by leigh
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Fwooosh.
The match scraped across the side of the box and explodes into flame, the little orange light waving back and forth. I watched it for a few seconds, twirling the match around, before gently blowing it out and dropping the burnt stick into the cup of water beside me. I felt for the box next to me, holding it close to my eye so that I could count how many were left. One, two, three, four…five. Five left. I picked one out, and lit it, listening to the sound of the match against the Lucky Duck Bar box, the hiss of the match flaring to life, and the wet sizzle when I dropped it in the water. A knock on my door startled me.
“Avery, are you okay?” Mom’s muffled voice came through the door, and I shoved the box of matches under pillow, and the cup of water was place in an empty drawer.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” The door creaked open, and Mom poked her head in.
“M’kay. Well, dinner will be served soon.”
“Kay.” The door shut with a click, and I pulled the little box out again. One, two, three matches left.
I lit another match, and continued to follow my usual ritual: light, listen, watch, drop. Light, listen, watch, drop.
One match left.
YOU ARE READING
Drawing with Matches
Teen FictionAvery Wilson likes to light matches. Not light matches as in light-matches-and-set-things-on-fire-like-Matthew-Trinson-down-the-street, but lighting matches. Just lighting them. And then blowing them out. Avery loves the sounds of the head of the ma...
