a piece of flint

black-brown, the colour of an old kettle's bottom. one face was struck, perhaps by someone, perhaps by another stone in a current. the fracture is fresh-looking even now; flint forgets the year.

it was the first fire's collaborator. a small piece of weather stored in a pocket. cousin to the chalk it grew inside, far older than the brick, and one of the few things that does not soften in the rain.

if you tap it against the quartz in the dark, a small spark flickers and dies. you can do this for a surprising amount of time before tiring of it. some did.