Lj Idol - 3 Strikes - Morgenmuffel
An entry for Week 3 of therealljidol.
Morgan reached over and slapped heavily at the alarm clock, which was bleating like a herd of hungry goats. It jumped back from her grasp and landed on a sea of tiny hooves, and continued to bleat with indignation. Rubbing her eyes, she pushed herself up in bed and gave it her most serious glare. A quieter bleat then, but she was up now. Already she could hear her siblings up and about in the bathroom and hallways.
“Robin!” her older sister Marabeth screamed from the shower, “quit changing the water into frogs, you’re gonna clog the drain again!”
Robin snickered, and with a snap of his wrist, ceased his prank and sauntered to the stairwell, leaving Marabeth alone and damp amidst the company of several dozen croaking amphibians. Tomas, their younger brother, was cackling behind him, shoving his chubby hands into a long-sleeved dark pink jacket that looked suspiciously like Morgan’s.
“Tomas!” she called out, “my jacket!” The boys ignored her, but her jacket grimaced goofily at her from across Tomas’ back as it kaleidoscoped into a rainbow of new colors, apparently enchanted by its new owner.
Morgan sighed and slid her feet to the side of the bed, pushing herself to standing. It seems it is going to be that kind of day. Like every other day. She looked at the mirror across from her bed, wrinkling her nose at her dream-mussed hair and sticking her tongue out at the freckles on her face. A sneeze rocked through her, and on opening her eyes she found her night shirt had been promptly replaced with her school uniform. She swore under her breath while her nose still tingled, remembering the short spell she’d scribbled before bed in the hopes of getting ready faster. Convenient, but not very pleasant in practice. Note to self: find new rhyme for “sleeve”.
She looked around for her satchel, snatching it off the dresser to find a brush. Finally she located it underneath a pile of crumpled ink-stained pages. Dragging it through her frizzy locks, she tried fruitlessly to straighten them, but quickly gave up. She closed her eyes and tried to inwardly focus on the bridge of her nose. Arrgh.
“I can’t wait, please, two plaits!” She stomped her right foot for emphasis.
Opening her eyes, she was pleased to see that at least one piece of magic in her life seemed to be working somewhat correctly - the braids weren’t as neat as Ma’s, but they were passable. But she couldn’t find her books, or her favorite scarf, and her jacket - oh, yeah, right.
Her goal was to get downstairs after her brothers disappeared and before the agitated Marabeth. By the grumbles and croaks coming from the bathroom, she was doing okay on time - her older sister was still apparently struggling with her spells this morning, too. Too bad. She grabbed her heavy coat. Not my circus, not my frogs.
Finally trudging down the stairs, Morgan looked up to see their father at the stove in his cheery purple “KISS THE WIZARD” apron, waving a wand over a blue Dutch oven and frowning incantations to himself. For some reason, the grits this morning were rainbow-hued and glittery. I wonder if there’s a granola bar in the cabinet. Dad was in the kitchen every morning to prepare breakfast and see everyone off to school.
“Morning, Dad,” she mumbled, smoothing down the skirt of her uniform as she sat at the kitchen table. She was now noticing the wrinkles - another note to self - why couldn’t things just come together easy?
“Morning, Morgan Glory!” he piped back, peering at her through oversized glasses as he poured her an enormous bowl of grits whose colors were beginning to mix into a sloshy grey. “Robin and Tomas have already loaded up and headed out. I assumed you’d rather walk with Marabeth anyway. Are you ready for your big day?”
“No,” she frowned. “I’d really rather not go to school. It’s so boring, and why do we need to go? We have magick, we won’t use any of what we learn there when we’re done! We won’t need to!”
“Oh?” Her father pointed a spoon in her direction. “Is that so? English is no help at teaching you new words or phrases with new incantations? Math is no longer useful for determining ratios or setting up a proper circle?”
“Well, yes, but there are dictionaries and grammar guides and other books, and lots of more fun ways to look at math than on a computer, obviously.”
“Well, then. Not even history or the social sciences? However will you learn who are fascists and who needs a proper hexing?”
Morgan gasped, but relaxed into a giggle when her father failed to hide his joking grin.
