CHISAGO
COUNTY PRESS 10/28/1993
SCRIBES
CORNER, page 6
THE
MEAN WITCH
By Jeff Smith
of life
imbued them by the wicked and treacherous witch.
The witch turned towards
Carly and cackled. At the sound of her voice the leathery restraints trembled
and pulsated on Carly’s aching limbs.
She hissed, “Oh, you’ll know
pain my little one. Agony and pain.”
Carly sobbed and the witch
suddenly bloated up huge, so that she towered over the child. As Carly
whimpered the witch grew until the cave was nearly filled with her rancid bulk.
Her raspy voice thundered:
“And terror! Yes! Yes! Terror!.” She embraced herself and bellowed out cascades
of self-indulgent laughter, each peal echoing and reverberating through the
most remote and trackless reaches of that wretched cavern.
Carly began to cough and
instantly the witch was small again. Directly in front of Carly, she stooped
down and peered into Carly’s eyes. With eyebrows arched, and head cocked so
that Carly would be eye to eye with the witch’s good eye – not the gray and
mottled one – the witch belched a moist blast of cadaverous stench into Carly’s
face. Carly turned her head and shivered, crying now abjectly.
The witch, now aroused to
new heights, threw herself down upon the ground at Carly’s feet and began to
slink about on all fours purring and arching her back like a cat. Curious,
Carly paused amid her tears, for only an instant, and the witch roared causing
the little girl to again cower in her bonds.
The witch tittered and
sprang to her feet. Giving Carly a sinful wink, she screeched, “Time to eat!”
She pointed a crooked finger
at the wood stoked beneath a large suspended cauldron and, with a crack, fire
engulfed the fuel.
Menacingly she approached
Carly, the dancing flames casting thirsty shadows on her corrugated face. “You
know,” she quipped, “I feel like an appetizer, maybe I’ll start with your
tender little fingers!”
She rubbed her dry hands
together greedily and her cratered tongue darted across her bluish lips.
Now it must be told here
that Carly, in spite of her young age, had, through many hours of dedicated
practice, become quite an accomplished pianist.
Upon hearing the witch’s
reference to her fingers, Carly had been instantly filled with rage and
indignation. She stuck out her own little pink tongue and as she did she
noticed the bands loosen about her wrists.
Without hesitating she snarled
at the witch, “If you want my fingers, well here they are!!” and she poked the
witch in the good eye. (The bad one was just too gross.)
The witch shrieked and
stumbled back a step. The strands were now loose about her feet so Carly
fetched a mighty kick to the witch’s knee. It snapped like a twig and she collapsed
in agony.
No longer a prisoner to the
fear which all tyrants use to control their victims, Carly scooped up the witch
like a sack of old leaves and pitched her into the fire. There was a brief
flurry of movement, a tiny howl and then, except for a puff of putrid smoke,
the witch vaporized entirely.
It surprised Carly that a
monster of the witch’s stature could meet such a pathetic and anticlimactic
end.
She turned, snatched the
witch’s old broom and snapped it over her knee. She tossed it into the flames
where it popped and crackled in a rather ordinary way.
Carly shrugged and, gently brushing
her hands said, “Nobody messes with my fingers.”
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