Cracks

Sitting in the serenity of winters solitude mark watched the fire burn. Red to orange the flames danced, sometimes rising to lick the front of the fireplace, when a draft blew across the hard wood floor. Breathing extra oxygen into the 3-day-old fire to give it a burst of life. Then down again it went. Life, death, life death Mark thought. Comparing the fires rhythmic breathing with that of his own. For three days now he had been sitting watching his fire burn. Only twice had it almost died. Both times saved, both times in the early morning hours. He was alone in the small cabin, about four hours north of the town he called home. He usually came up to his retreat in January and then left around March. One year he stayed till nearly May that had been a tough ending to write. The wind suddenly changed outside and a stray gust found its way down the old stone chimney. Blowing a few glowing embers out of their fiery home and landing them on the stone semi-circle, which surrounded the hearth. He stared at the dying embers lost in thought. This was the tenth year in a row coming to his winter retreat. And like each year preceding he was here for a reason, to finish his latest novel. Six hundred pages down and probably one hundred to go, he thought. He had lots of time to work, which was good because he was having trouble with the ending of this book. Things could always go either way with his characters and he usually never knew until he had some good quality time in the woods to ponder it. Things always seamed more clear here in his cabin. But it was different this time, after all this was probably going to be his last novel. Actually he knew it was, he just hadn’t told his publisher yet. Do they live or do they die, he thought Mark always had trouble deciding if he should kill his main characters in the end or let them live. To Mark it always seamed more true to life if he killed someone important in his novels Good people die everyday, he thought. But he also could not help thinking about his fans. He wondered if they could live with such a major event. But what did he care, this was going to be his last ending he would write. Outside the wind once again blew hard and immediately after it died he heard a loud CRACK. With mild curiosity he strode to the small window and peered outside, nothing, He could still see clearly through the forest. The sun was at least three hours from dusk, which meant four hours till it set. Strange, he thought. He turned and walked back to his lazy-boy. Settling once again in front of his fire. To die or not to die? Could he really go through with it? Killing his characters always felt to Mark like saying goodbye to an old and dear friend. Knowing they would never feel the warmth of their own sun again. But nobody lives forever he thought. Maybe they can in your book, an after thought whispered, maybe. Feeling the warmth of his fire his thoughts wandered. Oh how he wished he could be a character in one of his novels. See the sky he created, smell the flowers he knew he would never smell. But mostly he wished for the power. Not the power of a King or Queen, or even the power of a God.