The Cold Of The Morning

Excellence Award in the 'Write Along 2018' competition

The freezing cold tickled my spine like the steam from a cup of boiling water swirling around in the air. I could feel the ice cold morning wrapping me around his finger, I could feel him blow the wind past my face. The sun barely shone these days; it never warmed me up any more. I looked through the stained, spotted, dirt encrusted window. The view I had outside was worse than I had inside. The iron fence that bordered my house was toppling over on one side. The cement path was more cracked than it was not. Whatever left of my garden was eaten by weeds. Rain was tapping at my window, begging to come inside.
I threw another twig into my small pile, hoping that today would be the day that those glorious little sparks would appear and light up my grey, crumbling room.
Today like many days, I struck the flint and steel together watching for the twigs to show any signs of a flame to no avail. Maybe tomorrow, the dead trees twigs will be somewhat dryer, but I guess the rain is against me today. Later, I would go out and collect some dried grass instead.
A black crow landed on the windowsill, pecking at the grime and staring up at me, digging into my mind with its black, shallow eyes. The bird stuck out in our bland surroundings, contrasting the dull greys and whites.
I watched the creature fly out of sight, familiarising myself with the new foreboding feeling I had after the crows visit, listening to the lack of rain pattering at my window pane.
The iron fence had somehow slipped lower and threatened to collapse onto my house.
My legs felt like jelly as I tripped into the dusty hallway. Mother and father hung on the wall, smiling as if they didn't see the truck speeding along down the road towards them.
The kitchen needed a clean up. A chair was toppled over, a shattered vase scattered around, the wallpaper peeling and the TV in one corner, no longer working.
Breakfast sounded like a good idea as any, so I reached for the slightly stale bread and let it burn in the microwave, leaning my body against the table. The freezing day seemed to have a little mercy on me, as wind no longer blew my dress up and brushed between my ankles.
Taking a small nibble of the pathetic soggy bread, I forced myself to trudge back into my bedroom. I looked out of the window once more before dumping myself onto a wooden stool, noticing, once again, that feeling of dread crawling into my system. Then, I smelt smoke drifting in the room, and I looked down; there, quivering in the middle of my pile of twigs was a single orange flame, catching fire to my wooden stool.

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