Kyria’s Beating

Kyria shredded the propaganda, hurling sweat-drenched fodder at a barrel of flaming tongues. For Momma. Grandpa. Everyone. Scrap phantoms billowed in a taunting dance. She kicked the rusty dragon, splaying its fiery guts across the refugee camp. Cool hands seized her trembling arms. Her ruddy fists dropped. Tears blurred her view of Maeve’s celerean face.

“Get ridda me.” Her eyes spilled over and streaked warm ribbons down her cheeks. “I ain’t worth dying for.”

Maeve crouched, gazing into Kyria’s eyes. “Why’dya like my guitar?”

Lips broke, softened.  “Makes my heart dance.”

“S’how I feel about you. Why I adopted you.” Maeve took Kyria’s fist and pressed it against her green chest. “Can’t get rid of what’s stuck in here. Of all the human survivors, you were the last who heard music with your soul.”

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