The Witch

By Trevor Pyle

“Mine!” the witch insisted, poking my ribs.

“I thought witches were nice?” I said, yanking at a sleeve. “Misunderstood?”

“Not this witch,” she said.

Around us, carols blared from a tinny sound system. Shoppers snatched up handfuls of polos, armfuls of sweatpants. The room smelled of acrid sweat and the air click-clacked as plastic hangers were batted.

“It’s too big for you,” the witch said.

“It’s perfect,” I said.

“You don’t understand,” she said.

She said words I didn’t understand. I’m not even sure they were words.

Now I’m a newt.

A tiny, happy newt in a sweet, sweet dress shirt.