Storytelling in words.

I stand defiant as something heavy strikes the door. Trapped and waiting for my fate.

Suspicion had painted the faces of passersby. Their Puritan whispers became the screams that now echo across the threshold. 

The door cracks. It won’t be long now.

Absent from the Sabbath, loud in dress, a specter haunting at night. A woman who will not conform.

With the final blow, the door comes off its hinges.

My eyes meet those of the magistrate, burning stick in hand. A verse rings in my head.

Exodus 22:18
Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.