Plain Old Wrong

A Writer’s Cramp (1,000 words or less/ 24 hours) prompt: Write a short story or poem about eavesdropping on a conversation that turns out to be illegal, immoral, or just plain wrong.

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Plain Old Wrong

“Caroline did it,” I tell you. “Just as surely as cows give milk.”

“Yeah, guilty as sin,” said another.

“Now, Miss Martin, Miss Clarvane. We’ve discussed this already. Without proof . . .”

That was the sheriff’s voice. Sheriff Plowder. He’d always been kind to me, never accepting what everyone whispered. The others said mean things about me, but he never did.

None of it was true, either. I owned a pet raven who could speak, but what did that prove? I hadn’t taught it to talk. Black Beak had been my uncle’s pet before poor Uncle Joe died. Besides, the raven didn’t really understand what it was saying. It just had a very odd propensity for saying something apt. Mere coincidence, but the townsfolk didn’t think so. They believed I taught it to say those things.

That was because one time when the preacher came to see me -- Rev. Smith, you know -- why he had no more sense than a speckled hen. He walked right up to Black Beak and put out his finger just like he wanted to be bitten. Of course Black Beak obliged. Then when the man’s wife and I got the two disconnected, Black Beak started ranting: “Got you that time. Got you that time.”

But Black Beak was just a bird. Why would anyone place meaning on something it said?

Maybe the whole thing would have died out if Rev. Smith hadn’t sent that lawyer over. The man came to deliver some law suit papers, and he must have done something to the raven, because it suddenly started screaming, “Gonna get you, too. Gonna get you, too.”

The lawyer took off running. He practically flew off my porch in his hurry to be gone. It was his fault he tripped and fell. You can’t blame Black Beak for that. It wasn’t like Black Beak broke the man’s leg -- well, not directly, anyway.

Anyway, it was the raven that caused the stories to start. And then when Bear came . . .

Bear’s an old black cat that wandered in out of the woods one day. It looked hungry, so I fed it. In reply it hissed and yowled at me. That’s why I called it Bear. It was grouchy as one.

Eventually Bear accepted me. Now it even sometimes sits in my lap and purrs for a minute, but it still isn’t real friendly. Yet it’s a heap friendlier to me than to anyone else. If someone comes near the cat, it spits and hisses. One time it even scratched a lady visitor. That Mrs. Bettle was a fool to try to pet Bear. I’d told her not to. It wasn’t my fault the scratch got infected and they had to cut off the woman’s hand.

Bear has one green eye and one blue. The town folk started saying that made it an evil thing. They called the cat's oddness a sign of the devil. But such a mutation isn’t a sign. It’s just nature’s mischief. And it certainly has nothing to do with me. Yet everyone started whispering about it. That’s when they began calling me a witch.



“You’ve got your proof! The river flooded and washed away Edith’s house. Dr. Bill’s house on the left of it was just fine. That witch likes him. Sam Cooney on the right side of Edith’s was hardly touched by water. You put the puzzle pieces together. You know what it looks like.”

That was Mrs. Bartlett speaking. I recognized her hoarse voice. She had a constant cold with a steady drip from her nose and a cough that never let up. Pure justice if you asked me. The old biddy was as nasty as the fountain in her front yard -- the one she’d allowed to get all slimy and stinky. Of course she blamed me for that. She said before I got Bear and Black Beak the fountain used to have goldfish and blooming lily pads.

Mrs. Bartlett, Miss Clarvane, and Miss Martin – they were the real witches of the town, always spreading evil talk. If I were a witch I’d be doing something to get even with them, wouldn’t I?

But I’m not a witch. That’s why I’m sitting here in the county jail, kicking my feet back and forth, wondering if the charges are going to stick. Witchcraft – how could anyone still believe in such a thing? How could there still be a law against it?



“So what are you going to do about Caroline, Sheriff Plowder? I’ll give you the proof. I’ll say Caroline did it. I’ll say I saw her dressed up in black that night with her strange-eyed cat on one shoulder and that evil raven on her wrist. I’ll tell them I saw her casting a spell on the river.”

“Now, Miss Clarvane, you don’t want to be perjuring yourself like that. What would the Reverend say?” Sheriff Plowder sputtered.

“Why, he’d bless me for it. Remember what Caroline did to his finger and to that lawyer friend of his?”



The building that housed the jail was old and rotting, but I don’t know why it had to choose that moment to fall apart. One of the inspectors later said that termites had gotten into the beams. All I know is that when the roof caved in, those three old biddies went to greener pastures. Sheriff Plowder fell under his desk. That saved him. And me, back in the jail cell, nothing fell there. Guess it was built with more concrete than wood.

All the charges against me were dropped, of course. Sheriff Plowder shook my hand and told me he was sorry about the mistake. Nobody else said a thing about bringing up another case.

I guess some townsfolk still pass whispers about me; a few even cross the street to the other side when I walk by, but mostly everyone just leaves me alone now. Black Beak, Bear, and I are just fine that way. Just fine.

Now 1,004 words

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