White Candle

He rummaged around the kitchen draw, fumbling in the darkness. Must be here somewhere, Mum said she always kept white candles for emergencies. Cold metallic sharp scissors slipped against his finger tips, a ball of string wound tightly, old teaspoons. Without his eyes he relied heavily on feeling. There, the smooth waxiness of a white candle nestled between some silver forks. He grabbed at it and clutched the candle in his left hand. Diving immediately back in for the box of matches which he found straight away.

The velvet darkness surrounded him. Hush had fallen about the house since the power cut half hour ago. An earthly, natural hush. Suddenly the chaotic music which had invaded the airways had stopped and now all he could hear was the gentle swish of the trees in the wind in the garden. The bright light had vanished to be replaced by a dim blackness. There was something restful within the situation. He could have sunk in to it further but he needed to read up on some work for tomorrow.

Striking a match on the box, he lit the string on the tip of the candle. The match sparked and flared briefly and the flame then quickly transferred to a slower, calmer, more resilient light form the candle. The darkness dissipated a little and he could make out the lines of the chairs in the lounge. Harsh edges rounded and softened in the light. He gently placed the candle in the nearby bottle. Wax slid from its tip, sealing its new home.

Juliette Llewellyn
16.10.07