Writing Prompt

Strength and power In a single flickering flame Makes most people glower But she will call it tame In its dance, it whispers Both a force wild and free, A fire that stirs the heart’s cold ember, And shows what one could be Tough it burns and blazes, It seeks to light the way, From those who rise from the ashes, To face another day

The crackling light that glows in a dark room, The gas that can melt you into a crisp. The thing everyone is scared of- Except me. I don’t get why they dislike it, Why they have an entire job to stop it in it’s path. I don’t get why they flea when it catches their sight, Leaving everything behind. The beautiful light, The warm feeling it makes, The nice smell of smoke, Like you’re right next to the sun. The beautiful noise, The nice feeling it makes, The amazing smell of warmth, Like you’re right next to the sun.

What’s so damning about flames, is how beautiful they are before consuming you. ╚══ ≪ °❈° ≫ ══╝ As a tyke, they warned me to stay clear of the fiery boy. “Don’t let the charming smile fool you” they said. “They all burn us.” But instead of frolicking with my sisters in the snow that never bit, I’d crouch in secret and observe the boy aflame. I watched him try to build snow friends that would melt under his touch. There stick arms would go limp, faces would distort, until they turned into a pile of water once more. He would cry to his mother, and she would take her ball of sunshine back to the other side of the forest. But he kept coming back. And as we grew older, so did I. It has always been a comfortable silence. I like to imagine he hears the slight rustles of the bushes. The rush of cold when I come near. And that he simply chooses to let me stay. Just how I choose him. My sisters have all grown to be just what they should have. Cold and unfeeling. The perfect daughters of ice. But I suppose that makes me the black sheep. For my heart feels a burn whenever I see the boy on fire. His hair is the color of a golden sunrise, eyes like a fox. Every day, he ventured away from the summer forest and sits by the whispering willow tree. He reads, or sings, or sometimes almost stares at me through the bushes I hide in. Except today he does none of that. My eyes trail his steps, flinching when sparks of fire crackle at his feet. His eyes look mad, full of heat and something burning. The look is foreign in this unyielding lands. “Boy” I call out, biting the tip of my serpents tongue in regret. The fiery boy stops at his tracks, slowly turning my direction. “Yes?” With great carefulness, I crawl out the bush and suck a breath in. I hope I am not unpleasant for a prince of flames. “Who are you?” The boy asks, the flame leaving his eyes, yet not entirely. “I am Anastasia” I say, bowing my head forward. I am not accustomed to the courtly manners for those like him, but I can’t find anything wrong with paying respect. The boys eyes widen, to quick for any hesitation. “It’s you” he whispers, a spark of flame falling on me. I wince. “It’s you” he repeats, stepping closer. Too close. I feel his heat scorch me. “The girl of snow.” “Yes” I exasperate, shocked he knows of me. Heard my whispers over the years. The boy on fires warm hand trails up my cheek, leaving a scorching pain of desire and warmth. “I break everything” he chokes out. And while I may not know the half of what he means, I don’t step back. “And I gravitate to the broken” I say, before leaning in a bit closer. He doesn’t move. And so I take it as a sign to bring my lips to his. He’s hot and warm and everything nobody ought to be in these woods. But as I lean closer, he doesn’t move at all. His eyes shine of fear. And then, as if ripped away from a perfect fairytale, I feel myself melt away. First his kiss was like a warm embrace. Now it’s suffocating. “What’s going on?” I cry, as my arms and face slowly fade. Everything is slow. “No! No, don’t melt!” The boy yells, his hands reaching towards my dripping face. I don’t know if it’s my flesh or tears he holds. My body grows tired and warm and all I want to do is lay on the cold snow and feel like myself again. I close my eyes, but they don’t open back up. I ought to have never fallen for the boy in flames.

Have you ever wanted to touch something really bad? You know you shouldn’t, but there is an urge, it hurts but it feels so good. Have you ever pinched yourself to feel the pain? Have you ever slit your wrists, feeling the tingling sensation before the fire rushes up, blood gushing as it falls to the floor in circular splats? You know you shouldn’t enjoy the sting of a cold blade, or the burn of fire against your skin. But you do, is that so wrong? You sit, watching the flame flicker behind the glass, throwing you into a calm state of mind. You hear the voices chanting, telling you to reach out and touch it. Touch it… Touch it… Touch it… They whisper in eerie chants. A chorus like no other- an anchor binding you to the world and what hides behind that raging fire, licking flames and smoke tendrils. You breathe in the woody scent, your lungs screaming for more. And you must… you must give them what they wish- whether it be a death wish or the pure pleasure of pain. And so you open the beautiful glass, your fingers reaching toward the flames. Your hand is wobbly from the heat as you lean forward… your skin bubbling peeling, brain racing. And you touch it.

The brick fireplace was my favourite place in the world. Flames always danced in front of my face, sparkling in my eyes. Heat radiated off my face, making me sweat. It was warm, but it felt good. The light burnt my eyes, but I liked it. It wasn’t enough, though. It’s never enough. I need more. More. More! I never remember what happens. First it was the stable. Then the house. And now school. When will it end? I guess I kind of like it, though.

When they learned that they had the ability to create flames with little more than a flick of their wrist, of course they’d fall in love. The warmth claims them just as they claim it, and it’s a testament to their practicing that they can control the fires they create now. No others have had this sort of ability in the past. Some may call it sinful, some may call it evil, but the Azar family know that their powers are dangerous. And still they use them. I think that’s more beautiful than any of the Rialta fountains, or whatever those fools create.

