Crit away people! Seen Through A Window Naturally I looked through the window the second I heard the scream. Actually, thats the wrong word to use to describe the vocalisation of so much pent up rage and frustration that penetrated the glass. But when you hear a sound like that you have to do something, you would need nerves of steel not to be near scared to death by a noise like that, let alone ignore it. Again the sound, but this time disappearing off into the distance like the whistle of a passing train. Almost vanishing out of earshot, before coming roaring back to reach a full, window rattling crescendo as the source of the noise passed over the house and off again in he opposite direction. The passage of its flight was clearly discernible by the distorted corn stalks still disturbed by the turbulence. The sound came back yet again, though not as loud now. It stopped and I had to first tilt, then twist my head awkwardly to see what had made it, now hovering some thirty feet above the roof. Mother was obviously having trouble with her broomstick. But at least she had finally gotten it to stop its break-neck flight and actually had the thing circling. Well, maybe not so much circling, more rotating along its axis so that mother was slowly turning round and round like a joint of meat on a spit. One moment she seemed to be sitting perfectly upright. The next moment she was hanging below the broomstick, fighting to keep a good grip on the shaft while at the same time desperately trying to stop her voluminous black skirts from turning inside out (Mother has always been modest). Opening the window a crack I could hear her reciting the spell of levitation, though I had never heard her using those particular four letter words before. For a second I thought she had the mantra right. Then the broomstick nose dived and it, and mother, disappeared from view behind the roof. From the noises that followed I could work out that the trajectory of the falling broomstick had taken it first of all through the upper branches of the apple tree. Then into and through the lattice fence which mother and I had put up last year to provide something for the poison ivy to climb. After that it must have veered slightly, because the water butt with the plant pots on top was to the right of her apparent flight path. From the sound of the splintering wood followed by raucous squawking, mother and the broomstick must have eventually come to a halt in the chicken shed. She was all right though. The long stream of profanities told me that much. I stood waiting and soon heard the clattering sound of her hob nailed boots on the cobbles of the back yard. The back door flew open and mother, still clutching the now broken broomstick, stomped angrily into the room. I stared at her for a moment as she stood in the middle of the kitchen. She did look a pickle. Her hair, usually pulled into a tight steel grey bun, had exploded into a wild tangle around her head and shoulders. Bits of tree foliage and strands of ivy that lodged within the greyness gave her an appearance of some kind of elven tree sprite. But no elf of my acquaintance had ever glowered like this. Even I could not hold that stare and I dropped my eyes. However, the picture of general mayhem got no better. Mothers bodice and dress were dishevelled and torn. More bits of tree and many ivy leaves hung like crazy ornaments against the blackness. Worse though, were the bits of egg shell and glistening splatters of yellow yolk that dribbled down her dress. Mother wasnt fond of eggs. I reached towards the table and picked up the big earthenware pot. Then I steeled myself and once more looked mother in the eye. How about a nice cup of tea Mam? Mothers eyes glowed for a second and then she sagged. Tossing the broken broomstick into the corner behind the door she slumped down onto her chair by the table. Thank you dear, she said. That would be nice. I poured, and then we sat in silence for a while, both of us sipping our tea and neither of us mentioning the bits and pieces which occasionally fell off mother onto the stone floor of the kitchen.

It's tough breaking in a new broom, eh? You had me curious about the cause of the scream. I expected something ill about. But I did not expect a bucking broom. It worked very well.

chuckle Granny Weatherwax had similar problems. Perhaps they should form a support group.

"Granny Weatherwax had similar problems. Perhaps they should form a support group."

Ah, you detect the heavy influence of 'uncle' Terry. Granny Weatherwax has got to be one of my all time favorite characters. I've toyed with the idea of doing a Granny short - but I don't think I could do the character justice.

I've given thought to writing fan fiction, myself, but I'm sure I'd bugger it up, also. Besides, I have more than enough colourful characters of my own creation running around in my head, demanding my full attention. I wouldn't want them to form a lynch mob; they outnumber me 123 to 1.