The Candle Maker.

As a starter entry, here's a short story I wrote once. I didn't really finish it, but you should still try to enjoy it.

She sat there, erecting the wax that would prove futile to someone’s bright future. In the delicate mist of lamp shade, a handful of centimeters away from the unformed mass, were 2 other candles. But these were way beyond their prime in comparison. Both sat adjacent to each other, at about half-mass. Both had been lit previously, and then extinguished forthwith, through unfortunate affairs. The wax had melted and the candles seemed to of formed what looked to be faces. It looked as though both faces were staring into each other atop their turquoise coasters. Can you have candles on coasters? Is that what they’re for? No matter, no one ever inspects your house looking to see if you’re using your furnishings for their intended purpose; and if there is, I would most certainly like to apply. But never mind that, the stare was not a romantic stare—but one of disposition. Sort of like both candles were professional candle boxers, striking fear into each others eyes. Neither needed the money for winning the match, but pride was their most affluent aspect, outside of their apple crisp scents. The reason as to why the candles had been lit up was because of an asinine tradition concocted by the candle maker herself. Every time she was left by a man, she would light a candle. She would extinguish one light, and then kindle another. Never would she turn off the candle. No, she would leave it be until an event became so unfortunate, it would cause it to die. Whether it was the almighty gust of wind someone shot while walking past it, or the untimely touch of a surge of water. She was as brittle as the feeble fire.