TITLE: OPAL FIRE
If I really were a psychic witch, as my grandmother insists, then wouldn't you think I could predict if the roof were about to cave in over my head like it was doing right now?
"Stacy, get out!" my cousin shouted through the thick smoke. She was in the basement of the Black Opal Bar gathering stock minutes before the fire barricaded her in the far room. I hoped the rear exit wasn't blocked. The front section, where I stood, was free of flames. For the moment.
I swiveled my head from side to side and clutched the amethyst necklace I wore for protection. "Where's Thor?" I yelled back.
"I don't know. Just go!"
"Thor, here boy," I called. Just then a wooden beam crashed to the floor, dividing the two sections of the bar. Black ash and sparks erupted from the floorboards.
I heard a faint whimper and circled to the face of the oak bar. My recently adopted Great Dane was at the opposite end, wedged between the foot rail and two kegs of beer.
"Thor, come," I screamed as loud as I could.
The kegs blocked his head like linebackers, but I could see his rear end wiggling, struggling to escape. A quick check to my right. The flames hadn't reached the front door yet and sirens wailed closer. There was no choice. My legs found power as I sprinted toward my dog.
Unfortunately, I didn’t see the toppled stool. I tripped in cartoon fashion.