Cinders

Step-mother said I’d never leave. That I’d never see a foreign kingdom, the sea, or snow fall. But now I watch flakes float from the dusking sky, catch one, and taste freedom on my tongue.

I was forced to clean. The house, the hearth by candlelight. Wasting no coals for myself.

Thrill shivers through me.

The night waxes, while incandescent hues paint the clouds, mirroring below.

Did you know revenge burns cold?

Yes, call me Cinder. Tonight the flames rise, and your ashen flakes fall. I’ve cleansed you from this world and taste the embers that were once your skin.

Alethea Paul writes speculative flash fiction and dabbles, or drabbles, in literary. Find her @aletheapaul.bsky.social.