Perfectly Normal – It just keeps going!

So, like, I totally decided to write, like more, because, like, you guys totally said like OMG so I wrote more about my little Howelly kins!

And I totally don't own Howl's Moving castle so don't hunt down my poor little insignificant self with lawyers because you'll only get my magical barbie sparkle princess diary, 13 cents and a stick of bubblegum at great expense to you and your company! OMG! LOLZORZ SYSTEM FAILURE (Other generic thirteen year old babble incomprehensible to sane minds)

Chapter the Third: On girl scouts and demonic possession

-Or-

Nightmare on Elm Street

As with many a great and abrupt opening, this chapter too, begins with a statement.

" Hi there Little Fella!"

Young Howell snarled at the intruder like a very small and adorable feral animal that will one day grow up to be a very large and intimidating feral animal, possibly the kind with rabies and a cool scar over its eye. Howell followed his evil snarl with his absolute best evil pout. Undaunted, the intruder boy put another one of his hands on the rooftop edge so as to gain better purchase. Howell was decidedly put out that Megan had to come along and ruin his impenetrable rooftop fort.

" Mind if I come up?" The boy asked in a cheerful, friendly forest ranger commercial kind of voice, his face ruddy, healthy and beaming like the the sun on Howell's box of raisin bran (1).

" Yes." Howell told him in a way that was probably meant to continue the 'fierce feral animal' theme from his growl, but really ended up sounding sullen and a little bit sulky and childish. The new neighbour boy came up anyway of course, giving a little leap that made the ladder shake alarmingly and Megan, watching from the ground below, give the obligatory gasp of fear and appreciation of his athletic dexterity for her blue eyed hero. His eyes were brown of course, of the wonderfully rich and characterful colour that Mr. Widdles tended to leave in little packages all over the back lawn, the lawn of the neighbours and occasionally public street corners. Suffice to say that Mr. Widdles was not a discrete dog when it came to the performance of his dog like duties.

The intruder had begun to speak to Howell in a friendly and entirely reasonable tone, probably trying to convince Howell to come back down the ladder with him. Howells wasn't really listening to what he had to say. Brownie boy, ( As Howell had decided to informally name him. He was only a bit proud of himself for developing this nickname, as it was a name that easily leant itself to many a creative mutation, including: Girl scout, cookie – Pedlar, pink shirt, dog butt, baby brownie, baby beluga, whale bait, and finally, Dork(2)) was starting to lean towards him, inching across the rooftop, while Howell began to slowly inch away from him. However, Howell probably should have been paying attention to what his new rooftop companion was saying, because suddenly he felt a very firm grip groping at his shoulder, which was also attempting to gently guide him in the direction of the rickety, wind scattered aluminum ladder.

" Don't want to keep a pretty lady waiting, do we Sport?"

If there was one thing that Howell hated more than being called 'Little fella', then it was probably being called 'sport'. If there was anything more frightening to precede 'sport' with, it was the implication that some dopey brown eyed boyscout thought that his ugly over thin stick of a sister was a pretty lady, Howell had yet to hear it. So, he then used every aspect of his skinny seven year old slithering portfolio to slip artfully from under the grasp of his would be captor. In that moment, all time slowed down. Howell glanced at the ground to see the 'pretty lady' fuming and shrieking like a peahen, looking more like a scrunched up coffee filter than a human being, and then he glanced a the Neighbour boy, who was finally starting to lose that dopey friendly look on his face, and was acquiring the look of a militant prison guard who had missed his lunch. Howell glanced up the roof top to see clear open sky and then remembered that he had in fact got up onto the roof from the other side of it.

So, Howell bolted, scrambling past his merrily twinkling Christmas lights, crushing bulbs beneath his trainers, laces flying arms, pumping and waving as he tore over the peak of the rooftop, not remembering the loose shingle that lay halfway down said surface, directly in his mad and desperate path. The edge of his left shoe caught the shingle just as he felt himself losing his balance, as left shoes are wont to do in an especially narratively dynamic way.

