Broomstick Breakdown

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The magic powering her broom coughed and sputtered. Sophia held on tight as she lost altitude and weaved drunkenly through the night sky.

“You’ve got to be freaking kidding me,” she muttered aloud. Apparently spelling a broom while frazzled and rushed had unwanted side effects. Like becoming intimately acquainted with the ground. Oops.

She fought with the roughening antics of her broom, its wooden handle jerking between her hands. As she cursed her bad luck in language not fit for human ears, she spotted the lights of a gas station easily visible in the dark and aimed herself at it for an emergency landing. She also prayed to the Dark Lord-“No road rash. No road rash.” She’d taken weeks to heal the raw patches the last time she’d crashed her broom. A natural broom flyer she was not, and she’d put in a request for the rare and popular Ali Baba book of spells. Somehow carpet flying sounded a lot safer than the traditional witchy method of travel.

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