Updated: Sep 19
The contessa walked out into the blizzard. Maybe today would be the day she accomplished her task and be able to rest at last. The snow whirled thick around her. She carried the small jar in her over large hands. A simple braid was twined around her wrist. A wick for the snowflake candle she prayed for. It was an ancient fable in her family that one of her line would make fire from the falling flakes. It had to be her. She was the last. She held the jar out and set aside her rage. The long dead alien that had started her line had passed a bit of her magic down the line. Contessa used that touch of magic. Reaching deep inside herself. The snow filled the jar and the tiny wick peeked out from the top. Contessa willed a flame to form and it did. The tiny flame cast a tiny circle of life in the bitter cold. Contessa felt joy fill her. She had done it. She could rest at last. She laid down in the soft snow to die.
The prompts for this short story:
Copyright 2019 Klaudia Grady