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Waiting for Fireflies

By Matthew Fish


Edited by J.H.C.


Special thanks to: Todd Carey


Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012

All Rights Reserved



She Waits by the Window. The bright red walls, their paint peeling and cracking, reveal the gray beneath like some old forgotten secret, bearing the small weight of her exhausted body. Outside at night, beyond the darkened limbs of the oak tree which creak and groan against the house with each gust of strong winter air, a freezing rain has begun to fall. Alone, save for the light of a small oil burning lantern—a small comfort afforded to her—she begins to worry that returning to the house was a fatal mistake. It is growing colder. She brings her cold fingers to her mouth to blow warm air upon them but finds little success in the endeavor. She averts her emerald-green eyes to the old wooden door at the far end of the bedroom as footsteps can be heard faintly approaching the sparsely decorated room—the footsteps rap like fingertips against an old wooden desk. Music begins to play from an antique record player; faint notes escaping the flume of the phonograph which is spread out like the golden leaves of a flower. The simple opening tones of “Für Elise” fill the still air, muting out the sound of her heartbeat. She despises the sound of her own heartbeat. The light footsteps are soon at her door as she walks over and sits on the edge of the bed, which smells of warm sandalwood with a hint of old hickory smoke. The golden, aged doorknob begins to turn as a small white glow emanates from the keyhole.

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