by Ximena Escobar

Crimson petals, as bright as the blood she spilled, did nothing to soothe their wounds. Red, like her mane swaying, as branches tore her slaves’ skin and her pores wept.

She’d lain the flowers at His feet. Despite that, he still looked down on her. Hanging up there, on the crucifix.

No man looks at me like that in my house.

Decades later, as flames licked the eager underground and a priest returned Him home, He stretched his wooden arms at the doorway, too wide to pass.

Face up on her deathbed, mane red as hell, she pleaded to him.

Ximena Escobar

Ximena is writing short stories and poetry. Originally from Chile, she lives in Sydney with her family.

Facebook: @ximenautora