Free Timeless Witch by C. L. Scholey Page B

not yet been invented.
    It is a midsummer evening and my room is stifling with the unbearable heat. I lay there becoming increasingly uncomfortable. I give in and utter a small mewl of protest. Rarely do I cry, unless I must. This usually brings ‘ole gangly,’ as I have now dubbed my new father, running with a stupid rattle he shakes in my face.
    I must watch my temper. The last time he did this I was unable to... oh, all right , I was un-wanting to control the impulse to crack it against his long hook nose. I hadn’t meant to draw blood; that was purely an accident. Poor man. Even still, I was grateful for the occurrence. My powers had increased. I was dangerous. The feeling is delicious, even though wasted upon a mere helpless mortal.
    “Oh wookit, my wittle baby is waking, waking. What’s wittle baby Sophia doing? Ums should be seepin. Does um have a dirty bum bum?”
    Oh God, it’s Mother. Hell’s bells, the woman could drive a saint to drink with all that stupid baby talk. Would that I could will the woman to slip some whiskey into my formula, which by the way is foul tasting even when warm. Did you know babies spit up to cause displeasure to those who feed them this vile crap? What I wouldn’t give for some teeth and a medium-rare steak and baked potato. It would help with a solid bowel movement; liquid diapers are highly overrated, and so, by the way, is diaper rash.
    She picks me up and plops me onto the change table, where she fastidiously cleans my behind and lobs on a gob of uncomfortable goo. How embarrassing. I couldn’t wait until these pudgy little legs of mine could walk. If I could just tell her to put me on the toilet it would be so much easier. Even ole gangly understands me better. While feeding me prunes I called him an asshole. Well, it sounded more like ‘ashoe,’ without the aid of teeth, but he got the message.
    His eyes had widened and he declared to his wife I swore at him, and perhaps I didn’t like prunes. She just shook her head in disbelief and stated a baby of eight months wouldn’t possibly understand the concept of the word, or how to use it in context.
    I had to give it to ole gangly though. He wasn’t so bad; stupid perhaps, but not a bad person. I really rather enjoy prunes, so that wasn’t it. I had only been angry with him because he had forced me to use my powers. Fool that he was, he stepped in a puddle in his garage, then dropped a live wire.
    I hadn’t wanted to see him fry, and I was sitting close by in my playpen while he worked. I think he liked it when I watched him work. It took only a breath of my charm to diffuse the electricity; primitive device really, child’s play or, in this case, baby’s play.
    But I needed to be careful. I could feel Alistair out there, as he could feel me, but neither knew the extent of the other’s power as yet. We were both left in the dark, wondering if we were the same age, or who had been born first. I snickered, pondering if somewhere out there some woman had lobbed goo on his naked behind and was speaking god-awful baby talk to him. What a blow to his over-inflated ego that would be. Especially to a fifteen-thousand-year-old man. I hope he falls off his tricycle too.
    “Beddy-bye time, my wittle baby. Kootchy coo. Oh, me wuv ums me do, yes me do, me diddly do do.”
    Oh God, kill me now. Damn that Alistair.
    * * * *
    I sat at the table reading the newspaper in my booster seat. My mind worked furiously. Time was dragging on. I was three earth years old. Ole gangly was watching me, while pretending not to, periodically casting me a sideways glance. I knew he was aware I was different, but each time he broached the subject about me with my mother, she just laughed him off.
    “Want some coffee?” he asked me. Surreptitiously, he moved the steaming mug just within my reach, really a foolish thing to do. I could burn myself. I did mention he was a bit stupid, didn’t I?
    I chortled gleefully, and yes, I’m rolling my eyes as I