(100 words) 7 Jan. 2018
By S.R.A. Markin
When my SOS isn’t received, I try again. My fingers are bloody and numb from scraping a blade on a stone. I only get sparks. The humidity dampens the flint and chills my bones. I shiver away my heat, and my core restricts the cold air.
I have been here for longer than I can remember. The days are short, and the nights are long. When she was here, we kept warm.
A little light attaches to the wool, so I lightly blow. The flame goes out because I blew too hard. I lost my chance again.