Yesterday I wrote my first short short in years. Today, I wrote another.

Click through at your own risk.

The fire had already burned down by the time we got to the scene; the remains were visible in the ashes. A large skeleton lay atop a few short bones, the remains of what must have been a very small skeleton.

Several of the observers—the ones with the worst burns—had already been taken to the hospital, but those who remained stood alert over the coals, listening to the pop and creak of the bones as the fire attempted to consume these few, brittle remains.

Some argue that fire is mortal, living its life in a brilliant brief flash. Others argue that fire is eternal, showing us bits and pieces from time to time, but remaining for the most part hidden, biding its time. Most never bother to even consider the matter of whether fire is immortal or not, consumed by their daily travails the way fire consumes dry tinder.

But a few—very few—know that fire is neither mortal nor immortal but is instead a state of transition.

We belonged to the latter category. And we were here for the remains of the poor fool who did not realize it was not yet his time. Who did not realize his act of grief would place him in limbo until the full allotment of his years had passed.

So we came to collect his bones, lest the unscrupulous attempt to harness this deluded soul, to hold him in servitude until his allotted time was complete.

By the rapidly cooling embers we stood, waiting to collect the remains, to hold them safe, until the true time of passing arrived.