful word-perfect pronunciation, she opened her mouth wide and rolled her tongue around the open mouth in a grotesque manner. The tongue was unusually long, and thin. It resembled a snake, especially since it was the colour of olive green, long, pointed, and with red tip on the end.

Then she peered into the mirror. In her right hand was a small lip brush, already tipped with a colour of bright red crimson to make-up her waiting pouted lips. She carefully applied the brush strokes, peered into the part of the mirror that didn’t possess a crack, and suddenly shouted at the sad aged mirror.

“Mirror, Mirror on the wall, who is the wickedest witch in this room – Ha!”

The scowl of her reflected image, her deep lined face was full of disdain as she again addressed the mirror.

“Cat got your tongue?” She said with utter contempt to the continued silence of the mirror.

“There was a time when you talked a hind leg off a donkey!” She continued her rant towards the silent wall mirror.

As she threw the lip brush into her enormous make-up bag, she was pondering, gathering her thoughts. She continued to address the silent cracked mirror. “Maybe, I put a spell on you, I forget most things these days. A vow of silence, to shut you up, to stop you spilling the beans on what you have seen in this room, darn if I can remember now. It’s slipped my mind, like a lot of things, I’m over the hill, like a watch running down, my head is now full of old worn-out springs.”

“If two witches were watching two watches, which witch; would watch which watch?” She murmured absentmindedly to herself.

“I’ve seen too many Halloweens.” She sighed, but it was the last lingering words directed at the mute wall mirror.

The anticipated rap on the front door reverberated around the room, as the old haggard woman heaved her bag of bones to open the door, and respond to the loud rap on the front door. Without any hesitation she expansively threw open the door. There appeared on the other side of the open door the mirror image of herself. Except the woman with her heavy long black skirt, and a heavy dark coloured overcoat, held a broomstick in one hand, and a small sack in other.

“Don’t stand there looking gormless, Imogen – come on in, before those prowling little buggers invade.”

“Talking about little buggers. Did you see Liquorice on guard out there, looking out to protect this misbegotten coven from those thieving trick or treaters armed with their needy jack-o-lanterns?”

“Maybe Liquorice can capture one or two innocent souls, on all souls’ night – that would be apt. Don’t you say!”

“I was hoping we can celebrate tonight with the words, look what’s the cat dragged in, and turn one or two of those little imposters into mice. Liquorice would enjoy a mouse or two. Trick or treat will be the last squeak we will hear from the little darlings, before they become - liquorice all sorts.”

Anwen laughed out loud at her witty remark, as Imogen waddled inside, propping up her broom against the wall next to the front door.

Before Imogen could sit down on a chair, she had to clear space as there was nothing in the room that wasn’t hidden under a pile of something or other. The other or the something are indescribable and intended to respect the word limits of this short story competition.

“Imogen, did you get the brew?” Anwen asked.

Imogen pulled out of her sack a six pack of Iron Bru and bottle of Ballantine’s Whiskey.

Like a bat out of hell, both were immediately snatched from the hands of Imogen.

“Oh, you wee beauty. Wicked! - slushies coming up!” Anwen purred.

Anwen went to small kitchen and cleared the work surface by pushing several of those above-mentioned indescribable objects to the floor to clear some space. She expertly started to make two mugs of slushies. Beside her on the stove top, was a large saucepan making noises as the contents bubbled and spluttered. Sometimes the hissing gas ring under the big pot tried to harmonize as the dancing flames of light and dark blue created a halo ring in the darkness under the cooking pot.

In a blink of an eye, she appeared with two mugs of slushies, offering one of the mugs to the waiting Imogen.

“Here’s to our never forgotten three sisters! Mud in your eye Macbeth!” she held her mug close to that of Imogen.

“Mud in your eye Macbeth!” Anwen saluted in return.

What’s cooking?” Enquired Imogen.

“Stovies. Just waiting for a tasty trick or treater, or whatever Liquorice drags in tonight!” Anwen said matter-of-factly.

“More skeletons in the cupboard.” They both sniggered and raised their mugs in another salute.

“How was the town earlier?” Anwen asked

“Empty - like a ghost town, waiting for the witching hour” They both sniggered again.

“Did you pass by the graveyard on the way here?” Anwen asked

“Yeah, but it was too early, no one’s up and about yet, we need to wait to the dead of the night! The graveyard shift is when it all happens.” They both sniggered at their comedy routine, their black humour.

The room became dark, only the gas stove flames gave a soft blue light, as Imogen went to the kitchen again to refill both their mugs with slushies. In the darkness Anwen stumbled over something on the floor, as she carefully navigated her return to Imogen in the dark room with the refilled mugs containing more slushies.

“Don’t you have lights, or electricity Anwen.” Imogen asked into the bleak darkness.

“Nope!” Anwen replied surreptitiously. She was feeling the effects of the slushies, and she didn’t want Imogen to notice her increasingly inebriated status.

“Why not?” Imogen asked incredulously.

“Waste of money.” Replied Anwen.

“You are away with the fairies, bats in the belfry.” Imogen guffawed.

“If I want illuminating. I’ll build a fire, the traditional way. Which reminds me. Bonfire night – are you up for it next week?”

“Sure!” replied Imogen

“The foods great, plenty of fireworks to wake up the dead, and they don’t burn us at the stake anymore. Instead, they burn effigies of papal terrorists. Good night out, good food, and nowadays, we are safe from being burnt alive.” Anwen enthused.

“It’s not like Halloween anymore! It’s a load of old rubbish these days! Very disappointing. No kids coming to the door, they avoid us like the plague. They seem to know. They have ruined it! We go to all these efforts. Everything prepared, and the kids don’t show up. It’s catastrophic, these know-it-all GEN Alphas with their fancy gizmos have ruined our feast of Halloween.”

“Maybe, the cats out of bag Anwen, everybody’s knows want we are up to!” Observed Imogen

“I blame him!” Anwen spat out, increasingly feeling the effects of the Ballentine’s.

“Who’s that?” asked Imogen

“He who must not be named – that four eyed imposter - bloody Harry Potter!” Blurted out Anwen.