Writing Prompt Response

The smoke still rose, a black tendril feeling for a pulse. Any pulse, a glimmer of hope like a faded star millions of miles away. But nothing, there was nothing but a dull heat, orange embers cooling under a clear summer sky. The night had been unseasonally temperate, a contrast to the raging fire that had taken place no more than an hour ago. A single story house had collapsed on top of a sleeping family of five. Sirens had echoed off the nearby buildings, bright red lights flew through the town. They had not been able to put the fire out fast enough. The roof had collapsed. Five bodies lay now before the skeletal remains of that house. Young lives. A family's world had been torn apart in the course of an hour.



Adam walked amoung the charred wreckage, he wore the clothes he had the day before. This had been an early morning call. His body was no longer running on adrenaline, and fatigue hit him, a tiredness unlike any he had felt. Twenty years of firefighting had shown him many a situation like this. How many times had he zipped up body bags? "Bagged and tagged." Another day, another day.



He thought of his own family as he stepped through the pieces of another's life. A burnt picture frame here, pots still in the kitchen. This could be anyone.



Fire had crisped the edges of the lone page; intense heat had caused a slight curl along its main body. Another snapshot of a better life. The size of the typed text on the page caught Adam's eye. It was something one might find in a children's bed time story. Its innocence permeated among the remains of so much violence. Adam crouched next to it, carefully handling the page so as not to damage it. Sleep now. Be at peace.

Adam glanced up at the sky, a black tendril of smoke found a pulse. A star twinkled.