That’s right- it’s Ciara’s crappy poetry day!!
Being a teenage girl whose specialty is being bad at communicating with other human beings, I have mastered the art of answering polite ice-breaker questions with as few words as possible. You know the type, the oh-look-the-weather queries people will throw at you when you’re making them
uncomfortable with the way you just stand there not talking holding a knife with a Joker-from-Batman smile on your face feel awkward.
The next Sunday, when the Amcotts family went to mass, Katherine snuck the book in under her shirt, and, afterwards, showed the book to a priest. He took it from her, and after looking at it for a while, promised to show it to one of his acquaintances, and inform her of what he discovered. A few days later, Margaret Amcotts was arrested. She proceeded to be executed without trial, leaving the Amcotts family despised by the small village they lived in.
Just… my… story…
The book was written entirely in symbols, ones that looked like birds, and cats, and a number of other, equally strange, things. Katherine had had only the most basic of educations, but the book seemed to her to be laid out in chapters, each chapter containing pages and pages of writing separated into two different columns. And she had no idea what any of it meant.
Ellen McCarthy was a happy child. That’s what they’d say when they passed her by on the street, anyway; “She was such a happy child”.
A happy child? Maybe. But that was then, and the Ellen projected to people’s scrutiny now is anything but. She is tall, and broad, with jet-black, straight hair, and a handsome face, and is dressed, from head to toe, in clothes almost as black as her hair. Yes, Ellen had been a compassionate, kind, and charming child, but that was before the ghosts. And though all the black seemed to hide her from their malevolent, red-glowing eyes, all it really did was get her strange looks from the mundane people of Inisannig who looked with critical eyes on what they saw as a danger to their fragile society.
Should I write more? I rather like the idea of writing for a change doing something new…
Opinions! Opinions! I yearn for thy opinions!
Anyway, heres you go!
She walked back to her small tent that she shared with the other Maids-of-Honour, changed into her night-time shift, and slipped into the welcome numbness of sleep.
She woke up to the relentless twittering of her tent-mates and, after her tiring-woman had helped her into her bone-crushing corset and gown that was required of anyone with a decent social standing in court, Katherine shooed her away. She took a set of keys out of a pocket in her shift, and used it to open the thrice-locked chest she kept with her at all times.
So this a story I wrote for a young writers competition a while back, and while I didn’t win (pfft. The judges obviously don’t know greatness when I send it to them in the mail. pfft), I like it, probably more than some of my other stories… anyway:
Katherine the Witch
Part I of x