By J. David Thayer
His hands fumbled in the cold. The rain had soaked through his poncho and offered no more protection. His lean-to gave him a crude ceiling from which to work. The pile of pine needles was not fully dry. It would have to do. Three matches left. Turning the book over in his hands, he read the name printed on its front: The Sweetgum Lounge. The last place he saw her. Her words were colder than the rain. Two strikes. The flames died. One left. He cupped his hands together. Struck the last. A smolder and a wisp of smoke.
“I write because I must. Were I stranded on an island, I’d scratch in the sand.” – the author