Howell was not exactly sure what happened right at that moment, only that he had found himself miraculously dangling half in, half out of the attic window that he had gotten from the roof from just as Brownie boy came peaking over the edge of the roof. He was fairly sure that he had fallen, that the slippery roof tile had actually done him in, and that moment of fear was only equaled by the moment of calm that he felt now. No, it was better than calm. It was like the special contentment that one gets after a large satisfying meal, the kind that involves rivers of gravy and roast birds, Mashed potatoes and with pie or cake or some other confection at the end of it. Howell could feel it sizzling from the tips of his fingers to the crown of his head. He felt like Christmas come early. He also felt like he had to make himself scarce, as he could sense the giant's lumbering steps vibrating through the tiles of the roof. So, Howell squirmed his way back into the attic, landing in the dust, only recently disturbed by his feet. It settled around him in a thick cloud. Remembering suddenly, Howell dashed to shut the window, just in time so that the new neighbour completely failed to see it, and thus drew the conclusion that Howell had fallen off the roof and broken his neck.

When dealing with semi – adults, it is always best to assume that they are going to assume the absolute worse of a situation, due to wild imagination unsullied by the dull realities of work and taxes and bathroom cleaning. So, instead of doing the rational thing, and perhaps calling out to see if he is alright, the new neighbour boy immediately decided that Howell had fallen tragically from the edge and was even now bleeding on the ground, waiting for the skills only a Jr. Lifeguard could provide. So It was in that semi panicked state that he informed Megan of her brothers potentially life threatening fall, and unfortunately while he was only half way down the ladder, where she was still waiting patiently, holding the ladder for her beau. Megan understood that blood was thicker than water, and especially thicker than shiny brown hair and honest brown eyes, so rather left him to dangle precariously from the ladder's rung, while she tore around to the backyard to search in the bushes. She was not alone for long, and the new neighbour boy joined her, not in quite as good shape as she had left him.

Howell watched from above where his sister and the boy searched frantically in the bushes below the roof for … something. Howell figured that she had probably lost an earring or similar frivolous item, and the thought did not occur in his mind that they might actually be looking for him. It was pretty obvious that he had managed to get into the window by his point of view. After all, he seemed to have managed it with no trouble whatsoever, so why wouldn't they assume that was what happened? Howell had not yet learned to think in the shoes of others, save for the kind of predicative thinking that all children pick up instinctively (Girls better than boys) that tells them what exactly that they are going to get in trouble for, and probably which is the best smile to use to get out of it. Howell did remember, however, that Megan would probably go looking inside for him as soon as she and the neighbour boy found what they were looking for. She certainly couldn't remember that he was up here, and Howell shuddered to think what would happen if Megan actually caught him. So, Howell did what any reasonable child would have done, and immediately hid, by means of shutting the heavy attic trap door.

It is probably now quite clear to the readers what has just happened, and that is that Howell has just died. Not really dead, in the sense that he has stopped breathing, as the updraft of dust caused by the shutting of the trap door had sparked a coughing fit of spectacular proportions only capable of those possessing a healthy set of lungs, but dead to Megan and her new friend, who saw only one possible explanation for Howell's non appearance in the bushes under the roof, and that was that he had staggered off somewhere, alone and hurt, possibly to where he would be in grave danger. This was instead of him, of course, sitting in piles of dust, where the most extreme peril he was likely to experience was the possibility of spontaneous dust bunny attack, and maybe being menaced the dangerous looking coat stand that loomed out ominously through the darkness. Well, almost the only dangers.

Now, as Howell knew perfectly well, if he were stuck in some sort of fairy story, with the kind of anti normalcy Howell was trying to bring into being, He would probably encounter some kind of magical door to the other side of something, or a talking cat, or magic wand. He would randomly flip open some old book somewhere and it would suck him in so as to start him, his dog, and a girl named Mary off on a riotous adventure, ending with some sappy and sentimental moral of friendship and working together. Howell knew this, and he knew it was expected of him, once stuck in a dusty attic with nothing to do, to explore around and find something of great personal significance to his life. That is simply what is expected out of attics in old homes.

