Witch Bottle by Dan Spencer, Prince Henry’s High School, Evesham

I was prepared to go to more means than most. My life was torture. That’s why I had to put an end to it, by putting an end to him.

That was when I stumbled across a small, seemingly abandoned shop, down a narrow alleyway. Almost immediately, a tiny old woman had tumbled from the darkness. Surprisingly gentle, she offered me a way of reclaiming my life with just a pot.

Now that I’ve prepared the miracle, I run over to the most private bridge in sight. It’s a crumbling brick bridge, built over a stream, heading for the Thames.  I carefully place the pot on the bridge, then with all the strength I can muster, I send the pot crashing down. Big mistake. A pointed rock pierces the bearded man’s face.

Maybe everyone has a certain amount of luck. And what if, once you use it all, there’s no going back? Except that it appears that I never had the luck to lose in the first place. This pot confirms it. For as soon as the pot is no more, I feel a slight shaking. Then, all of a sudden, the bricks beneath me give way. I have reflexes faster than lightning, yet I still can’t grab on to anything. The air screams at me, biting every corner of me like a beast. Everything happens slowly. As soon as I hit the bitter concrete surface of the stream, my brother’s face appears over the edge.

How could he have known what my plans for him were?

Even so nothing matters now.