Young Writers Society

You can tell from the sounds. The steady jangle of metal jewelry and the hollow click of wooden beads. You can tell from the faint rasp of scales on skin, the back of her neck, the flicker of his tongue. You can tell from the words that seem to follow her, follow her, follow her.

A witch.

She wanders into town like a ghost. Like a phantom that no one can touch or see but knows by the shiver that runs down their spine and makes their toes tingle. She wanders into town like a river carves its way through the rock, cold and unforgiving to all in it’s way.

“Lone,” she says, looking at the store window in front of her, where lifeless mannequins are frozen in place. “It’s quiet out here Lone.”

Indeed it is. The streets are empty, blinds closed except a few watchful eyes, peeking between the shutters. They are the ones who are blind.

The snake wrapped around her neck hisses. It’s black, with an oily sheen to it that paints the back of her neck dark. She kneels and presses her hand into the dirt, palm flat against the ground. When she pulls away the earth is stained red, a faded rouge.

“They have a right, Lone.”

A witch. A witch lives in the woods beyond the bend in the road. The days she comes out--once a month during the black moon night--are met with fear. She has powers they say. A witch, they say. With long hair and wild eyes. Those eyes tell stories, they say. Take one look and you’ll see. The tales they’ve told.

She comes into town wearing black jeans that stick to her legs and a gray hoodie that’s two sizes too big. It’s decorated with the stars, and at night the lightning bugs can be seen following her across the road back to her house.

She carries the sun at her throat. A metal chain and stone pendant that clinks as Lone--the snake--slinks, slinks, slinks. He is her guide, to the overlapping worlds that only she can see.

They’ve seen her cast spells, that’s how they know. Aside from the torchbugs following her, there have been… occurrences. The dogs, the black cats, the creatures that go still while she passes through. It’s all a sign.

They have a right, a right, a right, to fear her.

She runs her hand along the glass, fogs her breath against the store window, breathes life into the air. She exhales, and they know she’s a witch because they can hear the whispers coming from the back of her throat, that float across Main Street and drift into people’s ears.

“Let’s go, Lone?” she asks, voice pitching strangely, elevating in an odd question.

The serpent flicks it’s tongue, barely grazing the shell of her ear.

“Alright.”

She never comes back to the small town, never goes past the bend in the road either. She takes step after step until she’s in reach of the stars that float off her clothes into the sky around her. The sun at her throat gleams, and for a moment, the worlds are silent.

They say witches live among the dead. You think they live among the constellations. They live among collections of stars that represent all that they are. Scorpius, Apus, Andromeda, Ophiuchus, there aren’t enough stars to explain

a witch.

She’s a witch.