Salem Condemned

• Samantha George, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2017

In a bustling, thriving city town far from the mischievous, arctic sea, a man born from the misery and filth of peasants stood proud and tall, a glinting gold crown of ice blue feathers and blood red jewels resting smugly upon his dignified head, his blue-green eyes glinting with the prospect of a bright future, to which he would guide his people towards.
Which would begin with keeping them safe. He sat in his intricately carved throne listening the gnawing whispers that circled the arena as a woman with a ragged, torn dress was half dragged to a pit with a long, sturdy pole surrounded by small logs and useless driftwood. Iron shackles embedded with rubies and emeralds were resting heavily on her wrists, her weak body stopping when she reached the middle of the gaping, black pit, to turn around and face him.
Her eyes pierced his and his nearly shriveled blossom of love tried to rise its way into the darkness of greed, searching desperately for a way to save his beautiful, wonderful love. Yet he wanted more. More love, more fear, more respect.
But he could never get enough.
His greed blinded him, subconsciously moving his hand up to signal to the guards that they could start. The fire leaped into the pit, hungrily devouring each and everything thing it could. When it's meal of wood was steadily cooking, it flickered up her body, twirling and spinning in a deadly dance. Her body was roasting upon the stake, the fire burning with passionate hate, and her love was doing nothing to stop it. Giving into the flames that consumed her, her final words unsaid but heard aloud.
“Help me.” The blossom took a daring leap and momentarily held his heart, allowing briefly for a single, silent tear to roll down the side of his weathered cheek. He took one look at the crowds, at them cheering over the sight of the last, dead ‘witch.’ The darkness consumed the blossom, feeding and growing ever so larger, the little pebble of guilt swallowed along with the jubilant cheers of his people.
He moved up from his seat, staring down at the blacked body that was being taken away, wrapped up in a cloth with the now dark shackles gleaming on the top, caused by the rumors of witches and of a love he accused falsely.
He was doing this for his country
He was doing this for his people.
He was doing this for himself.
And as he watched his people’s happiness, his greed chipped away at his already rotting soul.