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For Rain Is To Wet and Fire To Burn

They plunged into the orange glowing mouth of my kiln—yes, the whole choir dove straight into the fire. It blazed white and emitted a stench of burnt feathers. Then the angels were nothing but dark bodies going to ash, leaving me on my knees staring after them shocked and silenced in disbelief.

The angels plunged into the orange glowing mouth of my kiln.
The Bonfire of the Unknown and the Foreign

“Those with a husband would inflame the jealousy of the goddesses, and those who have never known loss would incite their rage.” It is one of the white-sareed women. Her lips are without paint and her hair is hidden under the drape of her saree. My companions at the bonfire have taken several bodily steps away from her. The effect is comical. It is as if she is a snow-white horse wading through the brown and black mud of us unknown and foreign types.

Everyone is welcome—even us unknown and foreign types—to partake in the grace, so long as we leave the village right after.
Audio Fiction Podcast:
For Rain Is To Wet and Fire To Burn

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The angels plunged into the orange glowing mouth of my kiln.
From the Archives:
The Black-Eyed Goddess of Apple Trees and Farmers’ Wives
My favorite story as a child was the one about the farmer who slits open his wife’s belly and plants an apple tree amongst her insides.