She carried a bairn. It was born still. We sniffed the air and tasted mischief. A bairn born sleeping? We blamed the blackthorn. Tittle-tattle. Rumours. Our poison spread quickly, quicker than whispers whipped by the wind. Infected, our tiny stories turned septic, burning her, cutting her, harsher than rope. Like ivy, they took hold and strangled.
The pack is hungry, but we are quiet. Our waggled tongues choked on the smoke. Smoke that we stoked. The smoke that we spread without fire. Shamed by the moonlight, we follow the wolves to the fields where they’ll burn the witches.
Kate Axeford (she/ hers) social works by day and plays with words by night. She lives in Brighton and loves the sea.
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