Black Magic

Lacy’s shop is packed with found objects. Townpeople claim magic hides within them. Some say good, others whisper wicked.
Mamma says, “Nope, you ain’t goin’ in!” Today I disobey. The bell above the door jingle-jangles. Lacy shoots me the stink-eye. Don’t care. Her store smells like magic: dried rosemary, old books, mouse droppings. I rattle a bowl of colored shells, rub the forehead of a human skull. Lacy raises an eyebrow. I shuffle on.
When Mamma finds me, she shakes me hard. Twirls me towards a mirror. My eyes are purple cowry shells and my curly blonde hair has vanished.