The field was fairly secluded, it was not overlooked by any houses. The nearest town was far enough away to be only a dim orange glow in the distance. It did not spoil the night sky, which devoid of clouds was illuminated by the bright crescent moon and the many stars which were scattered throughout the dark. The lack of breeze resulting in a still and noiseless night.

The night was bitterly cold and he could see the little wisps made by his hot breath. Moving his feet to try and keep them warm, he could feel the resistance of the crisp grass as he crunched it under foot. Each blade of grass was encased in a white covering, which looked as it had been sprinkled with miniature jewels which sparkled in the moonlight.

When he was ready he struck a match and dropped it onto the pile of sticks and paper. Nothing. He tried again, this time making sure that the paper caught. With a sudden burst of light the paper ignited. The fire flared up. It hissed and sizzled. Spitting sparks onto the ground. The sticks crackled. The flames twisted and curled. Black, harsh smelling smoke sailed up into the air like a tall pillar. Pieces of ash, their edges glowing floated slowly upwards.

He watched the fire, mesmerised as it consumed itself. He waited as the flames withered and the fire had faded. He waiting until just grey ash and smouldering embers were left

By Anita Williams