Witch Hunt

I have two versions of the same story.  One is first person the other third.  Which do you think is the better story?  The word limit for the contest is 300.



By:  Ben Pollard
Genre:  Fantasy
Word count:  300


Witch Hunt




         The flames licked at my feet.  Writhing, I struggled against the ropes tying me to the stake.  Too late, my filth encrusted shift caught fire. 

I lifted my gaze to the crowd surrounding me.  Mouths gaped and eyebrows crawled across scalps as they witnessed their folly.  They’d roved through the countryside, murdering hundreds of innocent girls, surprised at now finding a real Witch.

Ablaze, my bonds dropped away in clumps of ash.  Stretching, I ran my fingers through my flame-burnished hair.  The cleansing, purifying power of fire, ha!  I winced as my skin stretched and smoothed.  I grabbed the stake, pain wracked, as the ravages of time fell away as slag.

As a young woman I subdued the flames to a chorus of shocked cries and terrified moans.  Oh, how I wished I could make them rue this day!  Unfortunately, the Covenant protected them.

I pulled the stake, burning end to end, from the pile.  Head high, I looked down my nose at them. 
“You slime.  Vermin,” I swept my gaze across those still gathered,
“Warts on a toad’s back!” 
I held out my fiery brand, laying it horizontal in the air, and left it there as I walked around the charred remains of my funeral pyre.
I threw my arms out in challenge,
“Who among you thinks he has the right to judge me?”
I pointed into the crowd,
“You Father Peter?  Should your dirty secrets come to light?” 
My laughter chased him across the village. 
A dirty face caught my eye,
“What of you Margaret?  Should we tell your husband now, or later?”
Several men looked down, shoulders sagging. 
“Bah!  Cowards, all of you!”

Naked and triumphant, I sat astride my blazing Stake and flew off into the night, my piercing laughter ringing in their ears, “Aaaaa hahahahaaaa!”


Third Person version:



Flames licked at her feet.  Writhing, she struggled against the ropes that bound her to the stake.  Sabrina stopped thrashing when her filth-encrusted shift caught fire.

Scowling, she gazed upon the crowd.  Greeted by the sight of hanging mouths and crawling eyebrows, Sabrina shook her head.  They roved the countryside murdering innocent girls, now surprised finding a real Witch.

Ablaze, her bonds dropped away in clumps of ash.  Stretching long bound muscles, Sabrina ran fingers through her flame-burnished hair.

The cleansing, purifying power of fire, ha!

Wincing as her skin stretched and smoothed, Sabrina felt every wrinkle disappear as years burned away.  Grabbing the stake to steady herself, pain wracked her as the ravages of time fell away as slag.

A young woman again, she subdued the flames to a chorus of shocked cries and terrified moans. 

Oh, how I wished I could make them rue this day! 

Unfortunately, the Covenant protected them.

Sabrina pulled the stake from the pile.  Head high, she looked down her nose at them. 
“You slime.  Vermin,” her gaze swept across those still gathered,
“Warts on a toad’s back!” 
She held out the fiery brand, laying it horizontal in the air, leaving it as she walked around the charred remains of her funeral pyre.
Sabrina threw her arms out in challenge,
“Who among you thinks he has the right to judge me?”
She pointed into the crowd,
“You Father Peter?  Should your dirty secrets come to light?” 
Her laughter chased him across the village. 
A dirty face caught her eye,
“What of you Margaret?  Should we tell your husband now, or later?”
Several men looked down, shoulders sagging. 
“Bah!  Cowards, all of you!”

Naked and triumphant, Sabrina straddled her blazing Stake and flew off into the night, her laughter ringing in their ears, “Aaaaa hahahahaaaa!”