Chapter Seven: Rendered Guilty Verdict Unto Sarah Beth Miller Under Counts of Practicing Witchcraft

Editor’s Note: Christine copied this for me. A cautionary tale circulated among certain, say, women’s groups in Vine.

A knock at the wall. Rain sheeting east to west like trying to rip the forest down. Clattering. A knock at the wall. A streak of whistle like a pen crossing out whole paragraphs of dead information. She is unbothered in a hooded shawl. Julienning carrots and parsley. A book falls. Let them all fall and some candles too she thinks. Maybe she’ll spill some oil and pray. Call on the deity who always answered in the form of hardships. She could hear the river current already. The hourglass was behind—why did precision matter now? The wind was bringing the rain was bringing the river. Carrot and parsley salad: a last meal from her garden. Here’s one more cruelty for you she offered God. Burn these books before we all drown. What would these your servants do with something as perverse as understanding? Outside they were yelling. Emboldened now probably to spite the rain. A fist on the wall. A rock in the window. The river is coming. She hooks her finger on a candlestick. 

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