Not of course that Howell's home was particularly old at all. It had been built in 1952, and featured such modern conveniences as indoor plumbing, air conditioning of a sort, and wall to wall carpeting. Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins had moved into the house just a year after it was built, with a little baby girl and a very large inheritance, from Mrs. Jenkins late great aunt. The inheritance was not so large; of course that it could be considered out of the ordinary, or catapult Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins into entirely new and foreign social strata, but just enough that they were able to afford their modestly sized home in the nice new neighbourhood, which was almost more ordinary than was normal. The house was about the same age as Megan, and in Howell's mind, had taken on some of her characteristics. It was plain and practical, and had great big bushy bushes out in the front that bristled with barely contained bush like foliage. It was too clean most of the time, and naturally looked vaguely pleasant without anyone having do anything about it. It had very sharp, precise corners, and was almost a perfect cube in shape (save the pointed roof) , just a little to tall to carry of the air of incorruptible squarity. It was house like in the same way that Megan was good girl – like, and pulled it off with pride. The only room in the house that did not have the unmistakable stamp of one of the Jenkins family on it was the attic, which had the unmistakable stamp of dust and neglect.

So, instead of peaking curiously under sheets and prying open aged locks to reveal chests of ancient power and happiness, Howell sat on the floor and began to make doodles in the thick grey layers with his finger. Silly patterns, and meaningless ones – at least they were meaningless to him as he drew them, stars and circles, and funny little wiggly lines. Eventually he ran out of room and started moving to bureau tops and running his now grubby hands along the edges of sheets and the dust on the trunks. He found that the more he disturbed the dust, the greater the thrill he got out of it, destroying the perfect blanket and peace of the space, and bringing into a riot of pattern, of light and dark contrasting lines. That is to say, he enjoyed making a terrible mess of the place.

That was, of course until he heard the thump. It was a good thump, the kind that made the dust rise, and originated from a source completely unknown to Howell. All of a sudden, he realized that he was alone in his big, big, house, probably trapped in the attic, which probably had big, nasty, boy eating spiders in it. Or worse, rats. Or even worse demons. Howell's late, great aunt had warned him about demons when he was little (3). They lurked in attics and books, and sometimes streams, wells, forests, rocks, trees, animals and other objects, which could run the range from ball point pens to castles. Needless to say, Howell's great aunt was considered by many to be a batty old coot with no sense of reality, but it should also be clear by this point in time that Howell's sense of reality and normalcy were severely skewed in any case. Howell took up an old besom and then began to advance slowly on the corner of the noise, the scraggly old broom raised above his head by his skinny arms.

This was how he was discovered, covered in dust, and the dust covered in strange symbols, advancing on a spider with a broom in his hands shouting obscure obscenities about demons.

Despite that Howell had not yet uncovered magic, his immense talent for said practice, or that this encounter was not occult in the least, it certainly appeared that way to Mrs. Jenkins when she popped the trapdoor to the attic when she too had heard strange noises. Howell froze, and blinked at Mrs. Jenkins. Mrs Jenkins likewise froze and stared at Howell. The broom slowly clattered to the ground, and the dust blew up around it in grey clouds

" Howell" She said slowly and carefully, " Come away from there, your sister is worried about you." Howell's mother was good at careful, measured tones. She had found them to be effective in the raising of Megan, who was almost always more sensitive to the terrible thought of disappointing her parents than making them angry. She was also good at shrieking, angry ones, and the ever popular sobbing yell that was genetically designed to incite feelings of guilt in children. Howell put down the broom.

That Sunday, Mrs. Jenkins dressed Howell up in a stiff white shirt a size and a half too big, stiff grey pants, and a tight grey jacket. The overly traumatized Megan (who had returned to the house three hours later, sobbing and enraged that she had unintentionally killed her little brother, handily comforted by the girl scout) was also dressed up in a similar manner, in a stiff grey dress that covered her knees in a rather unfashionable way. Then, the Jenkins family went to church.

