Mike's Writings

The old woman seemed ancient and ominous to Marco. Her hard, bloodshot eyes stared at him unblinking beneath her hand wove, grayish head scarf. A small, single yellow candle burned on the table they were seated at inside the crumbling, dilapidated structure she called ‘home’. The candle emitted a slight fragrance of corn; sweet and starchy to Marco’s nostrils. Occasionally it would spark briefly as the flame reached a part of the wick more heavily oiled than previously, beating back the cool shadows enveloping the occupants and make-shift furniture, if only for a second. The woman was beyond noticing these intermittent fireworks, intent on her business with Marco. As for Marco, the entire damn town smelled of corn, so the candle was nothing new.