And then there was light

Shadows creep slowly from the corners of the room. Outside, the last golden rays of sunset disappear in the dusky light. On the table, a candle sits vertically in a tarnished brass candle-holder, flecked with drops of wax and a thin layer of dust. The man crouches in the darkening room, head cradled in his rough, leathery hands.

The door creeks open and a shock of curly hair appears from the gloom. There's a faint rattle as the boy's young hands push the thin cardboard box open and a scratch of red phosphorous as he flicks the thin wood of the match against the comb. With a hiss, the head flares to life - casting eerie shadows around the room. In a second, the burst of white flame shrinks to small golden orb, with a hint of blue - rapidly munching the sliver of white pine.

The boy holds the match gingerly to the blackened candle wick - waiting for the heat of the flame to melt the wax - and jump to feed it's insatiable hunger. The match is almost spent - just a powdery, shrivelled stick of black - and the flame is licking at the boy's fingers.

The wick catches, just as the boy drops the match to the table and grunts with pain. The flame started as a kernel, but as the wax vapour rises, it flickers and grows. It grows and flickers. One centimetre, two, three. The candle dances on the wick, a thousand different colours and none at all.

Satisfied with his work, the boy retreats behind the wooden door to scratch about in the kitchen for something to eat. The man sighs. The candle dances.