He lights the candle from a wooden match, shaking it out; he carries the candleholder to the window. All up and down the street, the neighbors are doing the same. He reflects that that's always the way of it - bomb or fire or EMP, and before the shreds of paper and shattered glass are even cleared off the street, they're lighting candles. A memorial. A light against the darkness.
It's his wife's favorite candleholder. Her sister gave it to her one year for Christmas, and she's always treasured it. She lit candles in it at the table for romantic dinners; she toted it into the bathroom when she needed to destress.
Well, he sure as hell needed to destress now. And he still hadn't heard from her. Her office was only barely within the blast radius. Just barely, just by a block. She could have made it out. It was only six hours - she could be in decontamination. She could be okay.
He pulled the chair up to the window and watched the street - watched the flickers of light in his neighbors' windows, and watched for cars.
Handthrown stoneware candleholder by LadySea. Glazed and accented with copper and silver. Includes base as shown and tealight.
Pictures don't do it justice. This is quite beautiful.
My back hurts. :P
I am turning off the internal editor. This is not all genius - but the thing here is the feat of endurance.
Blogathon 2008. 24 hours of spontaneous fiction for BARCC.