Mrs. Spark drifted quietly through the dark, her glow calm, her silence colder than ash. She didn’t need to shout; sparks know when the fire has gone wrong.
Then she saw her, a bright, jittery flamelet, all fizz and perfume. The bit on the side.
“Oh!” the young spark squealed. “You must be his… main source of combustion.”
Mrs. Spark tilted her glow. “So it was you he mistook me for, when he was drunk?”
The younger spark crackled nervously, shrinking to a flicker. “He said it was romantic, you know. That we were destined to ignite.”
Before Mrs. Spark could respond, a distant honk echoed through the night. Both turned their glow toward the sound.
Out of the gloom emerged a clown, riding astride a giraffe with all the ceremony of a knight. The giraffe’s long neck swayed like a burning wick, and the clown’s painted face beamed with absurd solemnity. He tipped his rainbow hat as he passed, jangling bells that fell silent almost immediately in the thick, smoky air. For a moment, their quarrel was paused by this impossible intrusion.
Then came the noise. A low crackling shuffle, like dry leaves catching fire. Out of the shadows lurched the Ashen Sparks, brittle, half-dead remnants of old fires, dragging themselves forward, hissing with envy for the living glow.
The Ashens struck suddenly. One lunged at the young flamelet and sank its ember-teeth into her arm. She screamed, sparks spilling from the wound. Mrs. Spark tried to pull her away, but more of the creatures closed in, circling like vultures.
Just as the swarm pressed tighter, Mr. Spark appeared, swinging his blackened baseball bat. He smashed one Ashen into powder, then another, then shoved the rest back with furious swings. “MOVE!” he shouted.
Together, scorched and trembling, the trio fled into a crumbling pharmacy at the edge of the street. Mr. Spark slammed the door shut, wedging a shelf against it as the Ashens clawed uselessly at the glass.
Inside, surrounded by broken pill bottles and the faint smell of disinfectant, they collapsed in the dim glow of a lantern. The young flamelet clutched her burnt arm, teeth gritted. Mrs. Spark’s silence still carried judgment, but for now, survival weighed heavier than betrayal.
Mr. Spark stood watch at the door, his bat resting on his shoulder. “They only come at night,” he said grimly. “We make it till morning, we live another day.”
And so the three of them, husband, wife, and mistress, sat together in uneasy alliance, waiting for dawn, while the Ashens scraped and hissed in the dark outside.