“I kid, Morgan Glory, you know I would never encourage you to do harm - there is too much harm in this world as there is. Now,” he paused, tapping her nose very seriously with a spoon. “I know sometimes it seems boring, but your mind must always be open to knowledge, and it’s good for you to get out to see other people. And you’ll be great today, as you are everyday, even if you don’t feel it. Just like your Ma.”
“Whatever you say,” she said, grabbing the spoon and shoveling a spoonful of grits into her mouth. They tasted like cotton candy and she had the impression of riding a zebra. She closed her eyes and sighed inwardly, no longer interested in eating.
“I mean it. You are a Glory. You are smart, capable, and kind, and you will figure out whatever is eating at you. In the meantime, eat at that. And for later, take this.”
He handed her a seemingly empty paper bag, as Marabeth wailed for help from the top of the stairs. Morgan took another bite of grits that she instantly regretted, and wondered what sort of crazy concoction of a sandwich spell would manifest from the bag at lunch. She knew he worked hard at them, but she missed the meals Ma used to make. She instantly felt guilty for the thought. I hope I don’t end up in detention again. Or maybe I deserve to be.
~o~
Morgan Glory was almost glad when lunchtime finally came. It had been a horrid morning. On the walk to school, she’d been splashed by some muck flying from a garbage truck. In first period Henry Gabbler wouldn’t quit making fun of her hair again. And though she’d tried to use only a very, very small spell with the intent to have him rethink his meanness for a moment, it happened at about that exact same moment that a curious and sudden disruption by an unusually large occupation of woolly worms descended on the classroom. Oops. Somehow she’d managed to avoid detention.
So she sat outdoors, alone, for lunch, as usual, sighing and kicking her boots into the soft green moss. She pulled out the paper bag from breakfast and shook it gently, muttering a soft plea that whatever it held would be edible. The bag trembled momentarily in her hands, then puffed out like an exploding mushroom. Morgan couldn’t help but giggle. Inside was a pink flutternutter sandwich, a pink lady apple, a container of raspberries, and some blue almond milk. A surprisingly normal lunch, coming from Dad. As she shook the contents of the bag loose, a note and small object fell into the grass. She unfolded the note.
To my Grumpy Morgan Glory -
I know your miss your Ma
She is not gone, you always
carry part of Her in You
Her Strength, Her Kindness, Her Intelligence
She is With You
Here is a little Charm
to help you Remember
-Love Dad
p.s. Sorry about the grits
Morgan reached down and picked up the Charm - a tiny handmade woven doll in pink striped hat and dress, with reddish blonde plaits, like her and Ma. And a smile, more like Ma than her.
She felt the tears stinging in her eyes. Cradling it in her palm, she whispered a new spell quietly, intent in her heart. Please, with time, help me to be kind.
~o~
Marabeth wasn’t waiting for Morgan after the last bell as she usually did. The boys were nowhere to be seen, either, and Morgan didn’t want to be around them, anyway. She started home on her own, satchel across her shoulder. The Charm was in her coat pocket, where she’d hidden it for much of the afternoon, afraid it would be lost or absconded. She took it out momentarily to admire the tiny stitches and wonder about its origins, when she accidentally stumbled over an empty can lying in the path.
Morgan narrowed her eyes in frustration and sang out the first line to come to mind. “With my eyes, litter I spy! With my toes, down the lane it goes!”
She shoved her boot forward to kick the offending can, but her words had already taken a life of their own before they could connect. Oops. The can shot down the street, bumping a riotous path along the picket fences, mailboxes, and potter boxes lining the neighboring houses. It didn’t seem to be slowing. She quickly realized her folly and chased after it, swearing quietly under her breath and hoping that no one from school would see her.
The can, for its part, and which had originally appeared as a very old and rusty, perhaps-once-yellow thing, had apparently found a new lease on life, as it gained leverage in each new driveway dip, and somehow escaped the fingers of friction and gravity on inclines. Morgan found herself having to sprint to catch up with it, which was not improving her attitude. Eventually it rounded a very grey and old split rail fence, rolled up a short driveway, and slammed into a bed of trash and overgrowth at the base of a small and otherwise neat pink porch. Morgan hauled herself up behind it, panting, curious as to whether the can was actually finished with its journey. The can was wedged in tight among some brightly colored glass bottles, a recycling factory’s worth of old biscuit cans, and dilapidated newspaper that clung to everything like stucco.
