SUNSHINE AURA – poetry. short stories. community.

Burning flesh. Pain in my side. Weakened toes, sore heels, and achy feet. I’m marched through the square for all to see.

Spittle hits my face. I close my eyes against the onslaught of hateful faces. Deep and high-pitched voices alike scream insults, the words spreading throughout my inflamed body with every inhale, trapped and unable to escape with each exhale.

I stumble. Nobody lends a hand to catch me. I catch a face full of dry, cracked soil. The dirt sinks into my teeth. I spit out browned saliva.

“Eat some more!” a man yells. The crowd laughs as I’m forced back down into the earth.

“Eat the drought you’ve caused, witch!” a woman echoes.

I thrash and fight, useless. My bound hands lie limp against my lower back. I choke at the onslaught. My eyes burn with tears, the laughs spearing my heart. I’m hauled back up to my feet.

“To the river!” another shouts.

I resume the death march.

My only crime? Growing beautiful flowers while the surrounding crops floundered. My father’s special soil blend rang true. His teachings on how to collect rainwater also saved my lovely garden. And because of this, I’ve been labeled a witch. For my crime, I’ve been sentenced to death. All because the other townsfolk never learned how to properly garden and reap and sow.

They think I cursed them. Their fear and hatred of anybody they don’t understand. A childless, unmarried woman, content to live out her days in her quiet cottage, built on a foundation of love. They burned it to the ground, along with my father’s workshop and the knowledge he passed to me of woodworking, gardening, and taking care of the surrounding animals.

We reach the river. I’m dragged to a platform where my hands bound behind my back are exchanged for shackles around my wrists, hanging limply at my sides. I know what’s coming. I’ve seen many of these for myself. I stood silent and heard their screams die out as they slowly dipped beneath the surface, weighed down by stone and hatred.

They ask if I have any last words. I cannot even speak, for the dried soil still coats the inside of my throat. Glum and resigned to my fate, I keep my lips sealed.

After I’ve drowned, they’ll decide I was innocent after all. But without a husband or an heir, my family’s land will go to the town. They’ll deem it worthy of a man, his wife, and their first child. They’ll build a new cottage from the ashes, the only thing untouched and still thriving, my little garden. The flowers and meager showing of crop will feed their empty bellies. And it will be deemed a miracle of God, rather than a boon borne of an abomination.

I close my eyes as the platform becomes heavier. I sink, sink, sink down. Just as my chin hits the water, my eyes fly open. I look to the sky with determination, as my skin glows red, too hot for anyone to touch. With a scream full of years of rage and anger and the sins committed against my mother and her mother and so on, I break free of my binds. Break free of the platform. I rise from the water, full and healthy.

I relish the fear, shock, and awe in their eyes. I wink at a small child, the only one in the crowd who looks upon me with amazement in her eyes, without fear. With a snap of my fingers, I vanish.