The Fire Is Gone

Isaac awoke with a start. His nose felt odd, and his mouth tasted terrible. He took a breath, but he inhaled a mouthful of dust. He coughed until his eyes watered as he stood up. The front of his clothes were gray from the dust, and he could hardly see.

The sun was either coming up or setting, though he couldn't tell which. He shivered as a force flowed over him, slipping icy talons like wind though his ever fiber of being. And then something happened that he had never expected.

He raised his hand in front of him and tried to find the heat inside, to draw out the fire coursing through his veins. But as much as he tried, cursed, then tried again, he was left with only the sand and the wind-like force pulling at his clothes. He shivered again, but this time not of cold.

Something told him this wasn't right, that he had to move. But that part was drowned out by the shouting in his head. The fire is gone! How could this have happened? I can't even get a spark!

He looked around for the first time. He was definitely outside, but where he didn't know. He'd never seen a place like this. It was gray everywhere. The sky, the horizon, the ground, even he seemed to be gray.

That's when the nagging voice telling him to move started getting louder, no longer being pushed aside by other thoughts. He started out slowly, but then he broke into a full sprint.

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He wasn't sure how long he had run, but he knew he couldn't anymore. His chest felt like he'd been stabbed, every breath was painful. His head was pounding, stars danced before his eyes, and worst of all he was thirsty.

He looked around once more. It still looked the same. Gray, everywhere. It was all flat, except where his feat had scarred the surface and there were dust clouds hanging in the air.

He rubbed is irritated eyes, trying in vain to rid them of the sand, or ash, or whatever in the world this was. The only piece of good news he had had the whole time since he had woken up was that the sun seemed to be rising and it heated his skin.

He was still cold, but merely not shivering. And that was good enough for him. He sat, or more like fell, onto the dust covered surface and felt the cracked and dried clay under his fingertips.

He starred into the red-orange glow of the morning sun. He was alone, but he had learned to like his alone time. He felt he should be worried about his situation, but he wasn't. He pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around himself. The only thing he was thinking was I've lost my fire.

And he sat there, depressed, until finally he fell onto his back and allowed sleep to claim him.

The End

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