Flash Fiction Friday - The End
The writer brings the story of his life to a fulfilling close
A cold breath of wind slipped under the door and crept stealthily across the room before licking at the lighted candle. The flame flickered and threatened to extinguish, but it clung to life, casting dancing shadows across the wooden walls of the log home.
The old man eyed the light, entranced by the colors embedded within the flame. He felt a kinship to the candle, as it has been his constant companion through the telling of his life story. A pang of sadness filled his heart as he realized that the fire would continue to burn after his had burned out.
Running gnarled hand across the rough parchment, the old man read the final passage in his life story, the faintest smile touching the corner of his lips. “Just one more thing to add.” he whispered, his frail voice as quiet as shifting sand.
He lifted his quill, the brass tip honed to a fine point, and with no hesitation, cut a gash in his forearm, hissing as his wafer thin skin opened and oozed blood. The room seemed to tilt as a wave of dizziness took hold, but he fought it off, turning to look at the warped mirror to his left. It seemed as though his reflection nodded to him, pleased with his decision, but perhaps it was little more than the fevered imaginings of a man set to draw his last breath.
Feeling the fire of life begin to dim, the old man dipped the quill into the opening on his arm, and then scrawled the final words he would ever write.
Laying down the quill, the old man took one last look in the mirror, seeing his reflection wave to him as though bidding farewell. He caressed the parchment once more before laying his head down to rest one last time.
His movement caused the candle flame to flicker once more, making the last line in red seem to shimmer on the page. “The End,” it read, and perfectly so.