Flash fiction: The black pot
A small cast iron pot sat in the far corner of the little hut. Deep tribal voices echoed around, bellowing, baying and clamorous. The roof crackled as it burned. Women and children who had not been seized fled, wailing, with hands only to hold each other. As the last blackened remnants fell, the pot rolled, clanking to a stop next to smouldering thatching. Before the invaders had come the village had rung out with the merry chatter of women and giggling children. Their men ca