Howell had never really been to church before (4), but immediately decided that he disliked it. His collar was too tight, his jacket was too hot, and every time he sniffled or shuffled or moved, there was always at least one pair of eyes on him, making him want to shrivel up into his seat like a raisin, or other dried fruit product, largely an apricot. The Jenkins were not godless heathens by any account (especially those accounts that would peg godless heathens as running around half naked with spears and shrunken heads (5)), but nor were they saints, to use a classic cliché. No, Mrs. Jenkins went to church on occasion so as to appease her conscience, which sounded suspiciously of her mother's own voice, though she did not attend enough to get roped into bake sales, church socials or church jumble sales, and Mr. Jenkins went to appease his wife. Mr. Jenkins was one of those people who had a great deal of faith in the saying ' God will sort it out in the end', and had rather stopped bothering to worry about how many pennies in the collection plate it took to get one's soul into heaven, or equivalent paradise of one's choice. Megan, who was far too practical to worry about lightning bolts or other forms of divine retribution, had never much bothered with church either, as she secretly found it as un-interesting as her squirming younger sibling. Instead, she took the pragmatic attitude of bother her parents and decided that the best way to get through life was to stop worrying about it and get things done instead.

Howell thought it an awful waste of time for him to sit in the stuffy old building and listen to a man tell him that he was going to die one day. Howell was aware of death in the same way one is aware of astronauts and space aliens (6). Sure they existed, but they happened to Other People. Old people. Old people, Howell knew, smelled funny and always had the really terrible type of toffee that was hard as rock and then glued your jaws shut and tasted like caramel that had not only been caramelized, but blackened a little too. Or they had that awful liquorice candy that looked colourful and tasty, when in reality it possessed all the charm and flavour of boiled soap. These assumptions were garnered from his few encounters of his late, great aunt, and visits from his Nan, who didn't smell funny, but wore a hat that had a stuffed bird on it, that Howell secretly thought used to belong to his Nan's neighbour. Howell decided that he would never be Old people. Oldness, like space aliens, happened to other people, and certainly not him. Howell sunk deeper in his seat, causing the woman two people over to sniff at him. Megan dragged him up by the back of his jacket and his mother smoothed down the rooster tail the slump had made of his hair. That, Howell decided, would be another thing that was going to have to happen to other people as well. It was bad enough that he had to sit there looking uncomfortable, but that he had to endure some one else fixing his hair, like he was an incompetent or something. He slid down on the bench again, only to have the entire process repeated, with his mother dragging him up and Megan smoothing his hair. Despite that Howell's obviously deviant behaviour might seem disrespectful, it should be noted that there were six other boys under the age of ten in the building, one of which was sleeping, one drawing on his own arm with permanent marker, two trying to sneak away to tie people's shoelaces together, One paying diligent attention, and one who had snuck in a comic book and was reading all about the amazing superman while his mother wasn't watching. Howell was considering quite seriously what would happen if he jumped out of his seat and made a break for the door, when suddenly it was over. They were getting up, they were leaving, and Howell could see the light, the glorious light of the outside. They went for Ice cream.

Howell, at that moment, was thinking that perhaps this entire church deal wasn't so bad. His father had lost the normally gruffly serious expression that he wore, and his mother was not detached in the least, instead looking at her children and smiling. Not to mention that he had ice cream, and they never went out for ice cream. They never even bought ice cream from the store. Well, Howell had long suspected that Megan had a stash in the back of the deep freeze where he couldn't reach, but that was beside the point. Howell then made the grievous mistake of looking around the ice cream parlor.

There in the booth next to them was another happy looking family dressed up in their Sunday best. There was a boy and a girl and a big happy banana split between the two children. On the other side was a mother and father and two boys, one older and one younger than him, happily sipping away at root beer floats. There was a girl and her parents sitting two down and a set of triplets three to his left. All happily licking away at ice cream cones, ice cream sundaes and other dishes made of ice cream that Howell couldn't even name. He looked down, and in front of him was an ice cream sundae covered in gobs of sweet, sticky strawberry sauce and sprinkles. To his left, his sister was sipping away at a tall frosty root beer float, while his mother cradled a dish of chocolate ice cream. His father sipped away at his coffee, mimicking exactly the movements of half the other fathers in the place. Howell realized with horror the absolute sticky normalcy of the entire situation. He knew that he needed to escape. This was worse even then babysitting or their boring square house.

