The air could have crackled, it felt like a fire ripping through the air. Beyond the limestone walls, pocked with sun-bleached mosses, that guarded our suburb like a fortress, the asphalt glimmered and waved. One wished to wave back, only as a meager offering in case this might put the fire out. The summers could never be so kind.

Lying in the bowels of a volcano Kissed by the sun’s breath Ignited by the earth’s fury Churns bubbling hues of orange and red

The object was on the ground, glowing. It had seared the grass around its periphery. Round, like a garden witch’s ball, the morning dew turned to steam. I decided I’d better find gloves before retrieving it.

My house feels like babies never to be born like Laughter never cascades down her many staircases

My house’s corridors are the rain during funerals Even my widowed feet do not echo through her halls

My house was never anyone’s home Like me

Built on pump action gunmetal proceeds Her ornate rooms are famished

Fools think this old mansion is plagued by ghosts But she is haunted by the life I hoped to have

The rooftops on my street were a glistening white. Icicles lined the edges. Drifts of heavy snow covered the ground and sidewalks, but it was still falling in a white out. I saw somebody shoveling out her driveway. Her face was somewhat rosy. She wore a puffy jacket and a hat and gloves. I could see her breath like a fog as she panted in her efforts to clean off the powdery piles locking her car in. I decided to stay home from work and use one of my sick days.

Smoke drifts up from the campfire, circling in the air. It fills my lungs and blinds me. I shield my eyes with my jacket sleeves as I continue to watch the embers of the fire. They burn red, a bright scarlet that serves as a warning. The flames themselves lick at the air, shrinking as the night wanes on. With each log that’s added to the pile, the fire grows, casting a glow around the area. It crackles and sends sparks shooting in the air. By the morning, the fire is gone, and I continue on my journey. Only the ashes are any indicator of the night before.

Your breath from your lungs mingled with the fog only to dissipate before you with only a moments notice. The silence of these woods in mid November gave way for the wet crunch beneath your feet as you walked home. It was at times like these that you could think, observing the pines heavy with the morning snowfall. Of course autumn’s cold brother would rear his ugly head this early, laying waste to her harvests with unfeeling northern winds. But yet, you could only thank him for the peace he offered to the woods.

My sister and I descended the stairs to the basement. After forcing myself to breathe in and out, my breathe quickly turns into fog on every exhale. To my left side I can hear my sisters teeth chattering and to my right I hear the almost silent creaking of the stairs under our weight. As we reach the bottom of the steps, a soft tapping sound alerts me to the window across the room. Icicles have made their home on the very outskirts of the window pane. But the tapping isn’t coming from the window, it is coming from the door underneath it, the freezer.

Smoke started to creep under the door. It was clouding my vision and my mind. I felt helpless, there was nothing I could do being trapped inside my room. Claustrophobia was sinking in; was this really the end? Was I about to succumb to the flames and let them engulf me? No; I was about to fight for my life.

I looked around, my only choices of escaping were the door and the window. Why did I have to be on the 3rd floor? The door had to be the safest option, as I couldn’t risk breaking any bones from the jump down.

I stood in front of the door, coughing, wheezing, gasping for any clean air that I could find. I glanced at it, heat radiating off of the door knob. I wouldn’t dare touch it with my bare hands. My mind started racing again. Was I ever going to make it out of this room alive? I looked around again, and grabbed my quilt to help me twist the door handle without burning the entire palm of my hand. This task was impossible; the heat from the doorknob had roasted the surface of my quilt, and I couldn’t bare to hold onto the doorknob much longer.

I dropped the quilt and immediately ran to the window. I could see the fire department below, several men were rushing into the apartment building trying to save anyone they could. Would they make it up to me in time? I couldn’t risk being left behind, I grabbed my bedside lamp and started hitting the window with it, watching glass shatter and fall to the ground below me.

The rush of crisp air hit my skin and enveloped me. “Help! I’m up here!” I shouted, tears welling from my eyes. More smoke started to find its way into my room, and I was struggling to find clean air to replace the smoke that was feeding into my lungs.

I watched down below, the fire truck placing itself near my window. This was it! I was going to make it out of this alive!

I spoke far too soon. A loud boom encompassed the whole building, and the floor to my room was slowly disappearing. Another glance down below and the fire marshal was leading everyone out of the building.

This was it. The floor beneath me caved in, and the ceiling was starting to sink above me. The tears were rolling down my cheeks, and I felt a sense of defeat, I was giving up.

My legs felt wobbly, I couldn’t help but fall to my knees. The weight of my body became too much for the floor to handle, and it seemed as if the whole complex caved in the moment I collapsed.

I started falling through the remaining floors, my body feeling like a rag-doll a child didn’t want anything to do with anymore. The rest of the building was deteriorating, burning, and falling around me.

I felt like I never reached the bottom of the apartment building. My soul left my body the minute I started falling through the floors, as if it knew this was the end.

This was it.

The kettle radiated a warmth. It was red. It was something that could make your skin crawl, just the simple touch of the kettle would numb your hand. Imagine the your hand melting, dripping at the simple touch of the kettle. It was something so simple yet so harmful.