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Amongst piles of books, notepads, and loose stacks of paper, there was a small desk of which had several writing utensils scattered about it. Crumpled about balls of paper littered the floor. A notebook lay open in the center, its pages nothing but empty lines, but soon they were about to be filled.

Nicolette Peterson flew into her chair, nearly rolling into a large stack of ancient books. She picked up a pencil, but the lead was extinct. After tossing it aside, she took up a pen of which she discovered the ink had been distinguished. She snatched up a quill, nearly spilling the vial of black ink she had to uncork, and began to write in her scrawl everything she knew.

Her hair was messy and tangled; her clothes were askew and her shirt even on backwards. (Upon noticing this, she quickly turned her shirt around and struggled to get her hair up into a ponytail.) Even with her muddled appearance and the chaotic conditions of the room, Nicolette possessed an extravagant light in her misty blue eyes; one that could shine along the lines of the paper and light up the inner beauty of the room.

She tried to put her thoughts into words, but it was difficult with so many of them buzzing around in her brain, whispering in her ear.

Frustrated, she slammed down her quill, the feather biting her finger and causing it to bleed, a few drops staining the white of the paper under her fingertips. Grinding her teeth at the sting, she stood up and shut the window that gave way to the brilliance of the summer sun. The light was locked out of the room until she found a candle and lit it. She placed it at the corner of one desk, careful to avoid keeping the flame to close to her precious books and papers.

Once again, she took up the quill, dipped it into ink, and wrote as fast as her hand would allow her.

“Nicolette, what are you doing sitting along in the dark?” asked a sultry voice from the back of the room where the door was located.
“Sh,” said Nicolette, her voice barely heard over the scratch of the quill on the paper. A shadow with soft footsteps came in, the door softly shutting behind it. Nicolette pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, the scratching continuing. The shadow stood behind her.
“You’re disturbing my creative thoughts,” Nicolette said briefly, hurriedly dipping her quill into the ink. The shadow took a single step back.
“Is that better?” asked the shadow.
“It’d be better if you were back on the other side of the door, Johnny,” said Nicolette. She was not trying to come across as mean, she was simply busy.
“What are you working on?” the shadow called Johnny asked.
“Writing,” said Nicolette simply. Johnny removed his jacket, revealing the white of his shirt and the fact that he wasn’t just a shadow.
“I can see that, Nicolette,” he said, peering over her shoulder, his golden hair glimmering in the candle light. However, he failed to learn of what she was writing as her writing was entirely illegible.
“I am writing everything I have to say,” Nicolette said. Somehow, she managed to talk and write at the same time, but every once in a while she would have to scribble an accidental word out. “And you know that is a lot. This…” She waved her hands at the notebook. “This is my masterpiece. This is my philosophy, my way of raising the dead, of moving the stars, of… of…” She had run out of metaphors.
“Something amazing,” finished Johnny.
“Yes, in short, yes, that is what I am doing,” said Nicolette. Johnny stood back, giving up on trying to read over her shoulder.
“Are you okay?” Johnny asked.
“Huh? Yes, I’m fine,” said Nicolette, obviously distracted.
“No,” Johnny said, “there must be something wrong. I haven’t seen you work this feverishly since your parents’ divorce.”
“Ha!” said Nicolette. It was less than a laugh and more than a word. Johnny was having a hard time detecting what exactly that phrase meant.
“Nicky…” said Johnny, her name teetering on the edge of an uplifted infliction theat would make it a question. When Nicolette did not flinch, he sighed and placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Nicolette, it is time to go. We cannot stay here,” said Johnny. He pulled slightly on her shoulder.
“No, not yet,” said Nicolette, grabbing onto the desk so that Johnny could not drag her away from her work.
“We have to,” said Johnny, taking hold of hands and prying her fingers off the cold edges of the desk. Nicolette panicked and let go, taking the notebook and the quill and ink bottle into her arms as Johnny dragged her away. He flung open the door, pulling her out by her forearms.

Outside of Nicolette’s cluttered room were the desolate remains of a fire; there was nothing but a plethora of ash and smolder and the horrible skeleton of what was once a humble house.

A young woman slightly older than Nicolette stood out in the driveway near the tall, dark trees. Nicolette avoided the eyes of her cousin, Allison, and Johnny by watching the remains of the house she had grown up in.
“Is she okay?” Allison asked. Johnny shrugged, thinking the answer was plain in his friend’s behavior.
“Let’s get to town,” said Johnny. Allison nodded in silent agreement, and they started up the hill to the path that would take them away from the lone room, fire proof due to Nicolette’s fear of having her books destroyed, that stood in the ashy remnants of the house. Nicolette finally turns away from it, clutching the notebook to her heart. Johnny lets go of her and she follows behind what is left of her family without another word.

The town was only a few minutes down the road, but as they got closer, they noticed the cloud of smoke rising over the horizon. The town is being engulfed by fire put on the rooftops by the men in three black trucks. They were tossing torches left and right. The town, once colorful in the bright summer sun, lies helpless in the smoke and flame. Fire was amongst the houses and shops, making a meal of everything it touched and feeding its growing hunger. Its heat radiated to the three standing out of its path. The light reflected in their eyes and suffocated the fire in their hearts, petrifying them. Johnny seemed the first to be able to breathe again.
“Quickly! We must move!” he said. Allison nudged the frozen Nicolette off the road and into the trees. She rushed into the trees. Allison, fearing to glance back at the town, followed behind her. Johnny took up the rear. None of them looked back. They kept their eyes ahead of them and their backs on the cackling laughter of the flames.

