I'm living Murphy's Law with a magical twist. If something can go wrong, it will. Monsters show up. And then I die.
And then I die again, and again, and again.
I'm stuck in a time loop, and the mistakes I have to fix aren't even mine. Some idiot in the coven causes a hiccup in my plans, and I have to start over.
The only person who will listen to me isn't a person at all. It's a ceramic garden gnome.
It's possible I lost my marbles on the road to Marshmallow.
But if I can't figure out how to manipulate this ragtag group of witches into making the right choices, I know where this loop takes me.
To the end of the world.
Life's a witch, and then you die.
Unless you're me.
One hundred forty years in, my body won't quit. Sure, I'm slower than I used to be, and I can't complete a simple task without setting off a chain reaction of pain in my joints. But my heart keeps on ticking.
Immortality is my curse. It's also my greatest blessing.
I've lived long enough to see my daughter come back from the dead. But she's not the only magical being to show up in Marshmallow.
There's trouble like our magical little town has never seen.
I fear my coven of fledgling witches aren't prepared for the battle ahead. I must rise to the challenge or risk losing my coven, my town, and my daughter for the second time.
People suck. Magic sucks harder.
After a two-decade marriage ends with my husband's disappearance, I'm left to wonder: did he run off with another woman? Or is he dead?
And which one is worse?
Before I can answer that, I turn into a chicken. A real one. The kind that fears KFC.
I want nothing to do with Marshmallow's magic community, but somehow, I keep getting pulled into its drama.
There are only two choices-keep hiding from the new reality of my life, or embrace the weird, the magic, and the feathers.
It's taken forty-three years for me to become the person I was always meant to be. Chicken shifter, witch, or whatever the new me is, I'm going to rock it. Anyone who doesn't like it can cluck off.
Scrapbooking is magic, and so am I. Or at least I would be, if I could take a freaking nap already.
What kind of dream witch can't even make herself fall asleep? A tired witch. A middle-aged, raising-her-teenage-son-alone witch.
I'm supposed to keep the magic world a secret. I'm supposed to dream the future. But supposed-to's are for suckers. At forty-one, I'm done with doubt. And I'm not about to let anyone else tell me what I can or can't do.
My life is a scrapbook, a collection of adventures, each one leading to the next until every page is full. I'm learning, adapting, growing. Armed with my sleepy sloth tea and my golden spork, and with my coven by my side, I'll take on every challenge that comes my way.
Nightmares better watch their backs, because I'll be sporking them.
I knew hot flashes were supposed to be hot, but I didn't expect flames.
One day I'm in anger management, normalizing the cordial hate between me and my husband.
The next, we're divorced and he has taken both our house and the business we built together. I'm forty years old and living above our empty restaurant, plotting my next move.
And then the world around starts lighting up-literally catching on fire. I'm starting to think my defining characteristic may not be my snark or my cupcake-baking prowess, but spontaneous combustion.
I'm done suppressing my anger. I'm done playing by other people's rules. Ready to take the reins on my destiny, I'm making the choices I used to be too afraid to make. Like my favorite cast iron skillet, women get better with age. And at forty, I know exactly who I am and what I want.
I'll embrace the fire and the fury. This is my life, and I'm in control.
