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Weekly Contest #347
Rural Minnesota, 1915 “Lottie!” My eyes snap open, heavy with exhaustion. It couldn’t be more than an hour since he summoned me last. If only I could sleep during the day as he does. I push the wool blanket aside and sit up, shivering in the cold. “Lottie!” He's been calling me by my mother's name, a woman who's been dead for fifty-four years. “Coming, Papa.” The sofa springs groan as I lean forward and strike a match with stiff, aching fingers, the sulfur sharp in my nostrils. I lift the chimney and touch the flame to the wick. Fwoomph. The...
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