The ancient sorceress was fed up. Mostly with herself.
“Phyllis, you old fool…” she mumbled as she grasped the long, thick braid of golden hair with both of her bony, arthritic hands.
“How could you be so stupid?” she cursed as she scaled the tower wall, grunting the entire way.
“You’re not getting younger,” she lectured. “And this is how you spend your time?”
She gazed up towards the open window. Only twenty yards, but it looked like a mile.
So, a promise was made. Next time she sequesters a teenager against her will, there’ll be a flight of stairs.
The Weekday One Hundred 