P.J. McCarthy

It began with a tingle in the backs of my knees. 

“Pollen allergy, you get it from your mother’s side,” my father said. The tingles spread down to my toes and graduated to trembles, making it difficult to sleep.

“Classic gluten allergy, you get that from your father’s side,” my mother said.

The trembles became shivers, and the shivers started knocking things loose. My hair fell out and I sprouted spindly twigs tipped with green shoots. My fingers and toes shivered off, and I clumsily gathered them in case I’d need them later. 

From my palms grew windy roots that curled over each other, making it very difficult to eat my morning porridge.

My parents called the doctor, who took one look and diagnosed me with a case of nonsense. 

“He gets that from your side,” my parents said in unison, before debating what to do next.

Like many small places, my hometown was famous for only two things: being a mecca for mime artists and having a witch. All the mimes were on tour, so my father decided to call the witch.

She arrived exactly four minutes before he picked up the phone, her long cloak swirling in a breeze that followed her everywhere. 

“I can’t abide waiting,” she replied to his upcoming question. Forest-green eyes assessed me from behind a dense curtain of wild curly hair. 

“Have you met any squirrels?” she asked.

“I haven’t met any squirrels,” I replied, confused.

“Good, then there’s still time,” she huffed. As she dug into her bag, my father asked, 

“Are the squirrels dangerous?”

“No, they’re just mouthy little bastards,” the witch replied, “I can’t work with them around.”

She pulled out a pair of shears that looked like they were made of silver and cobwebs. 

“It is common knowledge,” she lectured,” that every boy born in this town has exactly seven pints of blood and one pint of sap where blood should be. Occasionally, during Spring, the sap starts rising and the body forgets it should be growing a boy and tries to grow a tree instead. This can cause an allergic reaction where the boy’s body starts growing tree parts. There’s only one solution.” She waved the shears for emphasis, and the coffee table beside me split in two. I tried to escape but my feet had become rooted to the floor. 

 “We must cut away the dead wood!” 

 The next hour was decidedly unpleasant.

As payment, the witch took my parents’ ability to blame each other’s families for everything. They divorced six months later. It had almost no impact on my life.

I planted my gathered fingers and toes in the town square, and a beautiful orchard of Jatobá trees appeared overnight. It was perfect until the squirrels arrived. They insulted a mime so badly it caused the poor pantomimist to weep aloud.  The witch burned down the orchard in retribution, four minutes before I was going to ask her to do it.

P.J.’s prompts were: In Your Home Town, a Witch, an Allergic Reaction

P.J. McCarthy is a financial analyst and writer who lives in County Cork, Ireland, along with his wife, their son and two dogs. He loves many things but his top three are family, the writing of Terry Pratchett, and really strong cups of tea. His work is forthcoming in the ‘Second Wave’ Drabble Anthology being published by Starry Eyed Press.