september 2019 second place: the right harold by ellie griffiths

Cooking a stew was laughably easy for a witch. Brewing a memory was significantly harder. And given that her last stew had smelled like a dead cat, things didn't bode well for Barbara's latest concoction.

She'd paid a nice young lady to hunt for the rusty cauldron from her school days in the attic, where it was eventually found lurking under Harold's old rugby socks. Both cauldron and socks had been brought to the kitchen, where Barbara was in a pickle.

The socks were too much for the poor memory. Tasting it, she found herself freezing by a rugby pitch watching her mud-splattered husband run past. Not what she wanted. She heated the cauldron near to boiling, half full instead of half empty, then gave it a stir with rose tinted glass. After a few rose petals and chocolate curls, it was glowing pink. A spoonful later, a handsome lad grinned at her, brandishing a bouquet. Barbara shook her head. A lovely memory, but that Harold had been gone for decades.

His favourite mug went in next. Barbara frowned as the memory turned white. She tentatively tasted it, finding herself on her own sofa. Harold snoozed in his armchair, mouth open, his body emaciated. Right where I left him, she thought. And it was true; Harold had died in that armchair the same night.

Through stinging tears, she kept trying. Countless Harolds appeared. Old, young, fit, frail, angry, loving. But none of them were the right one. She wanted her Harold. The perfect memory of him, for when she missed him too much to bear.

As night fell, she realized. There was no perfect memory, just as there was no perfect person. She set the lid on the cauldron.

Her own memories, with their own magic, would be enough.

Eleanor Griffiths lives in Nottingham, England. She recently graduated from university, where she studied chemistry. As well as writing, she enjoys cooking, art and rock climbing in her spare time.