I found an old man in the woods, tending his fire. He bid me sit and I obliged, only too happy to rest my feet. Slowly, the silence of the forest grew stale and I got to talking. I told him my tale and he listened. I told him my dreams and he listened. I told him my fears and still he did not answer. Instead, his voice was the crackle of the fire and his advice like wind in the trees. When I turned to look he had escaped into the night, leaving me to tend the fire.
Thanks to Charli Mills for hosting weekly flash fiction. check out her blog and join the fun with thousands of other writers. This week’s prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write about an escape artist.