Elvira is spelling-bee practicing when it happens.
Grass, G-R-A-S-S, sprouts through the carpet.
Trap, T-R-A-P, locks Greg in the bathroom.
Rain, R-A-I-N, floods the playground.
It’s Halloween, and her magic can’t tell spelling from spells.
In the auditorium wings, Elvira hopes for an easy-to-hide word. Maybe bug, B-U-G.
She steps to the microphone.
“Your word is ‘frog.’”
“Fog, f-o-g, fog,” she whispers, a mist drifting past.
“Not fog, frrrrrrog.”
“Frog, F-”
Idea!
“Are-Oh-Gee, FROG!” she says, holding the words in her head.
Proud of herself, she hops back in line, and her tongue slurps a nice, tasty fly. F-L-Y.
Quincy Trochue 