Supernatural Taxes

1) My mom gets into a shouting match with my witty dead grandma.

Atla woke up around 10AM to the smell of bacon and coffee. She'd returned to her parents' house in Rotterdam for the weekend and was enjoying the last morning in her old bed; she nuzzled the pillow a while longer, not wanting to think about the uncomfortable day ahead.

Atla eventually stopped procrastinating and got up, she nicked her noggin on the crossbeam overhead and climbed down the attic's ladder. She shambled towards the kitchen with a yawn.

"I thought that would wake you," smiled her mother, Miranda, as she dropped sizzling bacon onto Atla's plate.

"Mmm, Morning," she hummed, sat at the square table then grabbed the jam and toast. Her mom got a call from work which she answered immediately, her job as an event organiser required her to be available even on Sunday mornings. While listening Miranda unconsciously paced the room, straightened items and packed away unused utensils.

The combined kitchen and dining area was small and tidy, attached to the fridge with magnets were calendars and loose photographs. Some were awkward school photos, others showed Atla with her parents, taken at local concerts and various Rotterdam festivals.

Her mom said, "Sure thing, I'll have it revised tomorrow," then hung up. She clicked her tongue at indecisive clients, straightened the holiday jar then sat to eat breakfast with Atla and her dad. The holiday jar was something Atla's parents tried to fill every week with extra notes and coins wherever they could spare them, they wanted to go on a second honeymoon abroad and they almost had enough now after two years. Atla was all for her parents spoiling themselves for once and pitched in a little despite their protests whenever she returned from university.

To Atla's left her dad frowned through his thick framed glasses and long bangs at the paper, the coffee next to him was cold.

Atla downed a glass of orange juice, blew a strand of dark auburn hair out of her face and broached the topic, "When's the memorial?"

Her dad shook himself then took a sip of his coffee that he immediately regretted. He swallowed and pointed at an article in the obituaries section of the paper, "At 3pm..." he trailed off again, this time it was her mom's turn to reel him back.

"What's wrong dear?"

"Henry called yesterday, told me he's coming to the memorial," he said. Of the three siblings, uncle Henry was the most estranged to Atla's grandmother. That was saying something since Atla hadn't seen her gran in well over a decade. She vaguely remembered (or imagined) a kind woman with a clever or even juvenile smile but was not confident to pick her out of a line-up of old people.

"Why would your brother come? There won't be anything to inherit, will there?"

Her dad nodded and straightened his collar, "Knowing my mother and how she passed away, there probably isn't much left after the debts are settled," he smiled sadly. He'd been doing that a lot the past few days.

"There's still the magic," chipped in Atla, her mom had told her of grandma Ruth's gambling addictions, "One of Chelsie's courses is Supernatural Law and she said that Magic and the grimoires it holds can't be traded, sold or used to pay debt without going through the Supernatural Affairs office."

"But why would anyone want to inherit that? " Asked Miranda critically, "Nobody needs Magic these days..."

When Atla's dad finished his breakfast and wandered off Miranda pulled the paper to her and found an obituary written by someone named Gorock. He had no last name so he was probably a dwarf.

Atla watched her mom's fingers chase her eyes as she absorbed the piece, stopping only once on the words, "A great role model," to have a slightly insensitive laugh. Miranda had always been clear in her disdain for Atla's gran, her unexpected death hadn't changed that.