~a Searing Tradition~

Autumn’s tortoiseshell sky reclined across mountain’s chaise longue, content to linger while night stirred and rose. A tangled weave of broken limbs lay like nest for dragon’s sleep, and they came, draped in woolen armour, quilted masks pulled high against flailing artic wind, virgin warriors, wide eyed tasting the wild adrenaline, anticipating their conquests flesh as it roasts in dying embers of funeral pyre. Now from the cart frozen in fear, they carried our victim. Alabaster skin reflecting flickering brands, no sounds escaped his painted smile when we placed him, like a king upon his final throne. A circle of stony stares let murmurs slip, “Remember, remember the fifth of November gunpowder, treason and plot. I see no reason why gunpowder, treason should ever be forgot... “