Four crooked spokes rotated ceaselessly between the fireturner’s palms. His face, scored from glances and brushes, glowed and reflected the licking flames — they would lap his face endlessly, given the chance.
But the festival ended without a major hitch. He halted the flamewheel in its tracks and toweled the sweat drenching his skin. The sky was stiller than the sea, with not a single star to guide him from this town to the next. Wordlessly, he placed the wheel in its case, and strapped it to his back.
Winter came that night. Blowing forth with such magnitude, he prayed quietly for some solace. Some place, suitably warm for him.
Today, I am now participating in the Flash Fiction 365 prompt series. Day 1 is “Suitably Warm”.