She danced

She danced into cities where her name was sprayed on concrete walls and blinking neon over dive bars. She danced over battlefields and carried the dead to Valhalla. She swirled and tip-toed across rivers made of moon shade and glitter. She sang meadows and springs into blighted downs and stark boulders. Her arms arched up over her head to hold the sun for one last dance. Her hair was under water.

Then, head bowed, mouth snarled, teeth bared, she growled. Her nails slashed the air and painted it in blood. She reached up again and threw the sun into the sea where it boiled and created turbulent hell. Muscles suddenly twice their normal size sent the balls of her feet into the ground like thunder and buildings lost their bricks. Fire sprang up before her and she ate it like a molten cake, dripping flames down her chin.

Never did anyone quite see all of her. Sometimes the fire, sometimes the springs, sometimes the dance and once the fallen sun. But no one knew it was all the same power of woman, the same driving force of person who knew and told and made. No one knew until now on this reckoning afternoon, this otherwise normal three o’clock.

“Now,” she lilted, “one by one: what have you done?”

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