Matches
Jason Christopherson
Jason Christopherson is a Senior(!) Creative Writing Major at NMSU. He chose "The Little Match Girl" for his retelling, because it is one of his favorites. This is a small detail, but the syllable count decreases by one every line to show our little match girl wasting away her matches. Jason is proud of that, and wants everyone to know about it.
He wishes everyone have a mostly ok day.
Strike one. Strike Two. Another, savoring sweet phosphorus sparks across my fingertips like a drug
Strike Three. Strike Four! Another, another, bless me with this bounty of flame so that I may sell,
Some great burning, sustenance or revelry! Strike Some More! Strike The Band Up! Let me provide
The feasts I imagine, The hearths I envision, the washes of warm colors, a hug.
So cold. Too cold. Without another Lucky Strike. Appears my matches are unsold.
The wind whips against my face, freezes my tears into stories my mind does tell,
I feel the warmth of all my imagined hearths slither their warmth into me,
Frigidity gives way to fever, matches shaking in their small box.
I strike Two! At a time! Let them burn with me! Let Me Burn This OUT!
Strike Who Knows? Nobody buys the matches anyways, so they’re
Better off burning up in my fingertips, little wounds
Jutting out and above my digits, like ashen rings.
No more matches now. No more matches now. So cold.
I look down and see that my fingers are blue,
Not, I presume, from all the little burns.
How I crave their addicting warmth.
On my street corner I collapse,
But nobody pays me mind.
Another little match,
Burned out by the cold.
I see my hearth.
Run to it.
Feel Warm.
Free.
