A Spark in the Hull

I dropped a sliver of dried flint down into the upright brass casing. The hollow metal rang once, faint and sharp in the quiet shack. Using the point of a rusted pin drawn from my forearm, I struck down into the dark chamber with measured, sudden pressure. A dry, cold spark leaped against the brass rim, illuminating my stitched grin for the barest fraction of a heartbeat. It left behind the faint, pungent scent of scorched sulfur and spent powder. The void within that dead cartridge now carries a phantom of fire.