It’s Friday so that means another short story! This story was inspired by the prompt of a witch hunter chasing a witch. Only weak witches use artifacts and this witch pulls a spoon from her pocket.
She enters Gods’ Graveyard. I stop a few inches from crossing into the circle of stones. If I crossed, I’d die. Legend has it that at the beginning of time, there was a war between the gods. Only the ones we now worship survived while the others were buried here. Each of the thirty-foot tall stones are their gravestones, which emit tons of cosmiwc energy. The witch I’d been chasing must plan to draw on it to kill me.
When she reaches the sunken center, she smiles at me, baring what crooked teeth she has left. She knows I won’t enter. Her red-hair hangs in tangles, and at her tallest she’s hunched over, her left shoulder higher than her right. Blood flows from her nose since she fell and broke it in the chase. Several days ago, I’d been hired to chase her by a town now running on the fuel of revenge. She’d spent most of her life as the town’s simpleton until a string a child deaths revealed her guilt and true nature.
As I draw my bow, her smile widens and she takes out a wooden spoon. I falter in my surprise. Only weak witches who know little to nothing of true witchcraft deal in parlor tricks like wooden spoons and other talismans. She must be trying to scare me off by tricking me into thinking she’s more powerful than she is. She hasn’t healed her nose, which is a small feat that any witch worth her salt could have done. I contain my smile as I realize I have the upper hand.
I release my arrow. She dodges, holding up the spoon like it is doing something. I could see that the arrow shot true and no magic had tampered with it. I shoot another arrow, and she cowers behind a stone. Since I only have two arrows left that I don’t want to waste, I shoulder my bow and take out my knife. It’s a curved blade with a leather-covered handle that has killed many witches. I step inside Gods’ Graveyard. She isn’t powerful, so there’s no danger. Likely, she killed the children through poisons rather than any real magic.
As I approach, she reveals herself. Her musty breath is ragged and her eyes alive. She snaps the wooden spoon in half with her thumb and smiles broadly. I pause as I hear a howling though there’s no wind. The presence of spirits awaken as my hair rises and chest tightens.
The witch sends me flying against one of the gravestones. An invisible weight smothers me against it so I can’t breathe.
“That’s what I thought,” she says as she heals her nose. “All witch hunters know that only weak witches use talismans like spoons. It’s a good thing I’m not a weak witch, then.”
Her dreadful smile is the last thing I see.
I hope you liked it! Any comments, critiques, or prompt ideas are welcome in the comments section.