Greetings fellow Steemians! Here is my 13th "5" minute* freewrite. The prompt is: "witch with apple" (see image at bottom of page)
*Not 5 minute this time, 90 minute ;)
This piece is a continuation of yesterday's freewrite, and the thirteenth installment in an ongoing story. Let's see how long I can keep this up, using the prompts provided!
Part I: https://steemit.com/freewrite/@bennettitalia/freewrite-129-fingernail
Part II: https://steemit.com/freewrite/@bennettitalia/the-strangeling-part-ii-freewrite-130-wasps
Part III: https://steemit.com/freewrite/@bennettitalia/the-strangeling-part-iii-freewrite-131-solitude
Part IV: https://steemit.com/freewrite/@bennettitalia/the-strangeling-part-iv-freewrite-132-gardening
Part V: https://steemit.com/freewrite/@bennettitalia/the-strangeling-part-v-freewrite-132-the-attic
Part VI: https://steemit.com/freewrite/@bennettitalia/the-strangeling-part-vi-freewrite-132-plaid
Part IX: https://steemit.com/freewrite/@bennettitalia/the-strangeling-part-ix-freewrite-137-witches
Part X: https://steemit.com/freewrite/@bennettitalia/the-strangeling-part-x-freewrite-138-syrup
Part XI: https://steemit.com/freewrite/@bennettitalia/the-strangeling-part-xi-freewrite-139-artichoke
Part XII: https://steemit.com/freewrite/@bennettitalia/the-strangeling-part-xii-freewrite-146-monkey
Freewriting is a daily practice for most poets and fiction writers, designed to loosen up and get things flowing, like stretching before exercise. Visual artists, especially those who draw or paint from life (figures, landscapes, still lives, etc) do something similar in "gesture drawings". After reading several of 
https://pixabay.com/en/medium-psychic-female-fantasy-woman-goth-1726601/
"Are you hungry dear?", a voice called.
She was sitting shotgun, smiling at me with a kindly expression that I was pretty sure I didn't trust. There was something artificial about it, manufactured...
As a little girl I'd had the ability to read people, to see underneath their skins, right through to their intentions, better than the other kids could. My friends had sometimes accused me of being a witch, but they'd always laughed when they said it. Teasing. Nobody had really thought I was.
Except for me. I'd thought I was. I'd been afraid of myself.
And then my parents had gone out, and not come back, and I'd seen it, known it was going to happen. And I hadn't said anything. Something had stopped my tongue. Was it the fear of myself? Of what I could do? No one else could see what I could see. If I was the only one who could see something coming, had I somehow created it?
I loved my parents. I'd wanted to stop them. But I knew they wouldn't believe me, that they'd ignore my entreaties. I'd seen all possible arguments playing out. They were going to leave no matter what. Pretending an epileptic fit wouldn't work. They'd caught on that those were fakes. If I claimed to have the flu, or made up some other frightening symptoms, they'd call the next door neighbor to come over and keep an eye on me, with instructions to call their cells if they were needed. By which time it would be too late. If I tried to physically attack them, my dad would wrap me expertly in his arms, relieve me of the kitchen knife or whatever other makeshift weapon I had grabbed, and carry me upstairs to my room and lock the door. They already knew how to deal with anything I could throw at them. I'd cried wolf before, too many times. I had no credit left. So instead of crying wolf, I stared at my artichoke, not answering when they said goodbye, my tears falling onto the plate, unnoticed by anyone but me.
And then the foster care system. And now the street. Maybe it was all my fault, and I was being punished. I couldn't trust myself anymore. I was a powerless witch.
This woman's smile gave me the creeps, but the tinfoil box of food she was holding out to me smelled amazing. Apple crumb pie.
"I promise it isn't poisoned" she laughed. A warm, throaty laugh which, like her speaking voice, might have been an affectation, or it might not.
By this time I'd stopped walking and was standing facing the van. That pie smelled good.
I held out my hands, and she placed the warm takeout container in them. It was a huge square of pie, more like cobbler, steaming in the cold damp city air. I thanked them, walked away, round the corner, holding off until I couldn't stand it anymore. I looked up and down the block, didn't see the van. I made for the nearest stoop and sat on the cold concrete steps, shoveling sweet hot delicious dessert into my mouth as fast as I could. Eating it felt so good, like a drug. Like I imagined heroin would feel. I had been starving, actually starving, not like when people say they're starving but really they just mean they're feeling peckish.
The last thing I remember was the van coming around the corner, the woman getting out, walking over to me, bending at the waist to look in my eyes. "You'd like to come with us now, wouldn't you?" she said. I nodded.
This woman was a witch, but she wasn't powerless.
Neither was the Rohypnol.
Image credit: 
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