The door to the cottage opened, but it was not the witch herself who appeared. Tildy, now thirteen, sprang lightly from the threshold with a basket on her arm. She wore a plain brown dress with embroidered flowers and twisting vines all along the hems. Her hair, far too short for custom in those days, seemed of varying color. In the morning sun, it glowed light and flaxen, but as dusk approached, it seemed to darken in the gloaming. Her small pale face and button features were well suited to the hair length, though she was otherwise unremarkable in appearance as far as girls went, much to the approval of the witch.
While I have an initial image Tildy at the beginning of her first story, that’s less important to me than writing a character that readers can relate to or see in themselves. Besides, the way a person looks at 13 is far different than they will look at 18. And this is truer for Tildy than most children.
© Michael Wallevand, June 2021