Ed, a Chinese balloon, seemed to be drifting upwards, taking her along with him. They kept hitting bumpy air pockets as they floated away from the shouting and crackling and roaring. But they didn’t escape. It was still hot and close. She leaned over and after a while her stomach was no longer pressing against her mouth. It was gone. Washed away. And she was lying on something too deep and too clinging and too hot.
A brief respite until she would have to go into the pit again. Waiting, she could hear the voices, the cries from those still in the furnace. They were far away and yet distinctly audible.
But sometimes the roar changed to a distant surf, pounding on rocks, surging and subsiding, while the spray bubbled up in a white foam on gray cliffs and stretches of deserted beach.
Other
