500 Words 2025/26: read a finalist's story from the 5-7 category

Remember, spelling, punctuation and grammar are not taken into account for a 500 Words story, therefore all the top 50 stories have been published how they were submitted.

The Truth of Pitlochry by Ariadne Elena L.

I always knew we lived on the edge of things - not just the forest,but the village too.People came to my mother when they weredesperate, but they never looked her in the eye.They called her a healer, then muttered"witch" when they thought we couldn't hear.

When the baby died - that tiny blue thing we couldn'tsave - I saw how quickly sorrow turns to suspicion.

Then Reverend Macrae began preaching about theDevil's work. I felt it in my bones: he meant us.

Winter came like a curse.The sick grew sicker. Mymother worked through the night, grinding roots and mixing broths.

When Thomas Mathieson's son fell ill, she tried everything.But when he died,his mother screamed:"Witch! You cursed him!"That was the moment our world shifted.Whispers followed me in the street.Ewan, my only friend, warned me, they were coming.For blood.My mother started sleeping less, her eyes hollowed,her hands shaking even as they worked miracles.

There was an old rowan tree behind our cottage,bent slightly, bowed under the weight of the years.My mother planted it the day I was born,saying it would protect usa charm older than the church, older than fear.I used to sit beneath it and watch her gather herbs,her hands sure, her voice humming forgotten songs.The tree held our laughter, our stories, our silences.They said the tree was a marker - a witch's tree.They said she danced under the moon.That she whispered to the wind, and animals came to her.That she healed too many, or not enough.Spring brought tales of strange lights by the river.Summer brought dead cattle blamed on her touch.Autumn, a fever she couldn't cure.And winter? Winter brought Inquisitor Reid.

He spokelike God Himself stood beside him,but his eyes held nothing but cold.

And the Reverend welcomed himlike a vulture welcomes a fresh corpse.

They came for her at night.No mercy, no warning.Just torches and rope.

I screamed until my voice cracked. They lockedher in the old sheep barn like she was a beast.I begged them to listen.I begged Ewan.I even knelt before the Inquisitor.Nothing moved them.They held a trial, if you could call it that -lies built on fear, silence twisted into guilt.They sentenced her at dawn. Drowning.As if water could prove anything.I stood by the river,watching the sky turn grey as they tied her hands.She looked at me, just once.Not afraid. Just… tired.I stayed until the water swallowed her.Then I ran.I took her books.I took her words.I didn't look back.Pitlochry was no longer my home.They burned her name in shame -but I carry it in memory.One day, someone will listen.One day, they'll know she was never a witch.Just a woman.A healer.My mother.

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