The Witch, the Frog, and Her Wrath

“A frog! A frog! A frog upon your houses!” screamed the witch, with some difficulty, through a rattling smokers cough. And suddenly there was. An enormous green tree frog equal in size to two plough horses, with feet as large as cart wheels, appeared from no where and began hopping from house to house leaving devastating ruins in its wake. The village people, who had gathered in the town square at the witches’ loud and rude arrival, looked at each other in dumbfounded horror. What had they done to incur the witches’ wrath?

“What have we done to incur your wrath?” asked the boldest, or perhaps dumbest of the villagers. Or yet again, perhaps the poor man was simply intoxicated.

The witch turned to him, livid, her untidy black hair in a wild mess about her face, pupils enlarged and darkened by anger. She opened her mouth and all that came out was blackness and a horrific scream of many voices. Her eyes rolled up in her head and she slumped to the ground, like a rag doll, her head landing in semi-fresh horse dung, it had recently stopped steaming.

The villagers glanced at each other, at the fallen witch, and then at the giant frog that was still destroying their homes and livelihoods. Many of them rolled their eyes thinking, “Great, just great, now what?” They looked at each other again, cautiously, no one really wanting to step up and take a risk.

From the back of the crowd the village idiot stumbled forward dragging his bad leg behind him and lifting his cap out of his eyes. He eyed the unconscious witch drunkenly, blinking widely, as if to clear his vision. He seemed to think for a moment before pulling a dagger from his belt. He bent down kissed the witch square on the lips and then killed her in the most humanitarian way possible.

As the last of the witches’ lifeblood left her the crowd held their breath in silence. They knew the moment of the witches’ true death because at that very moment the frog that had been causing chaos and destruction instantly disappeared mid hop. The villagers all cheered and rewarded their pal the village idiot richly with gold, and better yet, barrels of ale.

No one ever found out what had angered the witch, and caused her to attack the town. However, that night many of the village children returned from a forest picnic complaining of gingerbread tummy aches.

I am not a poet

My poetry is hit and miss and I cannot seem to grasp what makes a piece good or God awful.
Please let me know if this is a bulls eye or a dart stuck into the carpet. Thank you, Thank you.

No bruises to call bones
just black and white
ink scratching out scars
while stars tell nothing,
keep their counsel,
tight lipped and bright.
Night covers the tracks
of those not innocent
while young minds dream.