She held her rage inside like a gift she dared not return. 'This is the perfect place,' she whispered. In her mind, a tiny blue spark, a synapse arced, igniting her imagination. Words coagulated inside and moved through her bones, swirling like cursive across her skin, erupting from her brightly lit eyes to catch on dry tinder, kindling and bundled up twigs and twine. She’d packed everything into an effigy, a wicker-man, and she stood underneath a sky like torched steel, as the flames scorched the wooden legs and the whole world began to singe and smoke and burn.
