TODAY, OUR TEAM MEMBER, AUTHOR EVA BIELBY, IS SHARING HER LATEST FLASH FICTION STORY, '1680 - REBECCA WILLS HOMECOMING' #RWRTeamBlog #ReadWriteRepeat

1680 – Rebecca Wills Homecoming

I hear the crackles and spits of the kindling beneath me. Fear places its icy grip around me, squeezing tight. I wait in dread of the searing heat when it reaches the soles of my feet. People in the crowd are jeering and cheering, yet I can see the faces of those who I’ve helped in the past; solemn, sad and silent as they watch on in shock. They know the real me, they know who I am. Tears stream down their cheeks. They trusted in me; trusted the healing power of my lotions and potions to help their every need.

The flames continue to grow around me, along with the cheering. My feet begin to hurt. The heat is so intense now.  I look down in time to see the hem of my skirt catch fire. I can smell the burning. My flesh is seared  - a sickly acrid aroma. I can even taste it.

I stifle a scream, yet I want to scream; scream out my denial of the crime I’m accused of. They say I’m a witch. I don’t deny I have powers they don’t understand, but my witchcraft, if that’s what it is, has never been used for anything dark. But to them, the very thought of me helping people, is proof that I am a witch.

The skin on my stomach and lower back blisters and burns. I hurt, everywhere. The rope with which I’m bound catches fire and it doesn’t take long for the fibres to weaken and fall apart.The smell is putrid and I feel the urge to vomit, knowing that it is I who is the source of the foul stench.

My instinct is to scream out and tell them to stop, to put out the fire, but they wouldn’t listen. I am here…until I’m not.

I see those, many of them my friends, with sadness in their eyes. Some are openly weeping, others walk away, unwilling to stay and witness my suffering until the end.

I scream as the pain reaches its zenith – it is all consuming. Though I doubt my screams can be heard above all the jeering and the loud crackling and spitting of the timbers on which I am perched. I realise there is little point in my screaming. It would be far easier to just close my eyes and accept my fate; give in until the flames have won.

I see the face of John Murgatroyd (our town’s Witchfinder General). He is cheering along with his other witch-finder allies, one of whom is my husband, who had no doubt reported to Murgatroyd that he suspected me, his wife, to be a witch. They’re cheering because I am burning. That’s the thanks I get for bringing Murgatroyd’s wife back from the brink of death a few short months ago. He would rather have his wife die than have her illness treated by me. Despicable man. Through the thick smoke and flames, I see a sobbing Ellen Murgatroyd give her husband a look of utter disgust before she turns to walk away – reluctant to stay and witness my inevitable demise.

I close my eyes and wait for them to come for me, as without a shred of doubt, I know they will. The scorching flames have reached my neck. My hair singes, my beautiful red locks are gone in an instant – the red locks which had once attracted my husband to me. I will never get to bear his child after all, the child we had both craved. I finally let the tears come, little good crying will do me now though. I still patiently wait for them to come for me. What is taking them so long? I have now accepted that death awaits me and I want it to be over. I wish I could just let go and let the flames consume me. I block any further thoughts from my head and block out the pain. Then she arrives. She holds her hands forth to grasp at mine. My grandmother, Elsa, has come for me. It was from Elsa, that I inherited my powers. Elsa had been hanged for witchcraft some sixty-five years ago.  It is apt that she should be the one to come and collect me. She pulls me close up to her and whispers in my ear. She pushes me back into the world from which I had just departed, and to my immense surprise she joined me. With our combined efforts and strength we manage to push over one of the large thick timbers which had held me captive in their midst. The flames lap at its edges as it knocks John Murgatroyd off his feet and lands on top of him. His cronies swiftly douse him with buckets of water as he screams in pain and anger. The raw-looking wounds on his face are peppered with small charred pieces of burnt timber.

“I told you that woman was an evil, dirty, witch! She did this to me!!” A few in the crowd jeered, but I could also hear low murmurings of discontent.

I heard fits of giggles from some of the onlookers, clearly delighted to see Murgatroyd’s suffering and their belief in that I got my revenge. My grandmother lets me enjoy the spectacle for a minute or two before she yanked me back over to the other side. She also gave me some quick, basic instructions on how to produce large colourful sparks from the fire. What an exit! The crowd gave large cheers of delight and wonder: oohs and ahhs. Despite my pain and woes, I smiled. One large WHOOSH, and we were gone, again! The pain was over and peace settled within me. Grandma took me back home.

© Eva Bielby May 2026

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COMING SON: On Wednesday, 5th August we are thrilled to welcome our guest, Amy Marie, who is sharing