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Hoo.

Hollow like a seashell, swept onto the shore.

Hollow like a story Waiting to unfold Ireland Saturday by Lucy Catherine Will you love me when I'm gone?

Early evening, bright sharp air, in the shade of a great old tree.

The witch elm stands alone in a clearing.

The shopping mall is gone.

The car parks are gone.

The lake is gone.

Build a bonfire.

Build a bonfire.

Put the creature on the top.

This is how I will die.

Burned alive. I hear the three others whispering the spell of protection. The pyre is made of hawthorn, row and birch and oak, but mostly it is hazel. They burn witches on

hazelwood. I read that somewhere. Or was it a dream? I join with them. Hair, hair,

God send thee care. Press the hand to the stonum. Regulate the breathing. Focus on a lone

buttercup there's escaped all the carnage of the world. It too will die soon.

Sadie leans over me, no sympathy whatsoever.

Sarah?

Smoke begins to rise.

The whispered chant.

I cannot see them, but I know my sisters are there.

...