Burn.

Grey-green ashes flutter in the air-- the latest bonfire in a slew of many. Eyes widen as arms burgeoning with muscle and swollen veins lift another load over the coals. Gasps. Maybe even a small scream from the back. There is a rumbling in my chest and a laugh that's more of a bark bursts forth and shatters the solemnity. Nervous titters echo. A booming, cynical voice calls from somewhere amidst the crowd, "Burn it all! Fuck the capitalists."

I cackle, and the fire flares for a moment.

"Again," I whisper. They dump the pile onto the smoldering embers. At first the bundles of cash just smother, and then, one by one they smoke and burst into flames. Money doesn't burn easily, but I've become an expert. I nod, and the attendants spray streams of accelerate onto the flames, hastening their work. The fire blooms, and with it the atmosphere changes. The crowd breathes in the fumes of burning chemicals and hundred dollar bills and they become frenzied, whooping and hollering both approval and disdain. The moment is ripe. The air stinks of filthy money and sexual frustration. I turn, and my cape flourishes dramatically behind me. Perfect.

Anthor, flaps into view and lands on my shoulder. He sends a raven shriek at the fire, as if expressing his hatred for the thing. He has always hated fire. A whisper skitters through the crowd. Anthor, Anthor, Anthor...They recognize him. When I speak, I do not raise my voice. They'll hear me if they are truly listening. "Welcome, my friends," I coo. There is a murmur of disagreement at my use of the word 'friends.' I wait. They will quiet--they always quiet-- for me. When there is no sound but the whoosh of flames I continue, "Thank you for joining me here tonight. I know this is the first time for many of you. Anthor and I welcome you, and tonight..." I wait, let the anticipation build, "...tonight--the same challenge: show me something meaningful-- because this--" I gesture to the burning cash, "--is not it. Show me something that stirs me to the very core, and I will stop burning for the night-- and I will send you home with as much of this meaningless green as you can carry." A slow cheer rises. Anthor flaps his distaste. "Go," I whisper to him, and he bursts from my side with wings of midnight. I turn my back to those gathered, and settle onto my throne. They wait.

I make them wait. Agonizing minutes--they wait. And then I whip my head up, black curls dancing in the wind of the fire, the green of my eyes flashing along with the gray-green burn, palms turned toward the sky I mutter, "Begin." And they do. I am drunk with the power. There is no denying it now. Perhaps this is my life's meaning: to command. Bodies gyrate, cameras flash, voices howl in their desperation to seize my attention. My money. My stomach churns at the thought. I know they are not here for me-- not really. They want wealth.

If only they knew just how toxic it is: having everything and nothing.

A woman is moaning loudly as some giant of a man takes her up against the stone pillar. I snicker. Funny that they always seem to think sex will be the meaningful thing. In every place I've been in the world, at every one of these little "burns" I host, someone has tried sex. They've never stopped the burn.

Some other movement at the center of the gyration catches my eyes, and then a scream of true pain pierces the groan of a thousand voices. A woman, hugely pregnant, waddles forth. Now this---interesting. So soon. I feel a slight tinge of irritation that something interesting is happening so soon. I love it when the crowd beings to panic... when the cash runs low, and they fear no one will prevail... but this...

She stumbles and catches herself on the stone pillar where the idiots were fucking just moments ago. A moan of a different sort escapes her. Still, she lumbers toward me with heavy steps. When she is mere inches away, she stops-- they are not to touch me-- she knows this. Her brown eyes lock onto mine with ice intensity. She grunts. I scarcely breathe. This is a first. A slow smile blooms on my lips and echos on hers. She knows that she has won me now.

Her smile crumples as a wave of pain beckons fresh. She squats down and lifts her skirt above her hips. The view is horrifying and riveting. Fluids flow, and the crinkled cap of a small head is visible between her thighs. A grunt and the head bulges, then recedes. Nausea swirls in my gut, but I cannot look away. For near an hour, I watch the head bulge and recede, until the woman is on all fours in front of me, panting and meeting my eyes in desperation now. She screams and I whisper, "once more." With a mighty heave, the head pops free. Liquid pats onto the ground. The mother's hands reach and catch the slippery thing. She looks. I look. They all look. And then, she does what she is not supposed to do.

She takes the wet, writhing thing and thrusts it into my arms, umbilical cord still attached to some organ inside her body. It is warm. It is human. It lets loose a scream into the dusk. A single tear falls onto its fresh, wet, crinkly little head. It is meaningful.

I stand on shaking legs and hand the babe back to its mother, who collapses onto the concrete and weeps, afterbirth plopping onto the hard ground along with her. Anthor flaps down from his perch in a tall maple tree and pecks at it. Someone is retching in revulsion nearby. I look down at the woman, and then my hand is moving without my permission, stroking her smooth brown hair, my eyes burning with tears. "Thank you," I tell her, with a tremor in my voice. She meets my eyes, her own shinning with disdain, "You.. are a witch," she spits.

I laugh--and this time it is not a cackle. I turn to the gathering and announce, "This is meaningful. It is over." My goons gather round in a sort of human force-field and I make a hasty exit, calling over my shoulder to Anthor as I go. He protests, but finally flaps over and sits upon my shoulder once more, reddish bits clinging to his beak. I climb into the waiting chopper, but turn to one of the ropey-veined men next to me and command, "call an ambulance, and see to it that the mother receives her prize," before taking off. He obeys. They all obey.

Wings beat and the metal bird rises to the sky. Anthor coos his protest. I pat his head and he settles. A sound, not unlike a purr rises from beneath his feathers as he nestles his head into my hand, and I think, for the second time this night, that perhaps...everything is not meaningless.