“Well hello there,” came a voice like warm sandpaper from above.
Morgan looked up and took in her surroundings. The one-story cottage had once been white, with teal blue shutters and trim, and the porch was at one time a punch pink, but the paint was now peeling away in places to show dark and wearing wood beneath. The front door matched the rocker - both a soft cream yellow - which was occupied by the oldest looking woman Morgan had ever encountered. Her skin had crumpled and folded in and upon itself more times than Morgan thought might be possible, nearly hiding her eyes and features, and her hair stuck out in tiny white wisps from beneath a bright blue scarf. She was snuggled under a heavy grey blanket, on top of which a heavier grey cat stood guard.
“Hello ma’am,” Morgan offered. “I’m, uhm…very sorry about…my can?”
The woman squinted down towards Morgan and the pile for a long quiet moment. Her eyes were small and hidden beneath her wrinkles, like dark black marbles, and as she focused, her face folded in on itself as if she might suddenly collapse into a singularity.
“Eh, no worries,” she finally replied. “Lots of the castoffs end up here eventually.”
“Do you know why?”
“I guess they are hoping to find something.”
Morgan stared for a moment before remembering her manners. “I’m Morgan. Morgan Glory.” She reached out a hand up towards the porch railing.
The ancient woman pulled a lean arm out from below the blanket to grasp hands, immediately pissing off her cat. “You can call me Crownie.”
“Do you live here by yourself, Crownie?” Morgan asked, looking around at the array of trash piled against the porch.
“That I do. Sorry for the appearance. I used to keep this place up much better. Beautiful gardens of flowers through the year, and the rest of the yard, too. But, it’s harder now. Time has had its way with me, if you couldn’t tell.” She winked, or so Morgan thought. One side of her face shifted in the way that sands shift under waves at the beach.
Morgan looked again at the ground and the piles of trash. Beneath the odd objects, the soil looked dark and rich. She could even see bits of green trying to poke their way through in places. She stuck her hand in her pocket, her fingers lightly brushing against the Charm. Morgan suddenly had a memory of Ma, kneeling in her sunhat and gloves, dirt all over her knees and laughing in the sun. Ma used to love to garden. She said growing things was the best kind of magick.
“Crownie, would you like me to help you clean up your flower beds?” I might be insane.
“Don’t you have someplace you should be with kids your own age?”
“Not really,” Morgan replied. “They kind of suck.”
“Well,” Crownie paused, her dark eyes drawing in on themselves again, “If it would make you happy, it would make me very happy.”
I am probably not insane. Morgan started pulling at the bottles and cans, setting them aside in a pile. She was already working out a plot in her head to reuse them, pondering if they were all enchanted or just drawn to Crownie or this spot, and trying to devise a spell that would keep them from piling back up in the same spot. She was going to have to do some research on that front. Probably gonna need a strong circle.
“Do you have any seeds or seedlings that we could plant here?”
Crownie looked up towards the sky, what little hair she had dancing wildly beneath the heavens.
“Well now, I think in the shed in back, you might find some sunflower seeds. I used to plant them by this front wall. But you’ll have to come back in a few weeks, after the last frost has passed and once the weather is warmer, for them to take hold.”
Morgan nodded, and kept working. “I will. I’ll come by once a week to help get this cleared and ready, if that’s all right?”
~o~
When Morgan arrived home for dinner than night, her fingernails were grimy, and her coat and pants were covered in mud.
“What, did you get jumped by Henry Gabbler and his cronies or something?” Robin asked, wide-eyed. “You look like you’ve been sitting in a dumpster!”
Morgan rolled her eyes and stuck her tongue out at him. With a sudden sneeze, her clothes were changed and clean. Her nose stung and Robin was laughing his fool head off now, but at least the problem was solved. She checked her pockets - the Charm was still there. Good. Somehow it made her care less about his laughter. It also helped to have the satisfaction of knowing that she’d gotten a good start clearing out a portion of the trash from Crownie’s overflowing beds, and found some tools in that old shed.
Dad was in the kitchen, the same place she’d left him that morning. Now that she thought about it, Morgan wasn’t one-hundred percent sure she ever saw him outside the kitchen these days.
“Hey Dad. What’s for dinner?”
