Creative Writing

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I woke in the middle of the night to the smell of smoke burning. Weaver. The darned kid was too smart for his own good. He must have managed to get into the house and light the fire for the roast meals I had to make first thing in the morning. I turned onto my side, and tried to get back to sleep. Weaver and I had been drifting apart recently, but I'd have thought he might have told me he was coming home.

It had started when he began to talk back to anyone, fight everyone who looked at him the wrong way, get angry over nothing. Then those dang trappers, who had pushed him past the breaking point. Nothing was the same anymore.

The smoke was thicker now, and so dense I knew that Weaver was not behind it. Which left one possibility. I had left the stove on. I hurried out into the kitchen, and grabbed a tea towel to beat away the revolting, impenetrable layers of smoke. It was hopeless. Realising my efforts were in vain, I ran out the door, to see three shadowy figures run into the trees to the north of the house. I'd never seen them, but I knew them instantly. The trappers.

I stumbled down the long, dusty, moonlit road towards the one place I knew I'd find sanctuary. Emmie Hubbard welcomed me with open arms as I ran down her drive. She had no doubt heard my running. Someone was screaming. It took me a moment to realise it was me. I collapsed into the house, sobbing and mumbling incoherently. "Oh Jesus, it's all gone. All gone." I managed. "What's all gone?" Emmie asked, consoling "It'll be okay, just keep calm and tell me what has happened." "I woke, a-a-and the house was..." "Was what, Mrs W? Just keep calm!" "On fire!" I half-screech, half-cry. By now all the children had emerged from the large room that served as a bedroom. That always made me real sad. All them children, only one room.

I slept fitfully in the small, dingy spare room. Every so often I would wake up and have to cry myself to sleep again. Nightmares and reality merged into one as I dreamt of the house burning, me and Weaver trying in vain to stop it, but why were we stopping it, we couldn't stop it, how could we stop it? Then the true nightmare revealed itself, and a sat up with a start, almost hitting my head on the narrow ceiling. The money. All the hard-earned money I had scrimped and saved for Weaver's college fund. It was all gone.

I race out the door quicker than I had come in, and set off down the path linking our houses. I refused to believe that money was gone. That night, I had put it under the stove to safeguard it. Who would find money there? As the house came into view just around the last bend in the road, I slowed. There was nothing left. The support beams were standing, but every last inch of my beautiful timber home was burnt to ashes. "Oh Jesus", I whispered, "It's all gone."

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