It was not a dark and stormy night. It was just a regular Tuesday. The world cried black tears of smog as the roaring fire consumed the town. The flames licked its lips relishing in the taste of the scorched earth. Everything was black and red. It was beautiful.
When the black clouds cleared, the survivors of the burned town argued and cried for the heads of different suspects. Some cried to kill all the dragons. Some pointed out certain women and cried witch. Others screamed out that it was the drunken smithy, asleep at the furnace again. They all tried their best to put something or someone at fault in order to create a reasonable explanation for the chaos that had occurred.
The corner of the empty matchbox in my pocket dug into my leg. All this just because I wanted to see the world in a different color.