by Clint Foster
The thing about potions is, it doesn’t matter who makes them or what their intention is.
A drop of jellied brain, a twist of peeled tongue, some blood flakes. You stir them all together in a cauldron—whatever brand you choose, it’s not that important—and bring it to what we like to call a witch’s boil. You’ll know when it gets hot enough, trust me, and if you don’t figure it out in time, well, it won’t matter anyway. A quick stir, a tiny, tiny sip. Ahh. Brew for two.
Grab a mug, please. Me? Oh, I’m not thirsty.
Clint Foster lives in southern Iowa with his wonderful wife, Nik, and their herd of four cats. He has published dozens of short stories, as well as a novel and an epic poem.