My English teacher has this obsession with making us create short pieces this term (which has delayed my agonisingly slow writing process further), and we were required to write a story about an emotional, spiritual, physical, inner or imaginary journey. This is the work I came up with.

Scorched

She looked down at the bubbled, red-raw skin on her hands, sorrow and regret and an overwhelming sense of nostalgia pouring from her being. It had filled her to the brim, overflowed, spilling like red wine onto lifeless carpet. There was no reason, no cause that could now explain her purpose. Her life was as meaningless and empty as the single blank canvas that survived the fire.

Clutching a warm blanket tightly to her chest, the woman sobbed, slobbery coughs wracking her body. She cried for the fortune that was lost, the paintings and house.

But most importantly, she cried for her hands, and the life that was burnt away with them.

Her spindly fingers could no longer glide across the canvas like dancers amount a stage, allowing the pigments to bleed into one another. She could no longer crush and mix the paints that would leave a chalky smell throughout the room. All they could do is rest as a permanent torment upon her body.

Her craft was her worth.

There was nothing left to substantiate her life, and she desperately needed validation.

She stood.

As she moved, the very house threatened to swallow her up, the ash like a whirlwind of death and the soot on her clothes was like the handprint of her old life desperately trying to claw its way back to her.

These claws threatened to choke her, and as she gazed about the blacked frame that once was her house, the woman released a shaky breath.

"No."

-

It's a very short piece, though I will be publishing a longer one later this afternoon for another project. If you all like these, I may publish some more, as well as get some long-awaited Jinx parts up.

I hope you all enjoyed.