Witches on Parole

Only two bags, huh?" Helga was eighty, feisty, and the fastest knitter Elsie had ever seen. “We’ll have to work on that. It’s not a respectable stash until it has its own room.

The point is to learn to live with roots inside yourself, instead of a thousand stupid rules to guide your day. Who are you without your rules, Elsie? Who would you find if you had the guts to just lie still and let go?

She was going to have to add a line item in her budget for knitting supplies,

a try. Let’s make it to the kitchen first, huh? Four-year-olds could still be distracted by cookies. Jennie looked up as they entered the kitchen. “Hello, my boys! You’re just in time.” She held out two cookies, still steaming. “Fresh out of the oven.” Aervyn bit into his and danced around like an Irish step dancer on speed. “Hot, hot, hot!” Jennie laughed. “Hasn’t anyone taught you a cookie-cooling spell yet?” “Oh.” Aervyn giggled. “I didn’t think of that.” He waved a hand

Wrinkles are beautiful.” Ginia hit full lecture mode in three words. “They show where your face has been and the interesting life you’ve lived. You should be proud of them.

You can't ask for what you don't know exists.

But she’s like a whiny child or a puke-green chair—no matter how much I understand the reasons for their existence, they get on my nerves.