It hissed as he touched it to the grass and it went out. Hadn’t Jack London written a story about this?
He rose on sore legs, and yanked at the grass. It was tough old rope, tough and sharp, and it hurt his hands, but he wrenched some loose, and crushed it into a pile and knelt before it, a penitent at a private altar. He tore a match loose, put it against the strike strip, folded the cover against it to hold it in place, and yanked. Fire spurted. His face was close and he inhaled a burning whiff of sulfur.
The match went out the moment he touched it to the wet grass, the stems heavy with a dew that never dried, and dense with juice.
His hand shook when he lit the next.
Another. Another. Each match made a fat little puff of smoke as soon as it touched the wet green. One didn’t even make it into the grass, but was huffed out by the gentle breeze as soon as it was lit.
