Lyre, Lyre, Pants on Fire

“Go ‘head. You’ll do just fine…”

Brown didn’t want t cross the fires–the ‘lone devil lights in the otherwise empty blackness; but the sound o’ the lyre’s strings–like a flickering o’ flames, actually–made him thirst to touch it too much.

This is it, Brown thought. I’ll get to the other side this time.

He held his arms out & closed his eyes, & then dashed in.

The next gray morn, all they could find in the remains o’ Worcestershire Woods was ashes & 1 strangely unblemished lyre.


Charles, Flame, Lyre