Her power has been stripped from her like fingernails, and her true form has been revealed. It's huddled under a thin, tattered blanket, filthy with mud and blood.
see her cape? gifted by Satan! that's how she flies about at nights...
Was she beautiful? Maybe. Compared to now, definitely.
They tell of hair, thick and wavy and bright in the sunshine, that hung nearly to her waist. Mind you, they say almost anything.
Hardly enough darkly matted strings to cover her scarred scalp, now. She peeps out of the lank curtain at the villagers. The contempt she finds in their faces hits her like the whip. She flinches.
These hands will never again write about the properties of hyssop, or how to make a tincture of chamomile, or how feverfew could treat headaches.
She nurses them in her lap, vainly trying to cushion them from the jolting. Fingers so long now, each one crooked and broken. The blood, copious, has dried black.
A child peeps from a mother's skirts. Horror and innocence writ plain on that rounded face! Pity couldn't be stirred from adults (driving their sanctimonious outrage at her like nails), but here there's hope.
Movement must be slow and careful, against the pain, or else whip-quick, to suffer as little as possible. She reaches in supplication. Wordless, because they cut out her tongue, lest it weave a single spell.
the wretched hag creeps close and lurches, hooked claws reaching for the infant
Her pained grunt reveals a mouthful of scant tombstones, blackened and crooked, to match her fingers.
it shrieks, eyes flashing
The child is pulled away.
She knows where they're taking her, can smell the oil being poured, stacked cedar awaiting the torch...
Oh, they're a superstitious, hypocritical lot! No amount of cedar could cleanse this.
When they drag her from the cart, she stumbles on fractured feet. Stooped, skeletal, she's nothing like the sturdy woman in the wood cottage who made teas and balms. Nobody connected her to the one who helped when that woman birthed twins last month, and they got stuck. They lived, too, all three.
She prays, to any god who might be listening, to make the smoke honey-thick, so it chokes her before the flames reach her feet.
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Word count: 366
(NB. This excludes the title, subtitle, and author's note.)
Submitted on Sunday 29th September at 18:01
The story behind the story: This is a story for Marie Sinadjan's Spooky Bingo, using the theme "Forest Witch". Who even knows what pattern I'm after at this point!
Just a reminder that no one ever burned witches. They burned women. That is scary.
who knows why we were taught to fear the witches, and not those who burned them alive?
A Year of Stories: I'm writing (and submitting, here) a story every day this year. This continues my 272 daily microfiction story streak since 1st January.
ONLY NINETY-THREE DAYS TO GO!
Please consider lending your support to the other creators on this madcap "a story every day" adventure. They're putting out excellent content every day!
Rachel Deeming
Gerard DiLeo
Thank you
Especially if you are one of the wonderful people who has been staunchly reading these daily scribbles since the start of the year. I see you, and appreciate you very much indeed!
Thank you to those who leave feedback/comments. I'm going to be slower to respond to each one and reciprocate the reads, as life gets in the way... but I'll catch up in a week or two.
If you enjoyed this one, the very best compliment you can give me is to share it, or read another!
Just a couple of days left on my dollar challenge!
and here's my review and summary of the recent Unreliable challenge:
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Thank you again!
About the Creator
L.C. Schäfer
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Keep reading
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Comments (15)
Loved the story can’t say that I wasn’t hoping she would stretch out one of those gnarled fingers and cast a last spell to burn em all while she watched
Strong closing line, and I like the interjection of their thoughts to contrast with her actual intentions/actions. Some vivid descriptions in here LC- “ The contempt she finds in their faces hits her like the whip. She flinches.”, and “scant tombstones” for teeth is great. This is sad and awful and even more so with the second-to-last paragraph:/
This was so heartbreaking! I felt so sad for her 😭😭😭
I hate, hate. Deeply disturbing but well written story.
Can’t beat all those good folk burning the “witches” - feel like this is still so relevant today. Great work.
Wow! This story revels in aspects of Nathaniel Hawthorne's satirical writings about the Puritans, but also reflects, more contemporaneously, like Arthur Miller's The Crucible. Is it weird that I found the line "horror and innocence writ plain on that rounded face" most beautifully and poetically penned? You really outdid yourself - I loved this so much.
Your descriptions almost make me feel bad for the old woman, almost. Well written, L.C.
This is fantastic, I love this! 😍
I often wonder, throughout history, how often this story has played out.
Such a powerful piece, LC. People are scared by what they can’t understand and would rather destroy it. Witch-burning was such a horrific page in the history of humanity.
Such a sad, pitiful, and horrific piece. It’s horrible that our instinct is to kill that—and who—we do not understand. Well done.
A story that totally gathers you into the sympathy and the horror.
Has there ever been a creature so savage as a human? Excellent writing, once again.
This one hits hard, L.C. Well done! I'll have to take a look at the challenge.
I feel so sad for her and hope she gets away. The piece is fabulous.