To say she was petite would be an understatement. Maybe 110 pounds (soaking wet) standing at a mere 5’1”. 5’9” … if she were wearing the hat. Which she always was. With its pointed peak and floppy broad brim. She had to, or- “People would walk right over me!”- she’d say with a pleasant giggle.
Blue/grey eyes peered from beneath its brim, wide with interest and wonder. Above a warm smile. Soft features framed by a silvery blonde mane which hung to the small of her back.
Her dresses were modest, just below the knee affairs, always black. Not a gothic fashion statement. But what she could afford, as she made her own clothes. Always topped with an oversized, multi-patched, much-loved “librarians” sweater as she was always just a little chilly.
And she was a witch. You could tell by just looking. And if you couldn’t…? She’d tell you without pride or shame if asked.
Three years had gone by since she’d inherited her grandmother’s used bookstore and house in the town of Raven’s Fall. In the interim integrating herself in the community. Looking to make friends and fit in.
Founding, ordering volumes and leading a book club with the bookstore’s regulars. Donating her time and magical puppeteering skills at the town library. To share her love for books during the children’s corner. Adding her sweet soprano to the choir at the local Methodist church every Sunday morning. And no bake sale was complete with out the little witch’s tasty homemade treats.
She’d made many friends along the way. The closest being Tomas Flanders, the retired postman who lived next door. Whom she’d befriended early on. As she couldn’t push her cumbersome mower in the spring, and he couldn’t balance on a flying broomstick to empty his gutters in the fall. Many an evening in between was shared over hands of bridge, chess and checker boards and cups of her home brewed herbal tea.
Everything was going splendid… until it wasn’t. No one had any qualm with the little witch… until they did. When, for reasons of… jealousy? Self-righteousness? Spite? Misguided beliefs? the right (or perhaps wrong?) person pointed out what everyone already knew. That she was a WITCH.
In fear of associating with witches, people dropped out of the book club and stopped patronizing the bookstore. Not wanting their children exposed to witchcraft, her services were no longer needed at the library. They replaced her in the choir, saying it might be best if she became a lapsed parishioner. No one wanted to buy her wares at the bake sales – might have a spell on them. Worst of all, rumors began to circulate about her “relations” with her much older neighbor.
Fortunately, Tomas had little use for idle gossip. And together they prepared treats and decorated her home for All Hallows Eve. Despite their best efforts, no children came to call. Until later that night when some teenagers took it upon themselves to egg, roll and graffiti her home.
Tomas helped her clean up and she fell into bed disheartened that night, amidst tears and the smell of… smoke. Racing outside she was confronted by a pitchfork and torch wielding mob. Who had taken it upon themselves to burn her house down to a monotonous chat of- “BURN THE WITCH!”
The little witch looked on in horror as her grandmother’s house burned. Tomas, hearing the commotion, raced across the yard- “Have you people gone mad?”- his garden hose in tow… to no avail. Having little to no effect on the fire, he turned the spray onto the mob. “He’s got a gun!” someone cried and from the crowd a single gunshot issued.
Dropping the hose, clutching his nightshirt, where a bright rose blossomed, Tomas crumpled to the sidewalk. All fell silent. The only sound that of the crackling fire, as the little witch knelt beside her only friend.
The fire blazed, the silence drew out and then… the little witch spoke as though she were speaking in the children’s corner again. “Now boys and girls, if you survive in this cruel world remember this night well… this is where wicked witches come from.” She took a deep breath, that threatened to pull their souls from their bodies and the night echoed with her dark cackle.
AFTERWORD: Thus, we conclude this year’s Hell-o-ween metaphorically. Either you get it or you don’t. If you can relate- you are not alone. If you can’t… innocent bystanders, who haven’t a clue as to what’s going on, comprise the bulk of most angry mobs.
I welcome almost all questions, comments via Focus, or E-mail me at [email protected]. Hope to hear from ya, until then try and stay focused! See ya.
