The word had come when she was sleeping. A hammering on the door, loud enough to wake the dead. She was already dressed, only her boots to pull on, the flambeau leaning in a corner. Outside, she ignored the advancing cliff-face of sea-mist, refusing to think about the horrors it must contain.
Three tries to light the flambeau; four agonising minutes for the bonfire to catch. But as the flames surged upwards she saw smoke rising from the neighbouring headland, and the next and the next. And she thought that maybe there was still time for them to be saved.
***
This is a 100-word story for Friday Fictioneers brought to us by the wonderful writer Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. I didn’t see observatories when I first looked at the picture, so I went with my first impression. The image this week is supplied by the amazing writer, Doug Macilroy. Click here to…
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