“Morgan!” He paused to brush the dark hair away from his eyes with his forearm, spatula in hand. “Veggie burgers!…I think.” He gestured to the bowl, where a chunky, fluid blob the color of matcha was oozing in all directions.
“Ooof… Dad. I think the batter might be a little wet?”
Her father did the thing he always did - place the back of his hand to his forehead while he contemplated. The spatula was still in it, which meant that tiny flecks of matcha green were now reaching for his hair.
“Yeah, I can see,” he frowned. “This was more your Ma’s specialty, honestly. It’s not even the right color.”
Morgan could see how tired he was. She stepped in beside him, washing her hands. “Well, you know. I think maybe she just added a little something to thicken it?”
“Oh, you’re right!” Dad exclaimed. “How did we forget--”
Morgan remembered and they blurted it out simultaneously, “Gluten Tag!”
The others collectively groaned at their exuberance and Ma’s old shorthand pun-turned-spell. The bowl shook and struggled momentarily, as if itself unsure whether to laugh or react, then promptly sorted itself with a gentle pop. The batter looked much healthier and thicker, and Morgan set about to help her father shape it into patties, which they then fried golden-brown on the skillet.
When everyone finally sat around the table that evening, the house smelled like it had a year before, when all the chairs were filled. Robin and Marabeth were getting along momentarily, sharing runes they had learned with one another. Morgan noticed that Tomas had returned her jacket (or maybe her jacket had returned to her), as it was folded on the back of her chair. Dad filled the table with food - burgers and fries and dips and all the fixings, using his wand to rotate items back and forth to the counter and keep the dishes from overloading the sink. Everyone agreed - Morgan had done well, the burgers tasted just like Ma used to make.
As the family enjoyed their meal, Morgan thought about Crownie, the pile of odd things, and when she could go back. What had Crownie called them? The castoffs? Why do they go there? What are they hoping to find? She took the Charm from her pocket, straightened its plaits and skirt, and sat it up against her plate on the table so that it could see and enjoy their company, too. Morgan wondered what her Ma would make of it all. She hoped she really was intelligent like Ma, like Dad had said, so she could figure it all out. She touched the Charm lightly with her fingers. She was going to have to try.
~~~
Morgan reached over and slapped heavily at the alarm clock, which was bleating like a herd of hungry goats. It jumped back from her grasp and landed on a sea of tiny hooves, and continued to bleat with indignation. Rubbing her eyes, she pushed herself up in bed and gave it her most serious glare. A quieter bleat then, but she was up now. Already she could hear her siblings up and about in the bathroom and hallways.
“Robin!” her older sister Marabeth screamed from the shower, “quit changing the water into frogs, you’re gonna clog the drain again!”
Robin snickered, and with a snap of his wrist, ceased his prank and sauntered to the stairwell, leaving Marabeth alone and damp amidst the company of several dozen croaking amphibians. Tomas, their younger brother, was cackling behind him, shoving his chubby hands into a long-sleeved dark pink jacket that looked suspiciously like Morgan’s.
“Tomas!” she called out, “my jacket!” The boys ignored her, but her jacket grimaced goofily at her from across Tomas’ back as it kaleidoscoped into a rainbow of new colors, apparently enchanted by its new owner.
Morgan sighed and slid her feet to the side of the bed, pushing herself to standing. It seems it is going to be that kind of day. Like every other day. She looked at the mirror across from her bed, wrinkling her nose at her dream-mussed hair and sticking her tongue out at the freckles on her face. A sneeze rocked through her, and on opening her eyes she found her night shirt had been promptly replaced with her school uniform. She swore under her breath while her nose still tingled, remembering the short spell she’d scribbled before bed in the hopes of getting ready faster. Convenient, but not very pleasant in practice. Note to self: find new rhyme for “sleeve”.
She looked around for her satchel, snatching it off the dresser to find a brush. Finally she located it underneath a pile of crumpled ink-stained pages. Dragging it through her frizzy locks, she tried fruitlessly to straighten them, but quickly gave up. She closed her eyes and tried to inwardly focus on the bridge of her nose. Arrgh.
“I can’t wait, please, two plaits!” She stomped her right foot for emphasis.
