Huddling against the night, our clan whispers, “When will there be fire?” The moon awakens and pushing aside a cloudy curtain, peers down on the man. I see grey light on his back, a dim blue glow on his face.
He crouches over the fire pit. He’s gathered dry grass and bark as the master had instructed. He holds the flint as he saw the master do. But the sparks are mere fireflies, glints of orange that dance for a moment and die.
The man again summons the wise one. He returns in the blue light. “Watch me, my friend.”
Leader nods then strikes and strikes. Behind the tink, tink, tink are mumbles the cold, hungry children and even I, his mate, cannot understand. Are they doubts? Curses? Prayers?
Karen writes short in a low Canadian basement. Her work is in/forthcoming in FlashBack Fiction, The Bear Creek Gazette, Emerge Literary Journal, Bullshit Lit, Blank Spaces, Janus Literary, Versification, and others. She/her.