Competition Twenty Highly Commended: Heat by Jonathan Saint
The glow inside is a pale, voiceless heat. A breeze drifts up from the fields, tickling the invisible flames, licking the stifling afternoon. Smoke lifts, stinging the eyes of the watching circle. Two dozen pink-soled feet, barefoot on the caked earth, shift listlessly. Clinking.
Planter Jackson loosens his neckerchief. He smiles at his daughter sipping a cool drink then frowns again at the monthly ledger.
Katie knows the best view is upstairs, but first she must finish her lemonade on the veranda. Some things are not allowed inside.
Grandma Taylor’s breath whistles through her teeth as she rocks in the shade of the magnolia, the creaking chair barely disturbing the heavy fragrant air. The creaking eases, slows, and stops.
The planter’s sickly wife glistens upstairs. Lace curtains tremble at the open windows but the feverish stink of her lingers.
Murphy spits into the fire for the hiss and takes off his flaxen hat. He slips out the damp headband and wraps it tight about his palm. He’s been burnt before.
It is the signal.
A wailing erupts like the screech of a banshee. She is dragged biting and snapping from the low hut and stripped. The lustre of youth; the ripened grief of stolen love. Her limbs are tied and drawn, spreadeagled under the naked sun.
Katie slurps the last of the ice and races inside.
Grandma Taylor’s chair rocks again.
The young wife moans, a pale arm across her brow.
Murphy grasps the handle, draws the glowing iron from the white heat. His eyes crawl across the body writhing at his feet. He plants a hobnail boot and leans into the scream.
Planter Jackson amends the ledger:
R
Is for runaway.
Jonathan Saint writes short fiction and poetry for kids and adults. He’s a New Zealander living in Dublin with his family.
Photo courtesy of Jonathan Saint
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The hard reality of life not so long ago described with teasing images, telling me everything I need to know to let my imagination work out the rest. Bravo…