“Sylvia, where are you little rat?!” – the freezing voice came closer and closer. The closer it came, the more she felt the bliss of the flames. They didn’t hurt. They didn’t blame. They slowly started their gentle song. A reminder of her mother’s voice was the last sound she heard. The last thing she saw was a figure resembling her father but all over in flames. * A year later the rich widow of Joe Phil hired workers to start reconstruction of the burnt house. The only thing she couldn’t overcome was the nightmare of her stepdaughter’s hands reaching out for a hug. (This story won honourable mention in the December 2011 Short Story Writing competition of SH College Writers’ Forum)
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