20th page [voice - backdated story tiiiem]
....so. I feel like sharing a story with you all, one my grandmother often told me when I was a child. [and from that bored tone of voice it's whether anyone actually wants to hear it or not.] Once upon a time there was a witch. She was nothing like anything you read in those faerie tales, mind. She helped birth children rather than popping them into ovens, and attempted to con people into healthier living habits rather than cursing them into toads. Really, about the only similarity between her and the wicked witches of other children's stories was her preference for solitude.
Of course, the villagers she lived with were still wary of her all the same. And true to form they all decided to band together one day and march on the poor old woman's cottage, because she was a witch, and there was only one thing to do with witches back then.
The witch saw it all coming, of course. And yet, she willingly went with the townsfolk when they brought the torches and the pitchforks, and helped them with the knots as they tied her to the stake. Because she was a nice old woman, that one.
And a prepared one. She loaded up her coat with gunpowder and every sharp pointy bit of shrapnel she could stuff into her pockets. And once the bonfire was lit? [you can practically hear the wry grin in her voice here.] The whole village gathered to watch her burn. I'll let you imagine the rest.
The moral of this story? If you absolutely have to be rid of the local witch, for god's sake, drown her or something. There's less backfire that way.