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m_findlowTitle: A light in the dark
'Can we light the candle?' Erica asks. I know she doesn't like the dark, and this place is not home. I would prefer we didn't, but I don't want my little sister to be afraid. I take it from my pocket, just a little white stub about two inches tall and light it with a match.
Don't let the matches get damp. That's what Papa always said. Damp matches won't light. Keeping them dry is tricky. They're in my coat pocket, but the ground is slippery and covered in muddy snow. There are also big holes in the ground where the bombs have exploded. It's easy to slip over or fall in one when it's dark and hard to see. My stockings are damp and muddy from tripping on some loose rocks, and there's a big hole in the right knee. It was bleeding and stinging but a handful of snow made the hurt go away. Now it's just cold and damp. At least my coat didn't fall in the snow. The pocket is still dry, so the matches are still dry too. Papa would be pleased.
'Don't waste it,' I tell her, but she likes watching the flickering flame. She lies down on her tummy and leans on her elbows, watching it as much as being close to it because it's warm. Her little face glows in its light like an angel.
A little pool of melted wax gathers at the top until it slowly drips down one side. The little teacup I put it inside fills with the melted wax drippings. I want to save as much of the wax as I can. Maybe there's a way to put it back into the top of the candle to make it go further. Maybe no one will mind if we steal the little teacup. It belongs to someone, whoever lived here before the bombs started falling from the sky. All the others are broken on the floor when they were knocked out of the cupboards. Everything was smashed up when we found this place. Mostly it was empty. People had stayed here before us and taken the food and the cups and the plates. They'd even taken the cushions from the sofa and torn out the springs. I wonder what they needed the springs for? It's all gone now, except for this one little teacup left all on its own with no one else. Kind of like us.
I watch the candle and try to remember how many nights we've lit it. How tall was it when we left home? I pull the little box of matches from my pocket and push the little box from its sleeve. I take out each match one by one and line them up on the dry floor, counting them in rows of five. Mammam always said my fives times table was good for my age. I count up three little rows of five plus three more. Eighteen matches. Two little Erica's and one Charlotte. More than we need judging by the size of our candle. It will run out before the matches do. Nobody is stealing matches. There are always little fires everywhere when the bombs have fallen in the night. Tonight they sound far away, but you can never be sure. They are always falling during the night. Maybe one will fall on this little house when we're asleep.
'Do you think Mammam knows about the bus?' Erica asks.
'No. I don't think she does.' She sent us away on the bus so we would be safe while she and Papa stayed to fight the men dropping bombs. They didn't bomb our bus, but the road next to it. It fell into the hole. Some of the old ladies that were sitting in the seats in front of us died. Some of the little children too. They were running up and down between the seats when it rolled upside down into the hole. I wanted to stay there so that Mammam would find us, but the man driving the bus told us to leave. Soldiers would come and take us away if we didn't leave.
'Which way should we go?' I asked him.
'West. Always west. Follow the shadows on the ground,' he said. 'In the morning they will point in the direction you want to go, and in the afternoon they will point in the opposite direction.'
We haven't walked very far. Erica complains her feet hurt. Lots of people have walked past us like we don't exist, carrying whatever they had. There were lots but the last few days there's been hardly anyone. They've all gone west ahead of us. None of them are Mammam or Papa.
I remember the small bread roll in my other pocket and take it out, tearing it in two and then putting half back. The other half we share. It isn't much, hard and chewy, but it's food. I don't tell Erica I stole it from the dead ladies on the bus. Mammam wouldn't like us to steal. 'Smells like home,' I tell her. Mammam always baked the best bread.
Little fingers snatch it eagerly from my hand. It disappears into her mouth just as quickly. 'I'm still hungry,' Erica says.
'Me too,' I reply, chewing it slowly and trying to imagine it coming fresh from the oven with salty butter on top, but I don't let us eat the other half of the bread. Instead I take Erica's coat hood and pull it up over her head. 'Bed time.' Time to sleep in case the planes come back tonight and we have to hide.
'I don't want to.' That's what she would say to Mammam when she wanted to wait for Papa to come home. 'You'll blow out the candle and we'll be in the dark.'
'I won't, I promise.' Even if I have to let it burn all away to nothing. No plane high up will notice our tiny little light.
Fandom: Original
Characters: OCs
Author: m_findlow
Rating: PG.
