A Witches Tale

A Witches Tale – a short piece of flash fiction. Hope you enjoy!

Everyone knows where there is death a witch is sure to be nearby. For everyone knows witches are the root of all things evil. They were so bad in Flowergate that the king decreed them as outlaws.

A long time ago, there lived a witch called Molly with bright orange hair and purple eyes. She lived hidden away in the forest, for she’d seen how the king treated witches. Molly longed to show him witches could be kind.

One day, she brewed a love potion in her cauldron. Bubbles popped and sparkled with a kaleidoscope of colours. Molly poured the potion into a bottle, pleased with her idea. She would give the potion to the handsome prince, who would fall in love with her and change the king’s mind about witches forever.

But on her way, Molly tripped over a stone. The potion flew out of her hand and landed in the mouth of a large toad that promptly drank it, finishing every drop. Molly cried, the potion gone and her plans ruined. The moon replaced the sun and the sky grew dark as Molly went home, the toad croaking loudly from the pocket on her cloak. She couldn’t leave behind after it looked at her with its big round eyes.

Molly kissed the toad goodnight and tucked herself into bed. A bright light flashed in the dark beside her. The toad had gone and in its place sat the king’s son. She’d gotten her prince after all.

Fire! Halp!

Oh. Right. Well, in one of my writing classes, we were asked to write a short piece that described Fire. It could be anything, but we had to try and keep each word to just one Syllable. Do you know how hard that is when describing something? I ended up writing the piece as I wanted, then had to keep switching out the words in order to meet the assignment.

Anyways, I *think* I succeeded. What do you think?

Fire

As I sit in the cold night air, the soft glow of the fire brings needed warmth that seems to soak into my body through to my very bones. My breath on the small newly born flame brings it to life. Wrapped in charred white rocks the fire snakes and weaves its way around the small put, looking for a new way to escape the binds of its cage.

The sweet smell of resin soaks my clothes and the air near me as its set fire to. The fire burns with a singing joy, many snaps and crackles jump to fill the air as it feeds from the twigs and logs, as a warm glow settles in the dark night air. The flames flash bright reds and gold’s as they reach up and climb high into the air. Its ruddy glow emits a calming heat that quiets my fears and puts me at ease, coating me in its cosy grasp.

As the logs crash and fall over each other, I feed the flames with small sticks and twigs, watching them grow and fall back in tune with the fiery roar that breaks the quiet of the glade. A bank of hot ashes glows at the fire’s core like a bright ruby, but I dare not reach for it, even as it tempts me.

I lose myself in its depths as the fire dies away, the last of its flames trip and quake as they look for more fuel to burn. Ashes lay jilted, left in the dirt where they fall as the faint hues of red turn ever dark till only the black of night is left.