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Description
The girl stroke the match. Sparks flew, then the matchhead caught fire in a bright light and an acryde smell filled her nose. After a moment the bright light and smell of the chemicals were gone and a natural flame was born, living on its own, feeding only on wood and air. A tiny flame first, but still emitting a pleasant light and smell. She felt a relieve as she watched the flame grew to full size, and slowly consuming the wood.

The girl smiled. The flame reflected in her eyes, she felt the warmth as the fire comes close to her fingers. Before it starts to hurt she took the matchstick gently between the thumb and index finger of her other hand. It was black, the burned wood still warm, leaving a bit of soot on her small fingers. She watched dreamly into the flame, as it wandered upwards, to the end. Then the flame died, becoming small, and vanished, only small traces of smoke drifting upwards, before it also dissolve into nothing. The fire was gone.

The girl was sad. She let the burned, blackend match fall down on the table, and then took an other one from the box. She smiled again, move it down to the side of box to light it. Then there was a sudden pain at her hand, the match and matchbox fell down, spilled the sticks that were inside all around the ground. The girl looked up, frightend, tears in her eyes, the hand were she had been hit throbbing with pain. Her mother was looking down at her, angry, yelling at her, rising her hand for an other stroke.

The girl closed her eyes as she saw the hand rushing down to her.

The woman opened her eyes. Even if now much older, they were still much like the eyes of the girl; full of fear and sadness, glittering with unshead tears. She was sitting alone in her appartment in front of a small table. It was cold. It was dark. A strong wind was blowing outside. Light from a distant lantern outside the window, behind a leafless tree cast shadowly figures at the wall. Her trembeling fingers held a matchstick.

The woman sat on the table for some minutes, was breathing in and out, still shivering. Then her trembeling lessened, and with a focused motion she stroke the match. She calmed down, the tension faded, her trembeling stopped, she held the burning matchstick now motionless and watched dreamly into the flame. Her sad face even managed to form a smile, as the warm flickering light filled the room, chassing away the shadows and the darkness.

The fire burned so brightly, so pure, so warm, so beautiful, so fascinating, so innocent. Gone were the bad memories from the past, gone were the problems of the present, gone was the fear from the future.

But after a few heartbeats the flame went out and the shadows and darkness came back. She took and other matchstick in her hand, but did not stroke it. Warm tears streamed down her cheek as she started to sob uncontrollable.

Description
The girl stroke the match. Sparks flew, then the matchhead caught fire in a bright light and an acryde smell filled her nose. After a moment the bright light and smell of the chemicals were gone and a natural flame was born, living on its own, feeding only on wood and air. A tiny flame first, but still emitting a pleasant light and smell. She felt a relieve as she watched the flame grew to full size, and slowly consuming the wood.

The girl smiled. The flame reflected in her eyes, she felt the warmth as the fire comes close to her fingers. Before it starts to hurt she took the matchstick gently between the thumb and index finger of her other hand. It was black, the burned wood still warm, leaving a bit of soot on her small fingers. She watched dreamly into the flame, as it wandered upwards, to the end. Then the flame died, becoming small, and vanished, only small traces of smoke drifting upwards, before it also dissolve into nothing. The fire was gone.

The girl was sad. She let the burned, blackend match fall down on the table, and then took an other one from the box. She smiled again, move it down to the side of box to light it. Then there was a sudden pain at her hand, the match and matchbox fell down, spilled the sticks that were inside all around the ground. The girl looked up, frightend, tears in her eyes, the hand were she had been hit throbbing with pain. Her mother was looking down at her, angry, yelling at her, rising her hand for an other stroke.

The girl closed her eyes as she saw the hand rushing down to her.

The woman opened her eyes. Even if now much older, they were still much like the eyes of the girl; full of fear and sadness, glittering with unshead tears. She was sitting alone in her appartment in front of a small table. It was cold. It was dark. A strong wind was blowing outside. Light from a distant lantern outside the window, behind a leafless tree cast shadowly figures at the wall. Her trembeling fingers held a matchstick.

The woman sat on the table for some minutes, was breathing in and out, still shivering. Then her trembeling lessened, and with a focused motion she stroke the match. She calmed down, the tension faded, her trembeling stopped, she held the burning matchstick now motionless and watched dreamly into the flame. Her sad face even managed to form a smile, as the warm flickering light filled the room, chassing away the shadows and the darkness.

The fire burned so brightly, so pure, so warm, so beautiful, so fascinating, so innocent. Gone were the bad memories from the past, gone were the problems of the present, gone was the fear from the future.

But after a few heartbeats the flame went out and the shadows and darkness came back. She took and other matchstick in her hand, but did not stroke it. Warm tears streamed down her cheek as she started to sob uncontrollable.