MicroHorror

You can see ancient skin glistening against the Celtic cross. A burning harvest of fire and brimstone crackles, tickling the lambent tongues of flame. It’s time. Bonfire’s ripe. Her imbued self-offering, plump with a “New Season,” bequeaths “All Hallows’ Eve.” She sets her bones to fire. Her scream transcends to the lucid moon. Piercing eyes from the realms of the living and dead commixes ceremoniously. They dance precariously, waiting for the “New Saint” to show his face out of burning embers. He is to be great this year. As the embers silence, it’s a girl.