Opening her eyes, she was pleased to see that at least one piece of magic in her life seemed to be working somewhat correctly - the braids weren’t as neat as Ma’s, but they were passable. But she couldn’t find her books, or her favorite scarf, and her jacket - oh, yeah, right.
Her goal was to get downstairs after her brothers disappeared and before the agitated Marabeth. By the grumbles and croaks coming from the bathroom, she was doing okay on time - her older sister was still apparently struggling with her spells this morning, too. Too bad. She grabbed her heavy coat. Not my circus, not my frogs.
Finally trudging down the stairs, Morgan looked up to see their father at the stove in his cheery purple “KISS THE WIZARD” apron, waving a wand over a blue Dutch oven and frowning incantations to himself. For some reason, the grits this morning were rainbow-hued and glittery. I wonder if there’s a granola bar in the cabinet. Dad was in the kitchen every morning to prepare breakfast and see everyone off to school.
“Morning, Dad,” she mumbled, smoothing down the skirt of her uniform as she sat at the kitchen table. She was now noticing the wrinkles - another note to self - why couldn’t things just come together easy?
“Morning, Morgan Glory!” he piped back, peering at her through oversized glasses as he poured her an enormous bowl of grits whose colors were beginning to mix into a sloshy grey. “Robin and Tomas have already loaded up and headed out. I assumed you’d rather walk with Marabeth anyway. Are you ready for your big day?”
“No,” she frowned. “I’d really rather not go to school. It’s so boring, and why do we need to go? We have magick, we won’t use any of what we learn there when we’re done! We won’t need to!”
“Oh?” Her father pointed a spoon in her direction. “Is that so? English is no help at teaching you new words or phrases with new incantations? Math is no longer useful for determining ratios or setting up a proper circle?”
“Well, yes, but there are dictionaries and grammar guides and other books, and lots of more fun ways to look at math than on a computer, obviously.”
“Well, then. Not even history or the social sciences? However will you learn who are fascists and who needs a proper hexing?”
Morgan gasped, but relaxed into a giggle when her father failed to hide his joking grin.
“I kid, Morgan Glory, you know I would never encourage you to do harm - there is too much harm in this world as there is. Now,” he paused, tapping her nose very seriously with a spoon. “I know sometimes it seems boring, but your mind must always be open to knowledge, and it’s good for you to get out to see other people. And you’ll be great today, as you are everyday, even if you don’t feel it. Just like your Ma.”
“Whatever you say,” she said, grabbing the spoon and shoveling a spoonful of grits into her mouth. They tasted like cotton candy and she had the impression of riding a zebra. She closed her eyes and sighed inwardly, no longer interested in eating.
“I mean it. You are a Glory. You are smart, capable, and kind, and you will figure out whatever is eating at you. In the meantime, eat at that. And for later, take this.”
He handed her a seemingly empty paper bag, as Marabeth wailed for help from the top of the stairs. Morgan took another bite of grits that she instantly regretted, and wondered what sort of crazy concoction of a sandwich spell would manifest from the bag at lunch. She knew he worked hard at them, but she missed the meals Ma used to make. She instantly felt guilty for the thought. I hope I don’t end up in detention again. Or maybe I deserve to be.
~o~
Morgan Glory was almost glad when lunchtime finally came. It had been a horrid morning. On the walk to school, she’d been splashed by some muck flying from a garbage truck. In first period Henry Gabbler wouldn’t quit making fun of her hair again. And though she’d tried to use only a very, very small spell with the intent to have him rethink his meanness for a moment, it happened at about that exact same moment that a curious and sudden disruption by an unusually large occupation of woolly worms descended on the classroom. Oops. Somehow she’d managed to avoid detention.
So she sat outdoors, alone, for lunch, as usual, sighing and kicking her boots into the soft green moss. She pulled out the paper bag from breakfast and shook it gently, muttering a soft plea that whatever it held would be edible. The bag trembled momentarily in her hands, then puffed out like an exploding mushroom. Morgan couldn’t help but giggle. Inside was a pink flutternutter sandwich, a pink lady apple, a container of raspberries, and some blue almond milk. A surprisingly normal lunch, coming from Dad. As she shook the contents of the bag loose, a note and small object fell into the grass. She unfolded the note.