"Lorrie!" Howell heard a shout, and he knew that he had his chance. Howell's mother turned imperceptibly, her spoon only moments away from her lips in a rather charming manner that somehow managed to set off her eyes and pull her lips into the kind of pout described by Poets and songwriters of a century past. Howell's mother always knew how exactly to present herself to her best advantage.

Laura Jenkins (better known as Lorrie Jenkins), formerly Laura Betrys Bowen (better known as Sorry Lorrie Bowen) had very few talents in her life. She could not sing ( to be precise, she could sing – anybody can. She could not sing well) nor could she play a musical instrument. Her sense of timing was less than opportune and excelled mainly in the delicate art of baking rather than the quadratic equation. Her handwriting, while very pretty was unoriginal, and attempts to draw and paint left her rather wanting. However, what talents Laura Betrys Bowen did posses, she honed sharper than a knife's edge and she wielded them with more precision than a well trained butler on pay day. Lorrie was not born as a stunning beauty, but instead, stunningly average. However, Sorry Lorrie Bowen had discovered her innate ability to be able to present herself at an advantage. When let into a room Lorrie would always manage to sit where the light would highlight her soft wavy hair, while still managing to find the only chair in the room where one could sit down and not wrinkle one's skirt. She had never had much trouble deciding on which haircut exactly would suit her face best – Lorrie didn't bother much with trying to imitate the fashions in the magazines, just gave instructions on where to clip and when to curl. When all the other girls showed up to a dance wearing white or blue, Lorrie showed up in red, and when the colour of the month was sunshine yellow, Lorrie wore green.

Of course, the other thing that Lorrie was famous for was her reputation for turning guys down. They said that Lorrie would go out with anyone once ; if invited, Lorrie would go to see a film or a dance, or even just for a romantic walk through the park. However, whenever it came time for a second date, the answer was always ' sorry'. Lorrie's unique abilities came with a price, and that price was attention. Not of course, that Laura Betrys Bowen minded much. She was as much a glutton for attention as her son, and not at all shy about saying so. Of course, Lorrie had other talents also. She was handy in the kitchen and reasonably good with children. She also had a set of lungs that could send even the bravest of suitors running and a voracious appetite for history.

" Winny?" Howell's mother asked, still turning charmingly.

Winny, commonly known to everyone but Howell's mother as Gail Davies was perhaps the only reason that 'Sorry Lorrie' ever broke her single cardinal rule, which was of course, that things went wrong after the first date, so why ever even try? Lorrie had accepted this as a scientifically proven fact of life (so far as she knew how to scientifically prove anything, as the poor girl was still trying to figure out why Sn stood for tin on the periodic table). Lorrie was not interested in the more private things that dating teenagers supposedly did when their parents were out of town. She was also a nice girl, and never quite had the heart to turn down someone who had worked up the courage to ask her. In that way, Howell's mother was rather like the bird who took care of another's chicks – she would do it once, but the chicks better not expect Christmas cards (Or other personified bird equivalent) once the little duckings ( or sparrowlings as the case may be) left the nest. Winny changed that by introducing Lorrie to her cousin, Howell's father.

He was interesting, yet prudent, generous but still fiscally responsible. Mr. Jenkins had set a great store by being fiscally responsible, and though Lorrie wasn't entirely sure what the definition of 'fiscal' was , she greatly enjoyed the fact that it meant that they could buy a six dollar hamburger on their date and still have enough money to watch a film. In a sequence of events that no one quite understood, Laura 'sorry Lorrie' Betrys Bowen became Lorrie Jenkins and very happy indeed, and they never went on more than a single real date.

All of this, is of course beside the point, and distracting from the sharpened end of the argument, which was of course that Howell recognized his chance to escape now that 'aunt Winny' was back into the picture. Howell never understood why he had to call her 'aunt Winny' or why she always have to squeal so whenever she got within a fifteen foot radius of his mother. What Howell also didn't know about his Aunt Winny was that she used to be a practicing Wiccan, though hadn't been for nearly fifteen years.

