Stoker by Carolyn Glass

I never realised what a dirty job it was. I had always wanted to ride in a steam train, not in the carriages you understand, up front with the driver, wind in my hair type of scenario. So when a mate said his dad could get me a ride on the local Steam Railway, I was mega excited. I was told I needed overalls and sturdy boots, but that was fine, I was fulfilling a long held ambition. So I pitched up on Sunday morning, all smiles and reported to the driver, he thrust a shovel in my hand and said, the coals their (and pointed at a truck behind the engine) get shovelling. I didn’t see a thing the whole trip, I was shovelling the whole time with my head down, I was glad to get off at the end of the journey, I was completely knackered, and black from head to foot! They wouldn’t even let me get in a carriage for the return journey, “how do you think we can make the return journey without a stoker?” They laughed. I’ll bet the last guy is in prison for bashing the drivers head in with a shovel!

Stoker by Lesley Whyte

I walk around and around the dregs of the fire. The heap of ashes are hot, I can feel the heat on my legs from a foot away. They're smouldering gently. I drag the poker behind me, drawing an almost-perfect circle in the black sand. My feet itch and sting, but I have to draw the marks while the ashes are still hot. I can't wait for them to cool. The circle is drawn. I take a breath and then close my eyes as I cross it, my feet sinking into the burning dust. It has to be done. It has to be done. I cross the circle again and again, dragging the poker behind me until a star is drawn in the ash. A pentagram. I stand in the centre and drop the poker. I open my eyes and look up at the starry sky.

And then I wait.

Day Twenty-Eight

And today's prompt is...

Stoker