fiction

Nona had spent this morning, like so many mornings before, rooted in the expanse of an open field, rooted in the shadow of the great temple she now stands above, rooted in a field opened through the sacrifice of countless scores of martyred shrubs and trees; a holy site signifying the cycle of plantly existence….

Nona flicked the match against the edge of the box. The strike ignited, causing light to dance on the head like a ghost materializing from aether, evaporating order into chaos. She raised the stick above her head, stretched her elbow straight, and rocked up to her tiptoes to lift the match as high as possible….