HER PUTRID ART

I would never pose for the pictures she would paint. Ghastly, putrid greens that almost stank of rot and vomit. I knew that hse resented my refusal. Her lips would curl into a sneer when I entered the room. Icould hear the curses she aimed at me under her breath. I saw the hidden signs she made behind her hands. But I knew her only real powers lay in her painting...

I had watched the little boy toys she had talked into modelling waste away, turn a sickly green and slowly liquefy. All closed casket funerals, since there was nothing left to see but festering green stew... it was very clear that something had to be done about her.

But despite her pretensions as a witch, she had no idea where her real magic lay. She honestly mourned her lost boy toys, wondering what strange disease was stealing them away from her, even going to the clinic to get checked for STDs. But no clinic could detect such an illness...

I, however, knew. I am well-versed in certain less quotidian skills and lore. I had known others like her, filled with certain unusual (and, in her case, less than pleasant) talents, but completely unaware of these abilities, and so prone to unwittingly unleashing them where they would least desire. As you can see, however much her pettiness might annoy me, she did not deserve to die. She just needed to be taught who she was...