Length: 1,000 words
Content notes: none
Author notes: Written for Challenge 129 - Candlelight at ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fandomweekly
fandomweeklySummary: Charlotte and Erica are on their own with only what they can carry in their pockets.
'Can we light the candle?' Erica asks. I know she doesn't like the dark, and this place is not home. I would prefer we didn't, but I don't want my little sister to be afraid. I take it from my pocket, just a little white stub about two inches tall and light it with a match.
Don't let the matches get damp. That's what Papa always said. Damp matches won't light. Keeping them dry is tricky. They're in my coat pocket, but the ground is slippery and covered in muddy snow. There are also big holes in the ground where the bombs have exploded. It's easy to slip over or fall in one when it's dark and hard to see. My stockings are damp and muddy from tripping on some loose rocks, and there's a big hole in the right knee. It was bleeding and stinging but a handful of snow made the hurt go away. Now it's just cold and damp. At least my coat didn't fall in the snow. The pocket is still dry, so the matches are still dry too. Papa would be pleased.
'Don't waste it,' I tell her, but she likes watching the flickering flame. She lies down on her tummy and leans on her elbows, watching it as much as being close to it because it's warm. Her little face glows in its light like an angel.
A little pool of melted wax gathers at the top until it slowly drips down one side. The little teacup I put it inside fills with the melted wax drippings. I want to save as much of the wax as I can. Maybe there's a way to put it back into the top of the candle to make it go further. Maybe no one will mind if we steal the little teacup. It belongs to someone, whoever lived here before the bombs started falling from the sky. All the others are broken on the floor when they were knocked out of the cupboards. Everything was smashed up when we found this place. Mostly it was empty. People had stayed here before us and taken the food and the cups and the plates. They'd even taken the cushions from the sofa and torn out the springs. I wonder what they needed the springs for? It's all gone now, except for this one little teacup left all on its own with no one else. Kind of like us.
I watch the candle and try to remember how many nights we've lit it. How tall was it when we left home? I pull the little box of matches from my pocket and push the little box from its sleeve. I take out each match one by one and line them up on the dry floor, counting them in rows of five. Mammam always said my fives times table was good for my age. I count up three little rows of five plus three more. Eighteen matches. Two little Erica's and one Charlotte. More than we need judging by the size of our candle. It will run out before the matches do. Nobody is stealing matches. There are always little fires everywhere when the bombs have fallen in the night. Tonight they sound far away, but you can never be sure. They are always falling during the night. Maybe one will fall on this little house when we're asleep.
'Do you think Mammam knows about the bus?' Erica asks.
'No. I don't think she does.' She sent us away on the bus so we would be safe while she and Papa stayed to fight the men dropping bombs. They didn't bomb our bus, but the road next to it. It fell into the hole. Some of the old ladies that were sitting in the seats in front of us died. Some of the little children too. They were running up and down between the seats when it rolled upside down into the hole. I wanted to stay there so that Mammam would find us, but the man driving the bus told us to leave. Soldiers would come and take us away if we didn't leave.
'Which way should we go?' I asked him.
'West. Always west. Follow the shadows on the ground,' he said. 'In the morning they will point in the direction you want to go, and in the afternoon they will point in the opposite direction.'
We haven't walked very far. Erica complains her feet hurt. Lots of people have walked past us like we don't exist, carrying whatever they had. There were lots but the last few days there's been hardly anyone. They've all gone west ahead of us. None of them are Mammam or Papa.
I remember the small bread roll in my other pocket and take it out, tearing it in two and then putting half back. The other half we share. It isn't much, hard and chewy, but it's food. I don't tell Erica I stole it from the dead ladies on the bus. Mammam wouldn't like us to steal. 'Smells like home,' I tell her. Mammam always baked the best bread.
Little fingers snatch it eagerly from my hand. It disappears into her mouth just as quickly. 'I'm still hungry,' Erica says.
'Me too,' I reply, chewing it slowly and trying to imagine it coming fresh from the oven with salty butter on top, but I don't let us eat the other half of the bread. Instead I take Erica's coat hood and pull it up over her head. 'Bed time.' Time to sleep in case the planes come back tonight and we have to hide.
'I don't want to.' That's what she would say to Mammam when she wanted to wait for Papa to come home. 'You'll blow out the candle and we'll be in the dark.'
'I won't, I promise.' Even if I have to let it burn all away to nothing. No plane high up will notice our tiny little light.
