“I don’t think I can,” Juniper said, her voice wavering.

“Well then it is a good I know you can. Now buck up, buttercup,” Rowena said. “Focus.”

The witches locked fingers. The round walnut table where their hands linked trembled. Overhead the kitchen light swayed. Juniper squeezed her eyelids closed. A whiff of ozone snapped and writhed.

“Breathe, honey. It’s very hard to tap into your powers when you’re passed out. Trust me, I’ve tried,” Rowena said.

Beads of sweat broke out on the younger witch’s forehead. A slight humming rose and grew louder and louder. Juniper gasped. There was a crack.

“Excellent and now pull,” Rowena said above the humming roar.

A carmine tendril sprouted. The table floated up and shuddered. Juniper reached out and pulled hard. Majestic magenta power sprang out. The table bumped on the floor.

“Did we make it?” Juniper asked.

“Yes, this it the realm of the lost, the forgotten, and the inexplicable. Behold rolling hills of tape, mountains of duck sauce packets. Behold the Junk Drawer. The power of potential is tremendous. And you, you have pulled us in, hon.”

Juniper sighed with relief. A pale landscape of old receipts and closed restaurant menus crunched underfoot. Shrubs of bone dry markers crowded their steps. The two witches scramble up and over slippery hills of plastic twist ties. They trudged towards the treeline of paperclips.

“Now let’s hurry for that key on the endless chain of keys of indeterminate uses. The Contorters will be here soon.”