You have 400 words to write a fiction or creative non-fiction piece about freedom, in any way that makes sense to you.
Go HERE if you’d like to read more prompt responses, or submit your own.
The story is a continuation of the Which Witch storyline, which you can find in my Fiction Tab.
The picture is one I found on Deviantart, by Anna Earley, an art student in the USA. I love the shadow in it, the way there’s only a hint of yellow throughout, and the lantern on the end of the broom is a great touch. She does character drawings, as well as scenes like this one, that really look like part of a story I’d love to hear the rest of.
“Hem-hem?” Miss Chesham quieted the room immediately, dimpling sweetly at the crowd of women. Perhaps more than the sweet old woman she appeared to be.
“Welcome, Lady Wytches of East Hammond! I would like everyone to extend a warm welcome to our guest, the Wytch Agata. She has come from, er,” she consulted a small lacy notepad, “Deutschland, where, if you’d believe it, wytches are tortured and killed! Simply barbaric!”
The Lady Wytches murmured greetings and welcomes, rustling in their elegant dresses as they turned to observe her. She waved sheepishly, feeling grubby and underdressed in her wrinkled navy dress, a crow amongst ruffled pink chicks.
Disciple Mary was formally accepted into the Lady Wytches as a full Wytch. The Wytches agreed that Yeoman Brannik was charging too much for his cabbages, he shall be spoken to. Polite applause all around.
Agata joined them in the next room for afternoon tea. She was immediately accosted by three girls near her own age, nearly bursting with excitement.
“Oh my goodness, Aggie, it must have been such an adventure, travelling all the way here!” Blue Eyes squealed.
“Oooh, we shall be the best of friends! Come!” Curly Hair grabbed Agata’s arm, smiling toothily, and dragged her away from the table of tiny sandwiches. Her stomach growled its displeasure.
Agata slipped out the side door and into the evening air, inhaling deeply as she embraced the darkness and silence.
What coven meets for afternoon tea! Wytches! Lady Wytches! She snorted. Busybodies who can’t spell or cast a spell from what I’ve seen of them.
She kept to the shadows, unwilling to risk a wytchly interruption. Three days of taffeta and lace and ruffles, everything white or coral or peach, the wytches gasping and tittering at her so-called adventures, at her ‘charming’ accent, and her mannish outspokenness.
Agata eyed a large muddy puddle. With great deliberation, she jumped, feet together, and landed in the center of the mire, mud squelching around her boots, water soaking the hem of her skirt. She smiled, head tilted back to the moonlight.
She ducked under a prickly bush, emerging a moment later, scratched, grinning, and gripping a familiar haft.
Everything I need is here. She stared at the distant glow of the village lights for a long moment.
Agata straddled her broom in a most unladylike fashion as she flew away.