the burning prophecy (of johnny cash).

Mrs. Martin Floyd had gotten it in her mind to go to the grocery store, and she intended to do just that.

So she put on her little face mask, blue fabric printed with little roses, and a straw hat with a small garden of roses on it's brim to match. (It did get rather hot on her walks sometimes, and she rather liked to accessorize.) She gripped the handles of her walker with the pink tennis balls and shuffled out of the door.

Mrs. Martin Floyd's door was painted a bright, fire engine red - the only painted door on the street with no gate. A nice young man with tattoos to his collar had done the job and she had given him a crisp twenty dollars and a nice hot meal for his good work.

She inched down the stairs and collected her breath at the bottom before turning her walker and starting once more. A familiar tune bubbled up inside her,

Love is a burnin' thing,

And it makes a fiery ring -

And so Mrs. Floyd Martin hummed along as she continued her trek down the street.

Across the way, there was a whirling tornado of flame, twisting like a whirlpool of heat. In the distance, the sirens screeched like banshees, their shrill cries tearing through the air like paper shredders do old bills.

Bound by wild desire,

I fell into a ring of fire -

'Damnit,' she thought. She had forgotten her bottle of water.

That was just like her to forget it, wasn't it? Forgetful old Mrs. Martin Floyd. Oh, well. She wasn't that thirsty today, anyway. She could always get a ice cold glass when she got home.

And so she hummed along as she continued her trek down the street.

I fell into a burnin' ring of fire;

I went down, down, down -

And the flames went higher,

And it burns, burns, burns

The ring of fire,

The ring of fire.

The road that she would soon turn to, Fourth Street, was a little slanted in the middle and that always made her a little more tired. Mrs. Floyd Martin had found out that if she sat down about halfway of the block for a minute or two before continuing on her way, she could make it just fine and so she did just that. She to the was the middle of the block, and then she sank into the weathered burgundy seat of her walker, ignoring its whine of protest. She let out a contented sigh and squinted in the heat.

She sat as a Ref to the scene before her, where two groups stood parted like the Red sea. Her granddaughter was going to school on a Volleyball scholarship and she often came to all of the games early to get a seat in the center, right behind the Ref, so she had the best view of the court.

On one side stood a row of fortified men with heavy shields that winked in the sun, and some were on horseback. On the other side were children in cloth masks wearing holey jeans and faded tee-shirts and beaded bracelets and waving colorful signs. They were chanting old words, "We do not wish to die, do not kill us, we do not wish to die," Their colorful signs, glittering and sarcastic, bobbed over their heads.

The stone faces of Jerico did not reply, silent and unmoved.

With a sigh, the old woman unfurled from her walker, once again grasping the handles to continue her trek down the street. She bobbed her head to the record spinning in the back of her mind,

I fell into a burnin' ring of fire,

I went down, down, down,

And the flames went higher -

The sun was a white-hot ball bouncing off the curve of their plastic shields - warping and leaping off the bayonet edge. The mud from last night's rain had dried, baking evenly on the battlefield.

The Confederate flag flapped and smacked against the pole, it's red the only spot of color in the Southerner's Ranks. The Union soldiers' blues were faded with mud and harsh scrubbing, and their once fresh faces were weighed with exhaustion. The Confederate commander raised his hand.

It was still.

Very still.

A hot wind blew across the field.

The Confederate commander never lowered his hand- a Union soldier seized up and dropped and the battlefield erupted into motion and chaos over his head. The horses rose up, wild manes free in the hot wind.

And it burns, burns, burns -

The ring of fire, the ring of fire -

And so Mrs. Floyd Martin hummed along as she continued her trek down the street.

A child with diyed hair and dangling earrings shouted, folding in like a lawn chair, blood trailing designs on her printed pants -

on his Sunday best clothes. He was calling out for his mother, wailing over the sirens and splintering glass and roaring engines, but she could not hear him over the gunfire of the newly deputized. He had been angry with her earlier, for yanking him and forcing his hair smooth, shoving his starched shirt into these stiff slacks he wasn't allowed to play in.

All of that was forgotten now.

He shoes crunched on over the broken storefront windows where she had brought him ice cream, taken him to get a haircut. Everybody was running everywhere and he caught glimpses of their faces, the bank tellers and the dentists and the lady who owned the flower shop his mother worked at.

And all of the houses that lined head's were on fire.

The taste of love is sweet,

When hearts like ours meet.

I fell for you like a child,

Oh, but the fire went wild -

And so Mrs. Floyd Martin hummed along as she continued her trek down the street.

Mrs. Martin Floyd was quite blessed, she thought, to be able to still continue on like this. Milly, from church, was in a wheelchair now. Mrs. Martin Floyd thanked God she wasn't in a wheelchair.

She passed a little alleyway between two houses where a black dog barked hello. She jumped a little -

whirling around to see the Cops being pulled by the wild animals, their knife-like teeth ready to tear her apart. She gripped the wooden plank tighter, raising the sign above her head.

She was cold from those water hoses they had used to blast away the college classmates she'd road down with, hot and sticky from the Burmington air. Her voice had given out forever ago, her soul had slipped from her lips and hung above her like a cloud, watching her squeak along in her wet Mary Janes. She wanted to lay down, just for a minute. Lay down and pretend to be dead so they would step right over her, and she could rest.

She immediately dismissed the idea.

She knew what happened to black girls who rested.

It'd had happened to Caroline.

I fell into a burnin' ring of fire-

I went down, down, down,

And the flames went higher.

And it burns, burns, burns -

Mrs. Floyd Martin blew into the grocery store with a blast of heat, shuffling into little grocery. Mr. Hernandez was behind the counter, his eyes glued to the TV.

"Good morning," She greeted.

"Ah, hola, Mrs. Martín." He stepped under the flip-up board and between the counter, and she offered her withered hands to the cool mist. "¿Cómo estás?" But his eyes where already back on the TV.

"- crying that he couldn't breathe and pleading for help. The incident has galvanized outrage, sparking protests and violence throughout the U.S. -"

"A shame, isn't it," She said.

"¿Qué? Aye aye," Mr. Hernandez peeled his eyes from the TV once more, and they fell to the little pink tennis balls on her walker. "Ah, sí … My son is out there con el novia."

Tentatively, he forced himself to look once more.

"You must have raised him right," Mrs. Floyd Martin tried, still rubbing her hands.

"Ah, sí," He said, but he didn't sound very proud.

Through the static of the intercom, a younger Johnny Cash sang on in his gravelly voice,

I fell into a burnin' ring of fire -

I went down, down, down,

And the flames went higher,

And it burns, burns, burns -