Creative writing assignment

The Spies Lane Witch

It's Sunday afternoon. I'm on my way back home from my walk down Spies Lane, where the branches of the overhanging trees are like my fingers, old and gnarled and bent. My fingers, which are now stained scarlet with the juice of the berries I've been gathering. As I enter my cottage, I hear the children running down the lane, shrieking and laughing, reminding me of my own childhood days. Simpler days. As I rinse the last of the juice from my fingertips, there's a knock at the door.

I smile down at the small form on my doorstep. "Good afternoon, Gladys."

Young Gladys's cheeks are flushed from her exertions, and her eyes are bright and eager. Did my eyes ever look like that? The years have dulled their colour, and if they ever sparkled, I can't remember when.

"May I come in for tea?" Gladys asks, with a grin. I let her in, as I always do.

"Your kitchen is so pretty, Miss James," she says. She calls me 'Miss James', but I know that she and her little friends like to call me 'the witch' when they think I can't hear them. It makes me chuckle. Through the eyes of the young, any old woman living alone must be brewing up spells and potions in secret.

I set the tea on the table. "How is your family, dear?" I ask Gladys.

"They're well," she replies brightly. "Mother is having another baby, you know."

I smile at this news. "Oh, how lovely."

Gladys is looking at me intently. "Miss James, did you ever have a little boy or girl?" She asks me.

"No, I didn't," I reply. "I've always lived alone. I think I'm better off that way."

I glance to the armchair by the fire, where might have sat the husband I never had. The smile goes out of my eyes a little, but I don't let it drop from my face.

"I think my mother has too many children already," Gladys says. "Our house is far too crowded and noisy."

I picture the house, filled with babies' cries and children's laughter. A merry circus.

"You should be thankful for your family," I say.

Gladys sighs. "I suppose so."

She finishes her tea, and leaves. I watch her go skipping down the lane with a peculiar ache in my heart.

Night falls. They say that ghosts walk Spies Lane after dark, but I'm not afraid. If a little ghost girl came knocking on my door, I think I would invite her in for tea.