I know as you read this you will find my predicament quite silly. After all, who in their right mind would want to be made of cheese? I certainly didn’t. It was quite accidental. I’ve just had to learn to live with it. The magic I possess has been passed down to me through the generations of women in my family. Dad was a little weary of it, especially when he had to spend a week with an extra head. The extra head was great for heightened senses but not so good for his job as a buttoned down insurance salesman. Poor dad struggled to converse with his clients. Not everyone was accepting as we were. Even with the second head and other little magic mishaps, dad loved mum all the same.
As I grew older the magic became strong in me. Every time I sneezed I would set fire to the coffee table. We would chuckle and put the fire out. Not necessarily in that order.
The magic was difficult to control and when it was mixed with a clumsy gene it was positively dangerous. It was actually written somewhere that my great grandmother – a well respected witch – had been asked by the villagers for help to make their crops grow. Grandmama was only too happy to oblige. Soon the village had more food than they could eat but poor Grandmama had blown herself up in the process, which brings me to my current situation.
Most witches opt for a black cat as their familiar. Sometimes an owl or even a raven – so I have been told – will do the trick. I had opted for three white mice. That was my first mistake.
Squeaky, Screetchy and Clive – that would be the mice – were the best familiars any witch could ask for. They were cute, fun and always greeted with a squeak and a smile.
They loved cheese as most mice do, at least in cartoons. (I’m sure you can see where I’m going with this). One day the local store was out of the brand the mice liked best so I thought I could save myself some money and make my own cheese. Now, not every girl has a cow at home and even for those who do, who has time for all that churning? Not me! I would conjure the best cheese my little mice ever tasted.
I had everything I needed. The mice watched in eager anticipation from their cage. With a sway and a swoop, a jump and a loop I set about making my magic cheese. That was when it happened. In my nostrils I felt a tickle. I tried to hold it back, I really did. A loud sneeze escaped me and the whole thing back fired. Instead of a mountain of tasty cheese for my mice I instead became cheddar.
Its taken some adjusting, like keeping myself constantly refrigerated. I had a boyfriend who was allergic to dairy. Needless to say that didn’t last very long. But my mice are happy. In fact they are positively giddy when they see me…
Click HERE to read Vivika Widow’s Myths and Tales.
COMING SOON as a Torrance Media web series.