No, I think it was a limitation of the form, there's only so much information you can give out. I can't think of what you could do with that POV in so few words to get that scene more clear.

I kinda guessed what was coming; I love ghost stories and have used that trope from both sides. It's very Sixth Sense (and I didn't get that one until the very end, it's easy to sucker a person in when they get invested in the inner life of the protagonist-ghost.)

Wolfram, that's great. You're on a tear with these.

I thought I'd try doing one of these a day this week, like a writer's boot camp. Not sure I can keep it up.

Maybe I'll try one that's more upbeat.

This entry for Burn is not personal.

Even now, many years and thousands of drinks later, she can still remember both her gap-toothed, eager eighth-grade self and the way that first sip burned when she drank that first glass of whatever brown liquor someone scavenged from their parents’ liquor cabinet. At first, it burned so much, she didn’t understand why adults drank, but not wanting to be a wimp, she boldly drained the glass until the burn felt like love and friendship. Sometimes, as she gets ready to face how that became her longest relationship, she wishes she’d had the courage to be a wimp.

Oh, very nice.

Thanks.

Good one, Erika.

A tale from Hubby

They called it Going Baked Potato.

As the wildfire surrounded them, cackling and roaring, cutting them off, they'd pull out the emergency blankets, bundle themselves up, bury themselves in the dirt, and pray. An invisible hole would kill them, ignite the air in their lungs, leaving time for a scream.

The fire strolled over them, speaking as it went. Slowly they emerged, counted the living, the maimed, the dead, and followed.

The voice at the heart of the wildfire drew them, there was glory in the cathedral of the flames.

Now I'm hungry.