The firewood stacked in its ramshackle way had become damp from the never ending rain. The frigid water fell in sheets from dawn until dusk and then went all through the night, hammering on the tin roof like nails. The cold crept in, unwelcome guest though it was, and settled in to stay for the winter. And all that wood, so diligently chopped by father until there were great welts on his hands, was quite resistant to flame. It was no easier than trying to burn the rain itself. The task now was to dry it out or else face unbearable coldness until the spring.

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, November 19, 2014*.