Quench

How about I make up a supersupersuper short story from one photo.
Oh, this was taken in March.

The ruling days of her fire was now over. Yet she kept swinging the slim metal stylus with her fingers. The crown jewel at the upper tip was a relic of her old days swathed in glory. She had swiped it from the vast, raging sea of fire. And she was alive. 
"Come, queen," the waves appealed. Her reign was dead. Her kingdom was dead. And so were the flames.
She could never let go of the gem now.