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* Author : Tina Connolly
* Narrator : Gina Freeman
* Host : Graeme Dunlop
* Audio Producer : Peter Wood
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First appeared in TOR.com.


Rated PG
That Seriously Obnoxious Time I Was Stuck at Witch Rimelda’s One Hundredth Birthday Party
by Tina Connolly
So, reason number 572 why living with a wicked witch sucks? Sometimes it’s a gorgeous summer Saturday, and instead of getting a well-deserved break from Sarmine’s weird witchy chores like dusting the dried newts, you end up as an unpaid babysitter for a party full of little witches.
I set out the plates and forks for the birthday cake while surveying the swimming pool full of witch-kids. From up here they looked like any small children having fun—laughing and splashing and squealing and biting. Except, if you got close enough, you could hear them threatening to turn each other into frogs.
Around me, Witch Sarmine and all her nasty witch friends hovered around the pool like we were the first course at this birthday party. In a way, I suppose we were.

“My little girl is already hexing the mailman,” cooed a witch with flame-red hair. “You won’t believe what she can do with some earwigs and a bit of pumpkin puree.”
“The twins have grown out of earwigs,” drawled a dark-haired witch. “I mean, they’re all right, if you’re not skilled enough yet to use squirrel droppings.”
“My daughter wouldn’t be caught dead with squirrel droppings,” said the redhead. “She has too much class.”
“Ladies and token gentlemen,” said a platinum-blonde witch wearing a skimpy pink bikini. “Please raise your glasses of fermented pixie juice. We are here to toast my precious mother Rimelda, who turns …one hundred today. Rimelda?”
A bony witch who looked about a hundred and fifty nodded sourly to all of us from her plastic lounge chair, martini in hand. See, witches look the age they feel on the inside, and apparently Rimelda was not happy with her current state of existence. “Happy Birthday to meee,” she slurred. “Ain’t life a—”
“All right, kids, everyone in the pool!” trilled the blonde witch. The last couple kids cannonballed in, splashing everything.
My guardian, Sarmine Scarabouche, moved closer to me, drink in hand. Alone among the witches, she was definitely not wearing a swimsuit, or even any sort of—heaven forbid—shorts. Her silver bob was untouched by the heat. Her eyebrows drew neatly into a point as she glared down at me.
I wanted to get in that swimming pool about as badly as I wanted to get in a tank of sharks. But Sarmine has a way of dealing out revolting punishments, like making everything I eat taste like brussels sprouts dipped in horseradish, and if I wanted to live to see tenth grade in the fall, I’d better do what she wanted.
I set down the plastic forks and slid into the water.
The water felt good on the hot summer day. It would have been a lovely afternoon if there had been anyone my age at the party. Oh, and if they weren’t all witches. One of them bit me.
“Ready the pool!” said the blonde witch.
A pile of tiny inflatables shaped like octopi rained down upon us. They were muddy green, about the size of my palm.
“Ooh, look at the cutie-pies,” said the little girl next to me. She was wearing solid pink, from her ruffled swimsuit to her pigtail bows, and looked about four. “Such sweet little baby krakens.