“Little boys make for the best stew. Don’t you think, dear sister?” the ugly old woman said with a crooked smile. She poked the youngster in the cage with a stick.
“Aye, they do, Matlida, with proper preparation, of course.” The younger, but still old, hag with the eye-patch agreed.
Inside the cage, he cried as they poured foul liquids over him and spoke in tongues he couldn’t comprehend. A bleat escaped his quivering lips. Curly white hair sprouted across his naked body. His fingers shrank and fused together in cloven hooves.
The witches cackled over the lamb with delight.
This story was written for Friday Fictioneers. Now be a good little minion and read the tales the others have woven with their share of the wool.