Agnes was itching to fly again. Her broom had been in for repairs at Bart’s Broom Repairs since her untimely, embarrassing and rather painful collision with a bull, which had followed after flying through a cloud disguising a bolt of lightning. The clap of thunder that followed was also enough to rock her on her broomstick. She had been jolted off course and hurtled toward the ground, spiraling out of control, doing summersaults as she desperately tried to pull her Magnum 2020 back into line. These were tricks that would normally only be seen by a witch with vastly more years of flying experience, but Agnes was looking every bit the pro as she smashed the moves among the clouds. Like a bucking bronco, the air pockets were hard and had tossed her about like a rag doll. As a result, her custom-made broom, a gift from her mother, was in bad shape.
The bull wasn’t impressed, either. Agnes had tried to swoop, pulling the handle up hard, her eyes squinting, not wanting to see what her fate would be if she was eyeballed by the bull while he was mating. With her eyes closed tight on impact, Agnes skittled the bull and his mate, the three of them tumbling on the grass, sliding through freshly dropped, as well as hard crusty cowpats. The bull snorted his annoyance, his nostrils flaring, the cow, her brown eyes huge with horror, mooed mournfully, confused as to why her ‘afternoon delight’ was over so abruptly.