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The Bed Witch When I was a kid, broomstraw cowlick flying away, she hid under the bed - - ready to bite if I sailed the ripe ripples that nuged my bedeviled dreams. Wakeful, listening, I'd hear her stir, crouching in the lint, twisting strands of my hair around knobby knuckles and clicking fuzzy teeth. Beneath my covers I'd freeze, stopping air and waiting for the dark death of sleep. Then she'd creep out, midnight breath stirring my fear, and I'd clinch everything. When I was a kid the bed witch ate me alive, every night.
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