He wears gloves for the task: black lambskin stark against her pale arms. He slows his hand to savor the sound of frayed rope across pliable flesh, pulling taut, wrapping her up in herself. He steps down for a final look, backing into the gathered townsfolk to witness his work upon its combustible perch. An awaiting gift bound in a parody of a bow. The witch gives no final word, lifts her proud head; a living offering to the bruised sky and its fading stars. There’s smoke and heat, and in his delirium the blaze looks like sunshine.
Written for NYC Midnight’s 100-word Microfiction Challenge.
Genre – Historical Fiction
Prompt – Wrapping a gift
Word – Sunshine
Stafford Morgan 