They see the smoke approaching. Thin black wisp threading into the sky. They smell the sulphur on the wind. Charred motes catching on the swaying wheat. They see the light of her approaching in the gloom of the last hour before dark, over the narrow road through the rolling hills. The woman on fire makes her way steadily and surely towards the village. The stampede of feet drowns out the screams of those underfoot. The spit and crackle of her skin splits the rush of flame trailing behind her, sending bolts of ember into the darkening sky.
Paddy Dobson
7th January 2022