Six dark
figures stood sturdily inline.
Six nooses
hung from the creaking stand.
The crowd was
silent, dead silent.
Six witches,
old and dark, crept up to the stand.
One witch,
that one witch with her pointed nose and menacing eyes, grinned madly at the
trembling crowd.
Every person
had their eyes on her, almost as if they had been hypnotised.
One witch,
that witch, unsheathed her nimble fingers from her ripped pockets as the six
witches' heads were put into place.
Six ropes
tightened, the trap door was creaking under the witches’ distorted feet.
One terrified
man hoped not to die for killing a witch as he pulled the lever.
5 witches
hung lifeless on the ropes, yet one witch, that one witch, was not to be seen. Witches' laughter rang out over the spectators’ heads.
They ran, ran
as if the witch was after them.
The officials
walked up to the noose cautiously and fell to the floor in shock.
One witch no
longer had her neck wrapped in rope, that witch wasn’t even to be seen. Five of the
witch's bloody and bony fingers were left, wrapped around one eerie silver
bottle suspended on the noose.
No one knew
what had happened.
No one wanted
to.
by Luke Baxter
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