The smoke from the campfire is swirling around us in billowing clouds and stinging our eyes. Our hair will smell of it for days afterwards. The late summer dusk means it’s light until long past her bedtime, but we tell ghost stories anyway, taking it in turns to hold the torch for maximum ghostly effect. Finally, night falls, and we crawl muddily into our sleeping bags, drifting off to the sound of water rushing over stones and the cooing of wood pigeons.
This post is part of The Gallery at Sticky Fingers. This week’s prompt is ‘light’.