By Alyson Faye
The shadow creeping across Lizzy’s bedroom bent over her. Giant shadow fingers, thick as tar, stroked her face, then her lips. Next morning Lizzy couldn’t speak.
“We need to weave a willow web,” her mum announced.
They went out harvesting the willow wood early at dawn. It was dewy and bendy.
“We must wrap strands of your hair around the willow.”
At one a.m. the shadow thief came insinuating at the windowpane, pushing against the willow. Its long, black, inky arms reached in, grabbing at air. In fury, it roared. Glass shards descended.
Lizzy found her voice, yelling in triumph.
Phil Slattery, Writer, Publisher 