Turning to Smoke


The fire starts at the top and works its way down. 

He sits in front of the little statue he does not believe in, smelling that sweet incense smell that he doesn’t like but she always did. He watches the smoke rise.

The smoke rises, but the fire goes down. 


She was pale, thin, like skin stretched over bones. Her voice was weak, like each word hurt like a knife. There was only so much pain the beeping machines and flowing tubes could take away.

Down: more of the incense burning away, more in the air. 

She clutched the paper in a trembling hand as he held her close, promised it would be all right, that they would go through it all together.

Almost at the bottom now, he thinks. Almost all smoke. 

“You may kiss the bride.”

Their lips touched and he knew that they would spend the rest of their lives together. Until death did them part.

Just a centimeter, curling into white. 

She walked over to him and he couldn’t stop himself from staring, lost in her beauty.

“Hello,” she said. “My name’s Anong.”

The fire reaches the bottom. There’s nothing but smoke. 

Word Count: 197

This is for Sunday Photo Fiction!


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