A short story promoted by Sue Vincent”s lovely photo.

She had been proud when they chose her to become the spring. For a week she was treated like a queen, carried on a litter so her feet would not have to touch the ground, dressed in clothes so fine a goddess would not have been ashamed of them. It was a week of feasting and dancing and the fires burned long into the night. They gave her mead to drink, heady and potent. Unused to such strong liquor she was in a permanent daze of happiness. Even the December cold was banished as her blood raced like a fiery torrent.

On the longest night of the year, the night that marked the turning point, when the sun would grow ever stronger, when the sun should grow ever stronger, they tied her to the tree. She was the spring. She was…