Fleeing Fern ran along the animal tracks she knew so well. Undergrowth lashing her legs, the tree branches closing in on her hair and skin, Fern was oblivious to the pain or the sound of the mob bellowing behind.
”Find the witch, before she puts the curse on someone else.”
Continue reading“Whisky Gamma zero-niner,” the comm said. “Hopkins, it’s time. Go shake that moneymaker.”
“Copy that,” I replied, nosediving into the canyon, a grin spreading across my face. “Let’s go fuck up E.T.”
This was the bit I loved, where adrenaline and training kicked in, asI dodged and jinked my fighter at incredible speeds in a space barely wider than the wingspan. Above me, the cruiser started laying down covering fire as I ran a few fast delta rolls and let loose with the cannon.
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Annus Dominus 1287. Western Gate, Swansea
John lifted his eyes from the gibbet and groaned at the stench. The De Braose family had trusted him with captaining the hanging party: he could smell a traitor and a murderer. William, as leader of the Oystermouth Castle Revolt, was both. If the cross beam had not buckled under the weight of that other Judas, the second hanging would have been avoided; John would have had the time to take his victuals – time denied due to William’s obstinacy in reviving… twice.
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An unexpectedly early inheritance: poor Aunt Hettie shouldn’t have died so early, and Janine hadn’t considered the implications. However, hearts wear out, and as a result, Janine now owned a largish suburban house and just enough income to enable early retirement from a dull, mid-rank civil service post. Janine stepped out of her job and (at last) from an unsatisfactory marriage, kicking them both aside like dirty clothing. Free!
The house had a lovely garden backing on to a small copse. There was ample time in Janine’s rethought life to take on beekeeping, two hives of bees soon making good use of the garden.
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At the edge of town just beyond the last sprinkle of houses was a small field. Stevie walked to it, her mind as dark as a seabed. Why me? she thought. Why have I been picked out? I wanted just one thing, never asked for anything else. And it’s taken from me.
The small herd in the field was turning, having heard the farmer’s call, fifteen or so beasts clumping slowly through the wet grass towards him.
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Winchester Hall had seen better days. Not especially photogenic or a marvel of design, it nevertheless stood proudly between tall oak trees whilst a meandering river coiled around it.
This site was infamous for the legend of Lady Elaine Winchester, accused witch who was rumoured to haunt the grounds.
“Of course,” the groundskeeper informed me, during our steady trek up to the property, “the witchcraft charge was all hogwash. Her accuser, Simon Mathers who was just eyeing the estate, cooked up the witchcraft crap, and after he had her hung, brought the house from her dissolute and estranged son. Oh, and before she died, she vowed to kill any descendant of Mathers who’d dare step foot in her house, and to do everything in her power to help her descendants reclaim their ancestral home. Do you know what happened next?”
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Her living room is modest; a faded hand-stitched rug, aging armchairs, and bare surfaces adorned by little other than books. Of the latter, there is an abundance. Stacks ten deep, crammed shelves, and an overflow surrounding the chairs like learned sentries guarding against ignorance.
Witchfinder Smith rubs his chin. Not the home of a dark-artist, he thinks. It feels more professorial than satanic. Intellectuals are banned, but they aren’t witches. Besides, intellectuals are not his concern, being in the purview of the Bureau of Acceptable Knowledge, not the Witchfinder General.
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HOMEWORK for deadline Thursday midnight, 21.11.24.
TASK: ‘Witch-hunt’. Write 500 words or fewer about ‘Witch-hunt’. Your story title isn’t included in the 500 words.
Homework to be in by midnight, Thursday 21st November 2024.
Meeting at 1.30pm, Sunday 24.11.24, Discovery Room, 1st floor, Central library. Finish at 3.30pm.
Please send your homework to Pat.