by: Kirsten Swore
My name is Charlie, and I am not a witch. That's a debatable statement. Half the county thinks that I dapple in dark magic, seeing as they have thrown me into this dusty jail cell. It all started a couple of days ago, when I went to talk to my neighbor. I hadn’t seen Walter for a while, so when I saw him walking up his walkway to his house I decided to catch up with him.
After I started talking to him, he started to cough uncontrollably. I assumed that he had been smoking, or something like that; so imagine my surprise when he looked at me accusingly and rushed into his house. The guards appear to be taking me out of my cell. These shackles keep strangely slipping off my wrists. Anyway, the next morning the court summons came. I was on trial for sorcery.
Coming out of this reverie, there appears to be a crowd gathered around a stake in the ground waiting for me. I suppose that my tone of voice during the trial was kind of insolent, but you should have heard the questions they were asking me. The trial didn’t go so well, Walter died two days later of a bad cough, so they came and arrested me at my house. That's my story. You know the rest.
The Judge is here, so is Walter's family. This rope tying me to the stake is loosening. They’re continuously trying to set the logs on fire, but it keeps going out. Something doesn’t want me burned. The Judge should really take extra vitamins for that bad cough of his. My name is Charlie; and I suppose that I admit to being a witch.
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