Candles

A very short story or a very long metaphor, take your pick :) It's about candles.

The candles filled the room with a pleasing yellow warmth. They flickered as they burned. Some danced, playful, others moved only in wearied, reluctant motion. She watched over the lights. She loved the way that they behaved, the way that they played off one another. Sometimes they would meet and there would be a brilliant flare as they spawned a new flame. The new ones always moved frenetically, keen, energetic and bright in their youth. She always had new candles ready, in case that happened. The new flames needed something to burn.

Eventually, they always burned out. She could not stop them from burning out. Each candlestick only provided so much fuel, each wick was only so long; and as much as the sight of a burned-out, melted old candle pained her, it was never as sad as when a newer candle was extinguished. Try hard as she would to keep them all alight, there were always accidents, things she could not control. For those flames, she grieved. The candles might all have looked the same to anyone else but she knew that no matter how many others she lit, they would never be quite the same as the fire that had just gone out. That flame was gone.

She had become better at looking after the candles. She could keep them burning brighter for longer than she had once been able to. This pleased her but her heart still ached for those that she lost. She still lost far too many. As she gazed now upon the gently glowing lights, her eyes caught sight of one that flickered weakly, beginning to dim. With a sharp intake of breath, she swept the candle up and cradled it protectively against her chest, murmuring softly. Do not go out. She placed it on a surface with gentle hands, among other, brightly burning flames. Perhaps they would share their warmth and keep the dying candle alight just awhile longer. She ached to do more but there was little to be done to counter the treacherous draughts, the faulty wicks, the imperfections in the wax. Her own movements could stir breeze that caused damage to her lights. All she could do was watch and hope.

It was not to be. The flame sputtered out. Her smile slipped from her face.

Far, far away, an elderly man rolled over in his sleep and drew a last and drew shuddering breath as the fire died from his eyes.

 

 

 

Author's Note

I put this together in about ten minutes. I know it's probably a bit clumsy in places but go for it. If you have something to say, I'd love to hear it :)

Reviews

[browkm]

I loved the imagery and how your writing flows. I hope you keep it up.