To my Grumpy Morgan Glory -
I know your miss your Ma
She is not gone, you always
carry part of Her in You
Her Strength, Her Kindness, Her Intelligence
She is With You
Here is a little Charm
to help you Remember
-Love Dad
p.s. Sorry about the grits
Morgan reached down and picked up the Charm - a tiny handmade woven doll in pink striped hat and dress, with reddish blonde plaits, like her and Ma. And a smile, more like Ma than her.
She felt the tears stinging in her eyes. Cradling it in her palm, she whispered a new spell quietly, intent in her heart. Please, with time, help me to be kind.
~o~
Marabeth wasn’t waiting for Morgan after the last bell as she usually did. The boys were nowhere to be seen, either, and Morgan didn’t want to be around them, anyway. She started home on her own, satchel across her shoulder. The Charm was in her coat pocket, where she’d hidden it for much of the afternoon, afraid it would be lost or absconded. She took it out momentarily to admire the tiny stitches and wonder about its origins, when she accidentally stumbled over an empty can lying in the path.
Morgan narrowed her eyes in frustration and sang out the first line to come to mind. “With my eyes, litter I spy! With my toes, down the lane it goes!”
She shoved her boot forward to kick the offending can, but her words had already taken a life of their own before they could connect. Oops. The can shot down the street, bumping a riotous path along the picket fences, mailboxes, and potter boxes lining the neighboring houses. It didn’t seem to be slowing. She quickly realized her folly and chased after it, swearing quietly under her breath and hoping that no one from school would see her.
The can, for its part, and which had originally appeared as a very old and rusty, perhaps-once-yellow thing, had apparently found a new lease on life, as it gained leverage in each new driveway dip, and somehow escaped the fingers of friction and gravity on inclines. Morgan found herself having to sprint to catch up with it, which was not improving her attitude. Eventually it rounded a very grey and old split rail fence, rolled up a short driveway, and slammed into a bed of trash and overgrowth at the base of a small and otherwise neat pink porch. Morgan hauled herself up behind it, panting, curious as to whether the can was actually finished with its journey. The can was wedged in tight among some brightly colored glass bottles, a recycling factory’s worth of old biscuit cans, and dilapidated newspaper that clung to everything like stucco.
“Well hello there,” came a voice like warm sandpaper from above.
Morgan looked up and took in her surroundings. The one-story cottage had once been white, with teal blue shutters and trim, and the porch was at one time a punch pink, but the paint was now peeling away in places to show dark and wearing wood beneath. The front door matched the rocker - both a soft cream yellow - which was occupied by the oldest looking woman Morgan had ever encountered. Her skin had crumpled and folded in and upon itself more times than Morgan thought might be possible, nearly hiding her eyes and features, and her hair stuck out in tiny white wisps from beneath a bright blue scarf. She was snuggled under a heavy grey blanket, on top of which a heavier grey cat stood guard.
“Hello ma’am,” Morgan offered. “I’m, uhm…very sorry about…my can?”
The woman squinted down towards Morgan and the pile for a long quiet moment. Her eyes were small and hidden beneath her wrinkles, like dark black marbles, and as she focused, her face folded in on itself as if she might suddenly collapse into a singularity.
“Eh, no worries,” she finally replied. “Lots of the castoffs end up here eventually.”
“Do you know why?”
“I guess they are hoping to find something.”
Morgan stared for a moment before remembering her manners. “I’m Morgan. Morgan Glory.” She reached out a hand up towards the porch railing.
The ancient woman pulled a lean arm out from below the blanket to grasp hands, immediately pissing off her cat. “You can call me Crownie.”
“Do you live here by yourself, Crownie?” Morgan asked, looking around at the array of trash piled against the porch.
“That I do. Sorry for the appearance. I used to keep this place up much better. Beautiful gardens of flowers through the year, and the rest of the yard, too. But, it’s harder now. Time has had its way with me, if you couldn’t tell.” She winked, or so Morgan thought. One side of her face shifted in the way that sands shift under waves at the beach.
Morgan looked again at the ground and the piles of trash. Beneath the odd objects, the soil looked dark and rich. She could even see bits of green trying to poke their way through in places. She stuck her hand in her pocket, her fingers lightly brushing against the Charm. Morgan suddenly had a memory of Ma, kneeling in her sunhat and gloves, dirt all over her knees and laughing in the sun. Ma used to love to garden. She said growing things was the best kind of magick.
