Burn the Witch
The sun left a warm purple light lingering in the sky. Val was watering her tomatoes and basil, her beans and leeks, and scores of flowers she didn’t know the names of. She was tall and sinewy like fennel, and as secretive as a daisy in the shade. It took her years to make friends and seconds to make enemies. She lived alone by choice. Her past drove her to solitude, and solitude asked nothing of her. She had her garden, and like an old friend, it gave back the energy she put in. The Oaks watched on as she grew evermore winter-worn with each passing season. The birds sang evensong, the wind blew her hair, and the rain lulled her to sleep, whispering timpani on the caravan roof. She was at an age where her primal allure was dwindling. She was glad she no longer had a body that men lusted over. In her youth, she had been so beautiful the men of the town had followed her round like blood hounds. Their advances were folly, for she didn’t find men attractive, what she wanted was a woma