“They Can’t Hang Us All” by E. Wells

Emma Wells is a mother and English teacher. She has poetry published with various literary journals and magazines. She enjoys writing flash fiction and short stories also. Emma won Wingless Dreamer’s Bird Poetry Contest of 2022 and her short story entitled ‘Virginia Creeper’ was selected as a winning title by WriteFluence Singles Contest in 2021. Her first novel is entitled Shelley’s Sisterhood which is due to be published in late 2023.

Author’s Note: ‘They Can’t Hang Us All’ gives a voice to Elizabeth Southerns [alias Demdike] who was a persecuted and accused witch during the Pendle Witch Trial of August 1612.

E. Wells has been previously featured by In Parentheses.

They Can’t Hang Us All

Scarred, blackened feet, leaked membranes of us. Forced to walk, in head-turned shame, shuffling lamely. Forty-five miles and alive at Lancaster Castle – but barely.

Our gaolers cared not for sufferers: my weather-beaten family and I, reduced to bedraggled shadows. Sneers did not induce me to cower. My love of healing, a rooted stoicism.

Their account in court:

“Clay puppets, stolen teeth and bones have caused a frenzy of damnation.”

𝙒𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙬-𝙠𝙚𝙮, 𝙢𝙪𝙩𝙚𝙙, 𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜.

“Rivalry between two witch families: Demdike and Chattox, upon Pendle Hill, has brought the accused to our knowledge.”

𝙎𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙫𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣, 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙖 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙡 𝙤𝙛 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙, 𝙙𝙧𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙪𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙪𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙮.

“Twenty years ago, on a beggarly mission, the accused met the Devil incarnate.”

𝙏𝙝𝙤𝙨𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙤𝙙𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙢𝙮 𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙙, 𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙙 𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙖 𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙙, 𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙖𝙡 𝙘𝙪𝙧𝙚𝙨.

“Elizabeth, allowed cloven hooves to singe her soul.”

𝙄 𝙘𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙏𝙞𝙗𝙗: 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙪𝙥𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙙𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙡-𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙙 𝙮𝙚𝙩 𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙢𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙖 𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙮𝙢𝙖𝙩𝙚: 𝙖 𝙫𝙚𝙡𝙫𝙚𝙩𝙮 𝙗𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙘𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚. 𝙃𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚 𝙢𝙚 𝙤𝙣 𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙝 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧-𝙘𝙡𝙖𝙙 𝙚𝙭𝙘𝙪𝙧𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣, 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙘𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙚𝙨.

“The Devil came to visit Agnes six years later and supped whole-heartedly from her left arm: blood – in bounteous amounts. For eight frenzy-fuelled weeks afterwards, she was lost to madness.”

Lucifer imparted clay voodoo figures, whispering: “Revenge thee of him” – meaning Richard Baldwin.”

𝙄 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙𝙣’𝙩 𝙨𝙚𝙚: 𝙢𝙮 𝙨𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙠𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙨 𝙨𝙤 𝙄 𝙝𝙤𝙗𝙗𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝘽𝙖𝙡𝙙𝙬𝙞𝙣’𝙨 𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙙. 𝙄 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙨𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙬𝙤𝙤𝙙𝙗𝙞𝙣𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙖 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙘𝙞𝙧𝙘𝙡𝙚 𝙖𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 𝙖 𝙡𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙜 𝙢𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙫𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙖𝙜𝙚, 𝙥𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙘𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙙𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙩: 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚 – 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜 𝙪𝙨 𝙖𝙡𝙡, 𝙚𝙭𝙘𝙚𝙥𝙩 𝙢𝙚, 𝙖𝙡𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙮 𝙙𝙬𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙙𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣 𝙖 𝙥𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙘𝙚𝙡𝙡.

𝙈𝙮 𝙛𝙖𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙮 𝙧𝙤𝙘𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙢𝙪𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙘𝙖𝙛𝙛𝙤𝙡𝙙 – 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙢𝙖𝙙𝙙𝙚𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚, 𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙨𝙝𝙧𝙚𝙙𝙙𝙚𝙙, 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙-𝙧𝙖𝙬 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙩.

𝙁𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙮 𝙛𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙨 𝙪𝙣𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙙.

𝘽𝙤𝙣𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙙; 𝙨𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙨, 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙥𝙚𝙩𝙪𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙖𝙧𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙙, 𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙧𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙙𝙚𝙥𝙧𝙞𝙫𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣.

𝘼𝙡𝙡 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙨𝙖𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙙.

𝙇𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙧𝙨.

From the Editor:

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