“Crownie, would you like me to help you clean up your flower beds?” I might be insane.
“Don’t you have someplace you should be with kids your own age?”
“Not really,” Morgan replied. “They kind of suck.”
“Well,” Crownie paused, her dark eyes drawing in on themselves again, “If it would make you happy, it would make me very happy.”
I am probably not insane. Morgan started pulling at the bottles and cans, setting them aside in a pile. She was already working out a plot in her head to reuse them, pondering if they were all enchanted or just drawn to Crownie or this spot, and trying to devise a spell that would keep them from piling back up in the same spot. She was going to have to do some research on that front. Probably gonna need a strong circle.
“Do you have any seeds or seedlings that we could plant here?”
Crownie looked up towards the sky, what little hair she had dancing wildly beneath the heavens.
“Well now, I think in the shed in back, you might find some sunflower seeds. I used to plant them by this front wall. But you’ll have to come back in a few weeks, after the last frost has passed and once the weather is warmer, for them to take hold.”
Morgan nodded, and kept working. “I will. I’ll come by once a week to help get this cleared and ready, if that’s all right?”
~o~
When Morgan arrived home for dinner than night, her fingernails were grimy, and her coat and pants were covered in mud.
“What, did you get jumped by Henry Gabbler and his cronies or something?” Robin asked, wide-eyed. “You look like you’ve been sitting in a dumpster!”
Morgan rolled her eyes and stuck her tongue out at him. With a sudden sneeze, her clothes were changed and clean. Her nose stung and Robin was laughing his fool head off now, but at least the problem was solved. She checked her pockets - the Charm was still there. Good. Somehow it made her care less about his laughter. It also helped to have the satisfaction of knowing that she’d gotten a good start clearing out a portion of the trash from Crownie’s overflowing beds, and found some tools in that old shed.
Dad was in the kitchen, the same place she’d left him that morning. Now that she thought about it, Morgan wasn’t one-hundred percent sure she ever saw him outside the kitchen these days.
“Hey Dad. What’s for dinner?”
“Morgan!” He paused to brush the dark hair away from his eyes with his forearm, spatula in hand. “Veggie burgers!…I think.” He gestured to the bowl, where a chunky, fluid blob the color of matcha was oozing in all directions.
“Ooof… Dad. I think the batter might be a little wet?”
Her father did the thing he always did - place the back of his hand to his forehead while he contemplated. The spatula was still in it, which meant that tiny flecks of matcha green were now reaching for his hair.
“Yeah, I can see,” he frowned. “This was more your Ma’s specialty, honestly. It’s not even the right color.”
Morgan could see how tired he was. She stepped in beside him, washing her hands. “Well, you know. I think maybe she just added a little something to thicken it?”
“Oh, you’re right!” Dad exclaimed. “How did we forget--”
Morgan remembered and they blurted it out simultaneously, “Gluten Tag!”
The others collectively groaned at their exuberance and Ma’s old shorthand pun-turned-spell. The bowl shook and struggled momentarily, as if itself unsure whether to laugh or react, then promptly sorted itself with a gentle pop. The batter looked much healthier and thicker, and Morgan set about to help her father shape it into patties, which they then fried golden-brown on the skillet.
When everyone finally sat around the table that evening, the house smelled like it had a year before, when all the chairs were filled. Robin and Marabeth were getting along momentarily, sharing runes they had learned with one another. Morgan noticed that Tomas had returned her jacket (or maybe her jacket had returned to her), as it was folded on the back of her chair. Dad filled the table with food - burgers and fries and dips and all the fixings, using his wand to rotate items back and forth to the counter and keep the dishes from overloading the sink. Everyone agreed - Morgan had done well, the burgers tasted just like Ma used to make.
As the family enjoyed their meal, Morgan thought about Crownie, the pile of odd things, and when she could go back. What had Crownie called them? The castoffs? Why do they go there? What are they hoping to find? She took the Charm from her pocket, straightened its plaits and skirt, and sat it up against her plate on the table so that it could see and enjoy their company, too. Morgan wondered what her Ma would make of it all. She hoped she really was intelligent like Ma, like Dad had said, so she could figure it all out. She touched the Charm lightly with her fingers. She was going to have to try.
~~~