Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

Firewood like Fingers Gnarled

The firewood lay criss-crossed like the gnarled fingers of witches,
Reminding him of past done spells that itch and so he itches.
The coals left there to char on crimson stones leave scorching marks.
Roaring fires, what was left of tree barks.
Shooting sparks.
Solemn smiles in scarred up sticks,
Fire flicks,
Growls in time with clock ticks.
And the moss just grows,
As simply and as naturally as the cold wind blows.
The moss between the stones lines the groves.
The fire, he stokes.
Paving the road that the feet have worn down
Are the red paving slabs, kings of dirt, weeds their crown.
I'm burning daylight,
Now burn my nightlight.
Dwindling fire's nearly out of sight.
He twists on his hands and knees to watch the sun set
And falls asleep to only wake in cold sweat.
My fires burns no threat.
The wind and sparks sing harsh duet.
Soon there's only silhouette
Of firewood, like fingers gnarled
And the moss, in which ensnarled.

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