A Ring of Flame

A brass ring lay abandoned on the woven rug near the floor lamp. Beside it rested a heavy iron matchbox, its textured striker strip worn along the center. I pushed the sleeve open with my heel, slid out a single sulfur-tipped wooden match, and wedged it upright into the ring's narrow groove. Balanced. I struck the flint beside it with the edge of a stray copper coin until a spark caught the tip. A sudden hiss, a brief flare of pale yellow flame right at my eye level, casting sharp, flickering shadows across the carpet. I didn't flinch. In seconds, the wood charred black, leaving behind a curling thread of gray smoke and the sharp bite of brimstone. Adequate.