Rows and rows of little corked vials covered the back wall of a pristine white room, each filled with glitter in varying shades of pink. The centre of the room was marked with a ceramic white cauldron full of bubbling baby blue liquid. The pot heated itself. The contents puffed and smoked and sparked shiny pink specs that burst in midair. The vapours – filled with visions – curled out of the pot and infused everything with the smell of strawberries, blueberries and sunset kisses.
Sunlight streamed through the large square windows and the open front door. Meanwhile, the witch herself entered from another room with a swish of her sunbeam dress. She was ready to do business. A customer was due in ten minutes and the potion was almost brewed. The payment was already taken care of; on this occasion, it was a stuck memory, a shattered promise and a piece of fruit. The witch recycled all of them. The memory would be moulded at her dream wheel for resale, the promise would be used to fertilise her growing stars and the fruit would be used to flavour the potions that so often tasted of overwhelming space.
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