Howell also didn't understand about Pagans, Wiccans, and other such persons who are rumoured to dance naked in the moonlight and worship some forest goddess god creature or something, or believed that very small rocks carried around with a person protected them from evil. He had rather grouped them all in, in his seven year old existence, with the people who believed in witches, fairies, and Santa Clause. They were rather like space aliens in that regard, in that they happened to other people. Crazy ones. He had to go to the bathroom.

Not literally, but it was where he proclaimed he had to go in a loud, strong, healthy voice. His mother and 'Auntie' Winny stopped jabbering for a moment to send Howell in the direction of the facilities, guided by his Oh – so – helpful sister, as Howell's Father was still on the lookout for Winny's husband, for fear that the man might actually appear and sashay him into a conversation about Golf, averages, weather and other things that Howell's father (and indeed, no one else) hadn't any interest in.

So as to avoid unnecessary retardation (7) of the already fast paced and intriguing plot, the events that follow will be narrated in an as easy to follow manner as possible. Follow, if you can, the bouncing ball.

(1) Howell's 'Aunt' Winny's children are pre – eventuality excused to go play in the wood.

(2) Howell escapes to the bathroom, upon which he is not surprised to discover that the window that has been rusted shut for years swings open for him with the ease of of a ... (Moving on.)

(3) Megan, standing guard outside said bathroom door sees The Boyscout (As Howell terms him) and promptly ducks into the girls washroom to avoid his eye.

(4) Howell's father spots Howell's 'Aunt' Winny's husband and excuses Himself to go to the washroom.

(5) Howell's father instead goes to wait in the car.

(6) Howell's 'Aunt' Winny's children are also Wiccans.

(7) Howell escapes through the rusted window as the Boyscout enters the washroom

(8) The circumference of a circle is equal to pi times the diameter of the circle.

(9) Howell's 'aunt' Winny, Howell's 'aunt' Winny's husband, and Howell's mother decide to go for coffee at Howell's home, leaving a note for Howell's father to find as well as Howell's sister, and Howell's 'Aunt' Winny's children.

(10) Wolfsbane, is not, in fact, poison oak.

(11) At least some of this is superfluous.

Keeping all this in mind, it should be clear as a dime store soda glass what is about to happen next. Of course, if ' Howell encounters twin thirteen year old girls drawing a magical circle in the dirt' was your guess, then you would be one hundred percent correct. Any guesses involving tea parties, charmingly embarrassing romantic encounters with boy scouts, spilt ice cream, or cheese sandwiches would of course be wrong. Mostly wrong. Wrong in the same way that Left is the opposite of Right wrong.

The Second thing that Howell did after encountering 'Aunt' Winnie's twin thirteen year old daughters in the woods was to point out the poison Oak they were using to mark out the points of the five pointed star of their circle. The girls in question probably would have preferred if this was the first thing that Howell did when he encountered them, but it was not quite their lucky day. The first thing that Howell did upon encountering them in their grove was to correct their 'spell'. Howell was not quite sure why he knew that the spell was not going to go right, or why he was sure it wasn't going to do anything at all. He was even less sure how he knew that the star was pointing in the wrong direction, or that the twin, thirteen year old girls in the clearing had about as much magical ability as Road gravel (8). But Howell refused to let this bother him because he knew, as well as anyone else, that Magic didn't work. It didn't exist, or at least that was what his mother, father, and sister had always told him. His mother, father and sister seemed to be the authority on such things

" I don't know why We should listen to him, White Pumpernickel" Said the first and tallest of the girls after Howell had informed them of their error. She had painted a white star under her left eye, and was contriving to look as terribly impressive as possible. She had dressed herself entirely in black

" I dunno Janie, The book says that we shouldn't ignore the random advice of strangers," said the second, and obviously subordinate twin, now identified as 'white pumpernickel', " And White Pumpernickel is a dumb name. I want to be something cool like Gywnifred Starseer"

" I told you not to call me Janie! My name is Aurelia Swan Moondaughter, and don't you forget it." replied the first twin, "Not – Janie".

" Ja- I mean Aurelia, how come you get a cool name and I don't?" whined White Pumpernickel.

