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It is often said that witches hate children. But it’s not true. It’s not true at all. In fact, I knew a boy who knew a boy who knew a boy who befriended a witch, and she loved him dearly.

Her eyes twinkled like an invitation. Her smile swept away all sadness and gloom. The boy and his friends followed her around like ducklings and called her their in-between witch, for she was neither good nor bad. Well, she was good-natured, but very bad at spells.

She would cast a spell for a cat, and find a dog meowing in her ear. What should have been yellow would turn out green. What should have been large would shrink to the size of a flea.

The grownups thought her a great joke; the witch without magic. But her failed spells and diamond eyes made her lovely to the children, and their cupcake grins and clumsy limbs made them lovely to the in-between witch.

There was, however, something very odd about her. Whenever she was around, wherever she went, a noise would follow. A low grumble, grumble, grumbling. Deep within her belly a steady mumble, mumble, mumbling.

Every day, the in-between witch was flocked by children and amidst the sparkly eyes and cupcake grins, the grumbles would grumble, the mumbles would mumble, and the watchers would whisper, “The Grumblewitch, the Grumblewitch, the Grumblewitch….”