First Place Story, 2002.

The Grass Witch

Lisa Swanstrom

I don’t know what my plan is, not exactly. I aim to kill her, if I might, and save my son. But if arrows won’t kill her, what will? My breathing’s heavy now, any minute the crone could find me squatting under where she grinds her bread. My eyes dart around the room, looking for a better spot, but there’s none. And I notice, peering closer, that the little heaps of white aren’t rocks at all, but bones, picked clean and blanched white. Tiny bones, no bigger than mice. Our babies’ bones. Neatly stacked and quiet. Little fingers, little toes.

I can’t control my stomach. All the sweets that Julep made for Ashlar’s birthday pour right out on the Grass Witch’s floor. I want to weep, but that won’t help the wee bairns now. Wiping the sweat from my brow, I pull my limbs tight to my body, try not to shudder, and wait in the dark for the grass witch to bring my boy.

It’s not long before she comes skulking through the hole, a bundle in her arms. Ashlar, I think, and hold myself close. I’ll rush her when she sets him down, and she’ll never know what struck her. But I can’t control myself when I see her face, and I let out a cry that is low and filled with pain.

Back to Fantasist's Homepage
Back to Fantastical Visions Main Page