Welcome to this week’s story, ranging in length from 100 words to 500 words.
With each story we hope to deliver a little whimsy into the lives of our readers.
THE VINE-WITCH’S GIFT
They said the Vine-Witch lived where the forest forgot its name, beneath a canopy so thick no daylight ever settled.
Liora never believed the tales—until her mother fell ill and the only cure whispered through the village was witch-root, a herb that grew only in that forbidden place.
She found the forest entrance wrapped in winter mist. The trees bowed over her like elders judging her courage. With every step, vines slithered across her ankles, curious rather than cruel. Liora kept walking, repeating her mother’s voice in her mind: Kindness buys passage where fear buys graves.
Night gathered quickly. The deeper she wandered, the louder the forest breathed—low moans, old hunger, promises spoken in leaf-rustling tongues. When she reached the clearing of black earth, the Vine-Witch rose from the roots.
Her skin was bark. Her hair, hanging to her knees, was braided from living tendrils sprouting red winter berries. Her eyes glowed green as moss after rain.
“You seek a cure,” the Vine-Witch said. “All humans do. You take and tear and call it mercy.”
Liora trembled, but did not bow. “I only want to save my mother.”
The Vine-Witch considered her. A vine crept along Liora’s wrist, tasting her pulse.
“You carry honesty,” the Witch murmured. “Rare. Costly.”
A knot of roots burst from the ground, revealing a single glowing blossom: witch-root. Liora reached for it, but the Vine-Witch lifted a hand.
“Every cure has a price.”
“What must I pay?” Liora whispered.
The Witch touched Liora’s cheek with a wooden fingertip. “I ask a promise. Honor the forest. Speak for it. Protect what cannot protect itself. Become my voice among your kind.”
Liora hesitated only a moment. “I swear it.”
The forest sighed in relief.
When she stepped out of the clearing, the Witch-root tucked safely in her satchel, Liora felt something coil gently around her ankle—a final vine, warm as sunlight.
“Return when the oath calls you,” the Vine-Witch said.
Liora turned. The Witch was gone. Only frost-kissed vines remained, glinting like silver threads.
Back home, her mother recovered before dawn.
But on Liora’s skin, faint green veins appeared beneath the surface—beautiful, luminous, and unmistakably alive. She would keep her promise. Because some gifts heal, some bind, and some transform.
And the forest had chosen her.
Robyn Wangra is a South African writer, spoken-word poet, and emerging legal scholar studying toward her LLB. Her work explores themes of healing, identity, folklore, and the quiet magic woven through ordinary life. She coaches public speaking and drama, tutors commerce students, and participates actively in leadership and creative initiatives. Robyn’s writing draws inspiration from South African landscapes, emotional resilience, and stories of transformation. She hopes to merge law, literature, and advocacy to create meaningful impact.
If you enjoyed this story you can find it and more in the Hawthorn & Ash anthology.
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