Smells Good - Flash Fiction

Her fingertips traced the ingredients before her, touching them gently as if they might break or be emotionally scarred if she handled them otherwise. Her skin was soft, her touch gentle, as she laid a bunch of dried herbs on her table, slowly and smoothly plucking at the leaves and flowers and putting them in the large glass bowl before her.

Her hand went for the fresh rose petals, but then retracted.

Now is not the time for these, she thought.

She began humming a tune, a melody only she can hear in her mind, an ancient piece of magical music. Her eyes glowed with the spark of magic as she began to stir her potion and reconnect with her past, present and possible future.

Black dress and black nails; she liked the colour. Some called it gothic and witchy, but it brought her peace. She was after all a witch. She stopped stirring and pulled a strand of purple hair behind her ear. Then began to pluck some of the rose petals: red and white, purple and blue.

She raised her hand above the bowl and let the petals glide downwards to float on the surface of the now black mixture.

Her eyes sparkled again as continued to hum her tune. She wasn't sure if it was a tune of her creation or if it was passed down to her. But what did it matter? It was magical and it ignited her witch's blood.

A knock at the door awakened her from her reverie.

Who could it be?

She stirred the potion one more time then went to open the door.

It was her date; she'd forgotten about him – that's what spell-casting and potion-making do.

He held her around the waist. Black didn't bother him. He found it 'enigmatic' as he once told her.

"Have a seat. I'll be right over."

She headed back into her kitchen, surveyed her potion.

What was I making?

She sniffed it. It smelt good.

Oh, well, I might as well add a bit of oil and turn it into some kind of room freshener – again.