" Because I thought them up, that's why!" This type of logic is always unfalsifiable. Not – Janie Aurelia Swan Moondaughter had decided on their momentous re naming on a whim one day, and had chosen a combination of words that to her, sounded dramatic, romantic and pretty (9). She had also decided, on a whim, that Pumpernickel would make an awfully good name for a cat or familiar, and had thus decided to christen her sister as such. The need for second names was determined on the whim that it made their unpracticed and ill advised magical pursuits more dramatic, tense, and neat. She had always thought Jane was a terribly dull name anyway, and Hanna (the name of her shy, practical sister) was not much better. Howell took this time to inform them of the second thing. Both girls dropped their leaves like they were writhing snakes.

" What are you trying to do?" Howell asked curiously. After all, this was ten times more interesting than waiting for Megan to notice the blob of cream on her cheek.

" Jane's trying to get rid of her acne" White Pumpernickel -formerly known as Hanna started, as Not – Janie Aurelia Swan Moondaughter cut her off with:

" To summon the otherworldly denizens of the spirit world to rid me of this horrific curse!" This was delivered with much dramatic gesturing and pacing. Howell now saw that the white star painted underneath her eye actually concealed a dark red bump the diameter of a soda straw.

" Oh. " Howell said, plopping himself down on a cool hump of grass just outside their circle to watch, " It's not gonna work you know."

" Silence Imbecile!" cried the taller of the two twins. They must have not been identical, because Aurelia Swan Moondaughter had black hair. Howell thought that black hair was cool, and didn't know what Imbecile meant, so he smiled at her anyway. Formerly Hanna White Pumpernickel had the same naturally ruddy brown hair that his 'Aunt' Winnie did. The former drew herself up again, " Sister! Bring me the tome!"

" Y'mean the spell book mum got you for our birthday?" She asked, drawing the pink and black covered book out of her bag. The title read: ' A girls book of Spells: 101 fun charms and enchantments you can do at home'. There were stars outlined in glitter. The 'tome' was handed over, and Aurelia shooed her sister to the other side of the circle. Formerly Hanna did as her sister instructed, and Howell looked on with interest. He had no idea that people actually did this sort of thing of their own free will outside of television programs.

The sisters began to chant, led by Aurelia, reading from her book. It was some nonsense about birds or fairies, or even quite possibly ghosts. Howell wasn't paying attention, because he was waiting for something to happen. Of course, nothing did, but it didn't stop Aurelia Swan Moondaughter from immediately retrieving her heart shaped pocket mirror (The frame painted a suitably Witchy black) and rubbing off the white star. Staring back at her, as we can all predictably assume was a little angry red bump.

" Told you it wouldn't work." Howell snickered from the sidelines. This was indeed, even better than watching Megan inevitably freak out when she realized that the cream had dripped down her cheek onto her shirt.

" Well do you think you could do better you little -- " The enraged girl began to scream

" Shh Janie, Don't hurt him!" Hanna said, restraining her sister. Hanna was clearly the more reasonable one of the pair, " Hey, you're 'aunt' Lorrie's kid aren't you" She added in realization. She had also clearly grasped the odd intricacy of Howell's mother's relationship with her friend, "Howell, right?" Howell was understandably a bit disappointed. She had ruined his chance to appear the dark and mysterious newcomer. Howell was forced to shrug nonchalantly in order to preserve his cool.

" I could SO do better." Howell was forced to reply to the girl now going as Jane rather than Aurelia Swan Moondaughter. This claim was borne of Howell's natural belief in his own superiority over some dumb girl rather than any confidence he had in his ability to do magic of any kind. It would be utterly unthinkable for him to respond in any other way to the challenge.

" You can't do it. You're not a Witch." Jane (resuming the persona of Aurelia Swan Moondaughter) told him jabbing a black painted fingernail in his face. Howell thought that black painted fingernails were cool too.

" Why can't I be a witch? " He asked in response to the challenge. Again, and as always, there was no other suitable response.

" You're a boy," She huffed, but with a hint of smug satisfaction common to those confident that their argument was airtight. It probably would not have comforted her to know that Witch was not an entirely gender exclusive term, as some people will make any excuse to do exceedingly violent things to other people. If necessary, and when the Kindling is just waiting to burst into flame, Witch could easily be a gender neutral term.

