Manuscript

The rain pelted the window as I typed the last few pages of my manuscript. It was past midnight, and I had been working for hours with a cold cup of coffee on my desk. My agent advised that it would be in my best interest to have it ready by tomorrow morning, my first novel.

Thunder filled the sky, and my dog Bree ran under bed, my concentration never faltering.

As I typed “The End,” a flash of lightning lit the sky, and the electricity went out.

I didn’t have a chance to hit save before the power outage.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Match Light

The flame exploded into being as the match head dragged across the sandpaper. It might have seemed magical, but really it was just that the glass-on-glass friction generated enough heat to kindle the match's phosphorus.

The match provided the only light in the entire house, perhaps the entire city. Between the impenetrable clouds and the power outage, darkness had descended as quickly as the sun.

The illumination lasted long enough for Theresa to count the remaining matches. Seventeen. Each one guaranteed to ignite but she knew such guarantees were hollow.

Seventeen matches to survive until the end of the world.