Mary lived in western Louisiana and she always wished she met a man who could paint like Monet and could kill with equal ease. Mary lifted weights while she played with the dog. Mary wondered why there was no magic in her life other than the normal magic of life.

Sitting on her porch, the summer sun setting, wind sliding in churning the sky, the sunlight a vibrant rich blood red, fading to a royal purple, Mary and her dog Manuel wonder if they should set fire to the place and make a new life in New Zealand.

Fire cleanses, the Inquisitors knew this, the ancient gods knew this. Mary knows this too. Manuel knows what Mary knows and agrees with all his heart.

Mary pets Manuel and Manuel looks at her with eagerness. The stars pop into view, each with a universe resounding tinkle. Mary does one arm curls with a weight left by a forgotten shade of a man long long ago.

“Where are the matches?” Mary wonders.