I wrote this short story for a writing workshop in uni. Each week we had to write a 500-word story based on a prompt and present it in class… totally nerve-wracking the first few times, but the group environment was great. I’d love to find another workshop like that.

The carriage jolts over a hole and you plunge the needle into your finger. You hold back a wince, and the monster sitting opposite you smiles.

The bloodied needle slides through the fabric with ease, but each and every stitch leaves you cold and terrified. You are running out of thread, out of cloth – out of time.

‘Charlotte,’ say perfectly red lips in a perfectly still face. ‘Just talk to us. Your father and I are so worried.’

‘Please,’ your father adds softly.

You glance up at him, and regret it. For a moment, you see only the father you once knew: ruddy cheeks under smiling eyes. But reality sets in and his cheeks are haggard, his eyes sunken and dull.

‘It doesn’t have to be like this,’ the monster says, and smiles, revealing row after row of gleaming teeth.

But it does, you don’t say. Of course it does. This is what happens in stories: the hero suffers, the monster smiles, but the hero always wins out. You will win out.

The carriage races along, and you chance a peek out the window, still your hands for just a moment. The countryside is green and lush, you can see rows of women tending to wide fields full of nettles – no, corn – and you are far, far too close to her destination.

With renewed determination and tears just behind your eyes, you sew. Your knuckles are white as you push the needle through the cloth. The thread snags and knots, and you spend precious seconds untangling it with shaking fingers.

‘I can’t lose you too,’ your father chokes out, and you refuse to look at him. Tears dot the fabric. ‘You’re all we have left.’

I am all she has left behind, you do not say.

‘This place will have her talking again in no time,’ the monster says, in her most reasonable voice. Chills run down your spine. Not even the bundle of finished shirts tucked into your cushion can calm your nerves, and as your stitches get huge and desperate you can feel sweat sliding down the back of your neck.

‘Here we are now,’ she adds with obvious relish; a cat licking its whiskers after a meal.

The horses clatter on the cobblestones as they come to a stop. There’s a buzzing in your ears that gets louder as you see the stitching still to be completed. A whole sleeve, hanging loose.

The door opens, and strong arms circle your waist. They haul you from the carriage, but you cling to the shirt and keep your mouth shut. This has to be enough to save them. The day can still be won, the curse undone – 

Your father takes your hands. Unpeels every clenched finger, and takes the unfinished shirt from you. Your stepmother stands triumphant behind him, cushion in hand.

As you are dragged into the building, birds wheel overhead. Swans, perhaps.

---

Thistlewitch is based on the fairytale The Six Swans, aka probably my favourite-ever fairy tale. The first version of it that I read had a sad ending – the girl dies on the pyre, the brothers are swans forever, etc etc – and I gotta say that’s the way I like it best.

The best adaption (with a happy ending) of this fairy tale that I’ve read is Daughter of the Forest, the first book of the Sevenwaters series by Juliet Marillier. The first book is really good, but the series gets weaker as it goes – it ends up feeling super formulaic. Still really enjoyable, though.