Winston stares at the pile of ashes on the kitchen floor. He's heard of this before. Spontaneous combustion.
Gladys had just left the living room not thirty seconds earlier, telling him that she was going to fix some tea and did he want a cup? He was about to answer when he heard her cry out. Not so much a scream as a loud "Oh!" as if someone had just startled her, followed by this strange whooshing sound that ended very suddenly.
He had rushed into the kitchen and found her ashes, with bits of her housecoat still floating in the air, and that was that. Spontaneous combustion.
The two of them are alone out here, in this cottage on the edge of the forest. Their children had moved far away; grown distant. They are both of them very old, and now that she has died it doesn't seem like there's all that much reason to tell anyone about it.
You know I'm still with you, dear. Now go and fetch the broom and a coffee can.
A piece of her housecoat drifts down to his shoulder. It would be a shame to have ambulance workers and police tramping around here, going through all of their things.
Had she seen God, he wonders... Had the face of God consumed her in His loving fire?
Yes.
He goes to fetch a broom, and decides to use the old clay pot where she keeps her brushes.
She'll like that.
Written in five minutes from the writing prompt, "Fire" as part of the #freewrite exercise. Image created by me as well. You can view the prompt here and check out the other entries; ranging from slow burners to quick scorchers. Thanks to @mariannewest for creating and carrying the torch for this writing challenge.