This Story Has a Title

Every story should have a title.An eminent one at that. If a story doesn't have a title there will be no start and if there is no start there is no story. But this story does have a title so there for there is a story, and here it is...

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2. Two

I turned around to see the perfect face of the witch. Her, tanned face framed by whitey gold halo of hair. Me, extremely pale with a mass of brown frizz that looked like a brown yetti had got hold of some explosives. Her, medium sized, skinny. Me, too tall and lanky. Her, all designer clothes, a cath kidston bag, and lots of accesories. Me, hand me downs and a scruffy leather jacket, one of my mum's old bags and mismatching earings(I liked them though). So very different. So different that you'd think she'd avoid me. But how wrong can you be! At first she just stood there waiting. I said nothing and after a bit the devil/demon/witchy thing spoke. In her angellic but evil voice she said "Mrs Gresham won't want you wearing that old thing" tugging at my leather jacket. "Mrs Gresham won't want you waering those either" I said looking down at her high heeled converse clad feet. "OI!" said the witch "These are brand new today! And anyway, I'm Mrs Gresham's favourite. I won't get told off!" She was right. Who was I kidding. Of couse she wouldn't get told off. She never did. I was about to turn back around again when she grabbed my shoulder.

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