They did not stop running until the sun had long set and they were running blindly, all of them panting in the darkness. Allison managed to get a fire going, and they all sat around it in silence. They stared into this fire as if its crackles and sparks were mocking them.

Allison, the oldest of the group but still young, saw in the flames a mirror of the town and wondered if there was anything they could do. There was no money, no shelter, and no food. Their future was lost in the smoke.

Johnny, the second oldest, was looking in the soul of the fire, watching the flames dance around the wood. He could catch some kind of food. He knew nothing of the berries and natural resources they could find. He could only think of the ways they could survive here and now.

Nicolette was lost in her writings, the quill’s scratches the only sound.
“Nicolette, please stop that,” Allison said, the constant sound getting on her nerves. Nicolette did not stop writing, nor did she say anything.
“Nicolette!” Allison repeated, a little louder. She did not seem to hear her. Johnny touched Nicolette’s shoulder jumped, causing her to jump in surprise. She immediately returned to writing.
“What?” Nicolette said.
“Stop writing,” Johnny said gently. He knew that she seemed to write so feverishly only when she was extremely distressed.
“No, not yet,” said Nicolette. Allison snatched the notebook away from her, making the quill drag along the paper so that a long line went down the center of the page. Nicolette, frustrated, stood up with tears in her eyes.
“Give it back, Allison!” she said, holding out her hand.
“You need to stop for just one second so that we can figure out what we are going to do next, Nicolette!” Allison said. Nicolette stared at her in her horror, then she picked up a branch from the fire and ran off into the trees by herself.
“Nicolette!” called Johnny. The light of the fire disappeared, and he sighed.
“Give me the notebook, Allison,” said he. Allison rolled her eyes and handed Johnny the notebook. He took it and picked up a piece of wood from the fire, rushing after Nicolette. He found her sitting on a rock by herself, the piece of wood she held almost burnt out. Johnny sighed and kneeled down in front of her, placing the notebook on the ground between them.
“I’m sorry,” said Johnny. He lifted her chin up. He saw the hurt look in her eyes and his heart sunk.
“I’m really starting to worry about you, Nicky. I know a lot has happened today, but… we have to keep our hopes up, don’t we?”
“I know. Allison didn’t have to take my notebook!”
“I understand it is your way of venting, but…”
“There are no “buts!” It was uncalled for!” Johnny did not know what to say. He hesitated before asking her a serious question.
“What were you writing?”
“It’s nothing…”
“Why can’t you tell me?”
“I don’t want too.”
“Can I read it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it is private!” Again, Johnny was at a loss for words. His best friend who he had known for many years was not going to tell him whatever it is she was writing.
“We should go back,” he said after a long pause.
“I don’t want to go back, Johnny.”
“We’re going to run out of light.”
“I don’t care.”
“Well, I do.” She stared at him, astonished.
“What?”
“I do. I care. Why don’t you?” he asked, obviously slightly offended.
“That’s not what I meant,” said Nicolette.
“Well?”
“I care too,” said Nicolette slowly.
“About what?”
“I care if the light goes out,” she said, “because then there will be nothing but darkness.” The fire on Nicolette’s stick went out, but Johnny’s still remained lit. “I don’t want it to be dark, Johnny. Not between us.”
“Neither do I.” They sat in silence.
“I want you to read it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Johnny picked up the notebook.
“Will you hold this?” he asked, holding out the light. Nicolette took it, and he opened the notebook.
He stared at the letter for a long time, trying to understand her scrawl. It was difficult at first, but soon he learned the curves of her writing, and he was able to decipher what it was she wrote.

<i>“The world crashed down all at once. Buildings seemed to crumble and fall in her mind. Thoughts she once thought strong and noble were torn apart at the very center. Everything she believed in was lost.
She sat in the darkness, alone, staring into the thick, cold nothingness around her. Just when life seems to run smoothly, a curveball is thrown and hits her right in the face.
Fire devours everything in its path; it is the ultimate destructor. It can swallow the largest portions of something beautiful and turn all your dreams to dust. Fire, burning, all-consuming fire, sweeps across the platform of existence and sucks the very soul out of everything…
But even fire is not as destructive as darkness. At least fire leaves ash behind which, like after a recent volcanic eruption, still leaves room for something beautiful to grow after it. Even fire provides light and warmth, yet we know that it can, if uncontrolled, can ruin everything we have built up.
Darkness leaves nothing. Darkness, in no way at all, is ever helpful.
As she sat alone in that darkness, her mind came across one tiny thought that seemed to get bigger the more she tried to focus on it.
She wished she had a match.
Fire destroyed everything: her home, her family. And she wished she had a match. Anything was better than sitting alone in the cold.
She remembered the story of Pandora. Pandora was a young woman who was given a box of which she was never supposed to open. When she opened it, she released darkness and fear and pain. As she watched all these awful things being released from the box, there was one tiny speck of white light that also escaped. That was hope.
She was trapped in Pandora’s box, and all she had to do was find the hope.”</i>

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