I am so bored that I decided to start this. I have new respect for people who type stories on their phone. I had to go to landscape just to type. Except then I couldn't see what I was typing.
Once upon a time, there lived a young and average looking witch in the middle of the city. She was determined to escape the notice of witch hunters by going against every stereotype humans had of witches.
She didn't ride a broom. Her house was of modern design, airy, well lit, and always clean. She had a large network of friends, most of which had no magic. Her only pet was a little, white dog who always barked when someone carrying flowers came to the door. She wore flowery dresses as if it was always summer. Her laugh was often compared to bells. Her garden held no herbs, only her prize winning tulips.
And she succeeded. For hundreds of years. Or she would have if she hadn't told her boyfriend she was a witch. Her boyfriend turned out to be a witch hunter. He turned her in, and she was burnt at the stake (The only stereotype she ever suffered). This story is not about her life (and subsequent burning), nor is it about any relations she might or might not have left behind.
No, this story is about someone completely different. This story is about the young child in the crowd who watched her burn. Who watched her accept her fate, too shocked that this is what her life ended up as to do anything else. The child who swore that she would change the world so that no others would have to burn to the cheers of their friends. The child who would eventually grow up and live one of the most ridiculous lives ever heard of.
YOU ARE READING
Never Forthwith
FantasyA young child watches a witch burning and is scarred for life. Just not in the way people would expect. Not actually about witch burnings and more interesting than it sounds.
