Brew

She had spent countless hours over her gurgling cauldron. Her eyebrows had long ago burned off, her hair was a tangle of sweaty locks and burns were shiny crimson splotches across her arms. She labored diligently long into every night, determined not to quit; she was so close to making her breakthrough discovery. Yet every night turned out the same: she’d fall asleep in the midst of cutting up dried roots or pig’s tongue, the cauldron’s bubbling a soothing lullaby.

But then one day…

It was an accident, really. Who knew that a handful of peach rose petals, seven black swan feathers, a teaspoon of honey, a sprinkle of sugar, two fresh raspberries and a dash of cinnamon would be the secret to flying? (Provided, of course, that you stirred the mixture clockwise, counter clockwise, centre to the edge, then edge to the centre a total of 777 times while singing Amazing Grace.)

She just had to test her potion. Without a moment’s hesitation, she dashed to her ladder and climbed to the rooftop of her twenty story flat. She raised the goblet to her chapped lips and was instantly enveloped in the delightful, airy sweetness of her concoction as it danced down her throat.

With a deep breath, she leapt from the building. The clouds were a heavenly swirl around her as the cool breeze carried her through the ocean blue sky. It had worked: she was flying! She was a genius! She was going to be so famous!

Later, the Police Investigators submitted their report: suicide.


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