Short Stories

fluttered around its cave, aimlessly, waiting for the sunrise. When the sun came up, it would be dead, but with night, life. John looked around the cave for some light, but could find nothing better than his dim flame. “I wonder what may come of this”, he thought, peering through the darkness at a small rock projecting from the floor, as he knocked a piece of flint against the stone hopefully. Sparks shot out into the dark as the flame lit up his face eagerly, faintly orange his sharp overhanging features. “Blond no more, orange I am,” he spoke, and as the stone opened with a crack, revealing a pitch-black crevice, he slipped in, and descended.