Yellow Clay

   Hot water steams from my mug, color swirling away from the tea bag. Smells drift to me on thick, warm air. My hands press against the yellow clay mug, warming up from the bite of winter chill that spikes my fingers and nose, eyes watering. Icy cold drips down my back freezing to my clothes crusting frost on my black t-shirt and leggings. Feet meerly two blocks, in frozen unison. The fire whips in the night wind sending red sparks flying as I close my eyes to the world, willing my body to give in too. But it won't, I know. I'm not done here. 
   I gulp down the what remains of my tea in one hot slash down my throat and drop the mug in the fire. It shatters filling me with glee as I bend over and pick up a yellow clay shard. Standing, I lean close to the fire pressing the sharp edge against the tender skin of my wrist. I let it bite into my skin leaving a trail of beading red wrapping down my hand. Then, holding my arm over the fire I let my blood drip down into it.The fire hisses and rumbles happily having recieved its offering.
   I turn away and look back to the rushing waters down the bank behind me. The warmth I knew would come surges through me given by the fire itself. With one look back to the orange embers encircled by bending and creaking pines, I race towards the shimmering edge of the river.