#fridayflash~Burning the Guy

Burning the Guy


Remember, remember the Fifth of November,
The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
I know of no reason
Why the Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The orange flames writhed like a beast trapped in a hellish dimension. The fiery wood pile shifted slightly, sending sparks upwards with the thick smoke.

Most of the villagers gathered near the waters edge to enjoy the annual Bonfire Night. It had been a community tradition along the bay for generations and Cassandra King couldn’t even remember what it was meant to celebrate.

Smaller children, their faces aglow, chased one another about the fire. The older youths clustered together in small groups at the perimeter of the gathering; their hoods were pulled up, leaning into one another occasionally for quiet conversation.

Cassandra zipped her jacket up to the neck and sipped her rum and Coke; its ice had long since melted but she enjoyed the drink just the same. She stared at the flames. Entranced. She didn’t feel very social and was content to sit on her plastic chair behind most of the revelers. Besides, she was fully aware that much of the swirling mist was caused by burning plastics, rubber and God-knows-what from items tossed on the pile the past few days.

“Penny for the guy?” asked young Lizzy Bishop, drawing Cassandra from her thoughts. She smiled and placed a quarter in the girl’s outstretched palm. “Thanks!” she said and ran towards the old man tending the fire.

Mr. Donovan was crouched down, his leathery face pinched in concentration, poking at the sand with a long stick. The old man unearthed the foil-wrapped potatoes that had been baking; he took the coins from the waiting youngsters and handed each a potato. The children ran off tossing the hot potato back and forth between their hands.

Old wood and sundry garbage items had been getting dumped at the site for a week. Building lumber, palates, crates, tables with chipped paint and broken chairs had been stacked in a pile that was now over 15 feet high. The hungry flames consumed the village discards. They danced in the darkness and licked at the night sky. The crowd began to chant:

Remember, remember the Fifth of November,
The Gunpowder Treason and Plot…

Words the community had chanted for generations. Cassandra didn’t know the meaning of the words but she knew that they would never find Tom’s remains.

That treasonous bastard.

The entire operation had been devilishly simple. Her husband had emptied out their bank account and was at home packing his bags. Tom was going to drive to the city to pick up his mistress and then head to Vegas. At least that’s what the text messages she had read implied.

Cassandra had emerged from her hiding place in the closet and clubbed him over the head with his aluminum baseball bat. She removed the wad of cash from his pocket, stuffed him in his hockey bag and rolled him to the beach on a dolly in the wee hours. It was easy enough to drag the bag across the sand and remove the small pile of wood and place him in the shallow pit at the bottom. She restacked the wood and added a few bits of her own. She had reported him missing the next day but the police quickly concluded, due to his Blackberry messages and the missing money, that he had fled his marriage.

Remember, remember the Fifth of November,
The Gunpowder Treason and Plot…

The crowd shouted and cheered as Mr. Donovan held the straw-filled clothing aloft. It was an effigy to some long dead traitor in a faraway land. Cassandra’s poppy had told her the story when she was a little girl but she no longer remembered the reason for the bonfire. Mr. Donovan tossed the limp rags onto the orange flames. Cassandra jumped to her feet and cheered with the community as the fire raged on.