by James O'Connor
Running down the mountain with fire in his hand, how his eyes blazed in the darkness. Oh, his laughter as he burned, flames growing up his arm with a thousand vicious Gods coming just behind. He was two legs and charcoal when he finally brought the gift to town. Now his name would live forever. Elders would build a temple and for generations choose the prettiest child to put upon the pyre. What though is sacrifice if it doesn't leave an immortal offering behind?
James O'Connor is a writer, actor and director living on the edge of New England. He blogs here.