Witchbarf

It was a potluck. It is always a potluck. Somebody brings the good thing and eleven of them bring a variation on the same green horror, and there is no polite way to decline a dish in a coven, because declining is how feuds begin and feuds run for centuries and she has two going already. So she took a helping of each. Out in the yard now, under a moon the colour of a bad orange, she is returning all eleven in the order received — and composing, carefully, with real craft, the note that says she thought it was all lovely.