" Then I'll be a Wizard," Howell said with determination. Being a wizard would be infinity not normal. On a normal scale of one to ten, Howell figured, Wizard was probably sitting in the zeroish range (10), " and I'll be a better one than you."

" It can't hurt to let him try Janie" Howell heard the shorter twin say. People often say this phrase, and often, where Howell is concerned, they are often wrong.

"Fine. But I'm not letting him use my wand." Aurelia (etc.) said, gesturing to the gnarled, knotted white stick that was lying in the grass just outside the circle. Howell had rather mistook it for a forest cast off. Someone had painted black and silver stars on it.

" I don't need your dumb wand." Howell informed her huffily, and proceeded to draw a circle of his own. It was much smaller, and far less dramatic looking. Howell was barely even aware of what he was doing. All he knew was that it felt right. He was barely aware of the two girls behind him, or sound of the traffic or ... anything really. He was too busy concentrating on the warm, fuzzy feeling in his stomach. It made him feel like nothing he'd ever felt like before. It tasted like hot metal in his mouth and like fuzzy caterpillars in his ears, and several other easily described generic sensations used to describe something that was not quite any of them, and not quite perfectly normal.

Someone must have grabbed him then, because he lost the feeling all together and quite suddenly. Howell opened his eyes to see the twins staring at him with concern, even Jane, who had, to his knowledge been glaring at him with at least a rattlesnake's worth of venom. The sun was considerably further advanced in the sky than it had been, and Howell realized that he was standing a quarter of a way through a circle three times as large as the one the girls had produced.

" Are you okay?" Hanna exclaimed as her sister shouted: " That was totally insane!"

" WhadIdo?" Howell muttered at them, still not entirely sure what was going on and trying desperately to recapture that alien feeling.

" There was lights and Then all the frogs started going and then it stopped and Hanna said that we should wake you up and You totally have to do it again so I can see!" Jane Aurelia Swan Moondaughter exclaimed all in one breath. Lack of punctuation notwithstanding, Hanna looked almost as eager as Jane.

Howell tried again. Needless to say It didn't work, no matter how hard he tried to mimic the feeling.

He kept trying for four years.

(1) Two scoops of raisins or other dried fruit product notwithstanding, one probably could have placed this kid in any wholesome cereal commercial of their choice and he would fit right in.

(2) For the well read, or at least those well versed in the schoolyard banter and insult entomology, Dork would immediately be associated with certain private sections of a Sperm whale's anatomy. Others might take it as: ' An antisocial individual with an unhealthy obsession with table top RPGs, trading cards, and pretending to be someone (generally an elf) named Balzor the Crusher.

(3) Notwithstanding that some people might claim that seven still counted as 'little', everyone knows that any time when you were less than half your current height, or half your current age, you are allowed to refer to yourself as little.'

(4) This is not strictly true. He had of course been before, but just didn't remember, as is the case with most standardized childhood experiences, such as church, baptisms, weddings, socials, and other events that occur in a church.

(5) And that only happened once, to be fair.

(6) When you are seven, space aliens always exist. Always.

(7) Retardation in the sense of slowing down. Not that, in fact, it appears to be possible.

(8) As charming and useful as road gravel is, if you recognize the repetition of this fact, you pay far too much attention to the Author, and She should probably be afraid of you. Now having usefully pointed it out, it should be clear to her that someone will in fact, bother to look it up.

(9) Admit it. You did this when you were thirteen too. Consequently 'Aurelia' is also a type of jellyfish and the name of a female bodybuilder in Britain. Jane, needless to say, did not know this.

(10) Howell had not yet learned about the wonderful world of negative numbers, and was not very good at math in any case.

Also, before anyone gets really, overly angry at me, I'm working off the assumption that Howell knows about as much about Wiccans as he does space aliens, and that Aurelia Swan Moondaughter knows just about as much as he does. Nothing here was ever intended to be an accurate representation of the religion.

Having fun yet? I know I am (evil grin)

Extranote: This chapter has been re edited – minor changes, not worth a re read, none of them are plot