More Will Burn

torch in hand illustration

He told us we could have a second chance.

All we had to do was a single favour for a shot at redemption. One last moment of sin in return for an eternity on the top floor.

We trekked to the land of the living and found the place without much trouble. We saw them celebrating through the windows. Dancing. Singing. Too much noise for them to notice the crackle and hiss of his flames. By the time the heat told them something was wrong, we’d already formed a ring around their little residence, just as instructed.

They spilled from the doors and windows and we held hands to keep them close to the flames. In my mind I thought of ring a ring ‘o roses, hoping it would block out the screams. It didn’t.

An old woman saw our ragged clothes and skin charred from the fiery pits. She knew why we there, and she shrieked that it was a joke. A lie. But it was too late to stop it. And there was still an almost imperceptible flicker of hope that he would keep his word.

We had to have hope, because what else is there?

But there was none. Now we’re here, and you’re telling me we can’t come through your hallowed gates.

It was a trick, see? We were too stupid to see that because we were blinkered by desperation.

If you turn us away then you’re as bad as us. You’ll condemn us to suffering, just as we did to those poor folk who went up in flames, all because of his games. If you send us back to him, it will only happen again.

More will burn for as long as there are desperate people to do the devil’s bidding.

About Stories that Sing

Open Spotify (or music streaming platform of choice) and hit shuffle until you find a song you want to write about. This month was Agnes Obel’s Dorian.


P.S. Look out for a blog post on Sunday in which Agnes Obel’s music is featured, because she conjures up the perfect atmosphere for writing.

P.P.S. You can tell I’m in a maudlin state of mind with this story, can’t you? Will try to be peppier next week, promise!

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