Young Writers Society

She’d only wanted some Red Leicester.

As usual, the rational side of her brain had been, well, rational. Go to Tesco, Heather, it had said. If you go to Tesco, you can pick up crackers as well.

But the pyjama goblin side of her brain hadn’t liked that at all. The pyjama goblin side preferred to spend fifteen minutes scrabbling beneath the sofa cushions looking for her wand, and then a further fifteen scouring Google for food-conjuring spells. By the time she’d got everything ready, wand in hand, runes aligned in a slapdash position on the kitchen floor, she could’ve run to Tesco and back twice.

But no matter. Heather waggled her wand, tightening her grip as the wooden tip began to glow. If you played dot-to-dot with the scorch marks on her lino, you’d scribble out the entire thing. Her mother liked to point that out when she visited.

The wand carved an arc in the air, trailing blue mist. A silence. The lights flickered.

Then came a wet pop, and a glob of mozzarella dropped out of the air, slapping against her bare foot. She looked down at it for a few seconds, shaking the slimy water from her toes, and then kicked it into the corner of the room. She turned back to the runes. Twisted a few this way, that way, polished a handful on her pyjama top, and put them back into the ring.

Another wand wave, another trail of fog. Green this time, and more of it. It condensed as a shiny film on the windows, giving them the look of pond water. She’d have great fun scrubbing that off.

A slab of gorgonzola splattered on the kitchen counter, two feet away from where she’d intended to conjure it. The smell hit like a bomb – she clapped her hand to her face, the wand knocking painfully against her teeth. Swearing, breathing shallowly, she cranked the filmy window open and hurled the oozy thing out into the night air. A cat screeched.

Another rearrangement. Another wand wave. Red mist.

Four separate cubes of Edam tumbled down her front, bouncing away like dice. She gathered them up stacked them into a column on the counter.

She swapped the runes. Flourished the wand. Grey smoke.

Feta. She stowed it in the fridge for another time.

Purple smoke. Brie hit the lino.

Orange mist. A volley of halloumi slices rained down, slapping the floor like flip flops against tarmac.

Pink trails. Mascarpone spurted over her leg.

Heather knuckled her eyes and bit down hard on the insides of her cheeks. She just wanted Red Leicester. That was all she wanted.

One last time, she arranged the runes. She touched her finger to each of them, testing the angles, whispering luck charms. She polished the tip of the wand – with the actual cloth, not on her trousers. She breathed in and out through her nose, hand on her chest, feeling the dip and swell of her breath.

She flicked her wrist. A wisp of cloudy white streamed through the kitchen.

Then milk – a sheet of milk, crashing like the tide against a breakwater, rushed through her hair and over the grooves of her face, pouring into her gasping mouth. When she opened her eyes, pale droplets clinging to her eyelashes, the puddle was an inch deep, making islands of the fallen halloumi slices.

Some milk, the rational side of her brain told her, is worth crying over.