The flames licked the side of the house, turning its beautiful chestnut walls to a charcoal black. The smoke rose into the air in a billowing cloud, filling the air with its scent. The loud cracks of the fire brought about screams from bystanders. People were terrified of the flames. It made Roy laugh. How could anyone be afraid of such a beautiful sight? Hidden from the view of bystanders or the firefighters who were likely to come soon, he took a few more steps toward the burning building, careful that he was still safe. He basked in its heat, smiling as he felt sweat beading on his forehead and dripping down his face. “Thank you for burning so beautifully,” he whispered to his lighter, cupped gently in his hands. “You and I have created such a lovely sight.” Then he heard the sirens and, with a sigh and an eye roll, he took off away from the house, so he would not be forced to take credit for this spectacle. Oh how he wanted to take credit, but he knew taking credit would mean jail, and jail was the last place he wanted to be. Jail was stone, cold and wet and grey. He couldn’t have his lighter in jail, and even with it there would be nothing to burn. So he was content with knowing that he had caused such a beautiful fire. Some would call him a criminal for it, like the law would. Roy thought that was horrid. He never burnt anything that wasn’t abandoned or at least unoccupied, he always made sure the houses were empty before he set them ablaze. It wasn’t a crime, Roy believed. It was art. And why put an artist behind bars for practicing his craft? +++ Weeks passed without event. Roy had been burning the scrap paper in his mother’s study, clapping in joy as the flame swallowed the white paper and charred it to black. Still, he craved to display his art publicly once again. He walked out one evening into the woods, wishing he could burn the trees. But the trees gave life, and his art wasn’t worth their untimely end. So he continued on, until he came upon a cabin. Excited, he whipped out his lighter and dashed toward the building. Then he paused. He needed to make sure it was clear. No one that would burn or notice the art he was about to display until he was a safe distance away. He walked to the door and turned the knob. Unlocked. He felt his heart sink. People didn’t leave the door unlocked when they were out. Stepping inside, he searched the house. The lights were out, the place was silent. After much searching, he found no one. Once he was certain the house was clear, he walked around the back and pulled out his lighter. He rubbed it affectionately, as if it were a living thing and not an inanimate chunk of metal and plastic. After many attempts and many techniques, he managed to set the house aflame. Grinning, he ran back slightly into the trees to hide himself but still have a good view of his handiwork. It was marvellous. The snaps and crackles of the flames, the signature smell of smoke and burning wood, now mixed with the smell of pine… He took in the view of his masterpiece as the flames began to consume the house. Then, as he watched, fear began to paint his features. His eyes widening, he realized the blaze had burned away a part of the roof, and now he could see a large attic that he had never checked for people. Then Roy heard the scream.

She stared at the hovering orange ball in her hand. It licked the air as she soothed a story of the sun, and a day that had once seemed it would never end. Her dad had still held her hand through the fields, quietly worried that she would run off, yet let her run off anyway, as long as she stayed close. The Sun scared away the shadows, and even the forests edge seemed safer in the day. As long as you don’t leave where I can see, he’d said to her, and she now repeated to the flame. Stay close. Please don’t leave. I can’t lose you. These words echoed in her head as she recounted the story to this small Orange ball, as much for herself as the life of the flame. Her dad had told her this story when she was young, and as the story unfolded in her mind, she remembered that it wasn’t a day she recalled: it was a lifetime, a lifetime of endless days, and a lifetime ago. This was the story of her life, that her dad had soothed and shaped for her, so she could always look back at the sun (and summon it when needed). Suddenly, her teenage years flickered into her thoughts; the scariest days, when everything suddenly became different. The Sunny days of her childhood, that seemed endlessly long, were gone, Replaced instead by fire eating, a lost art, as her dad had said. He did it, And so would she. The burns on his face, visible only when he chose, would soon be on her. It started with a candle, which she easily inhaled, and grew to torches, which burnt all her hairs off permanently, leaving her marked. He starved her of all else, until she had no choice but to inhale the flame to tell her body it could be warm again. It had been cold and shaking, and he watched her shivering, even as the charcoal lay ready next to her. It will make the fire eating easier, he nearly commanded. And after a week, she ate it, her water consumption limited so that she did not put out her fire. Fire tasted like life and death at the same time. Really, what else could it be? She was grateful now that her father had given her both. Each morning was a singed throat, burning hair, washing ash away.

A twinkle. A spark in the brown of an eye. More lovely than the warmth of a mother's breast. More hope lays in you, than in any lover's love. You tease, a nervous twitch. A tender warm lick. Then sloooow, to a flick of a lispy tongue. A plume of greyed breath rises to the occasion. It tickles my nose. You twist and twirl like a pole dancer. Impressive, with a rustic charm. You curl a pointy finger, to coax me closer. The darkness fears your birth. This is our night. ‘Lux nostra’. Resonant is your autumnal call to hibernation. Hushed, a rush of whispers plea, as you wrap around my wanton winter belly. My paunch feels you first. We resist spooning, as the hearth contains you. You cackled away those other charmers. Only your harmonies, your licks, your high hat, can strike a chord now. I turn my back. A Resistor, for a short while. You pester. You psst me. Pssssst. Mesmerising, like a snake charmer’s tale. Blowing a light wind, in the face of intensity. I gaze at your goldenness, and caress your flaxen curves with a stare I share with no one else but you. I am ignited. I feed you paraffin wax and Aspen timber to quench your passion. You bellow and beat your chest like a 'Gorilla in the Mist'. You take charge and come for me. Showered in the sweat of your brow, I bow. You release a Spartan war cry and fire-up my inward parts. Stroke me, I stoke you. 'All for Sparta!' With you, hot to the end. When you are gone, I mourn your vigour. "Remember to put it out when you come to bed Cindy! The baking soda is in the cupboard to your left!"

The mental blaze consumed him faster than the physical fire ever could. The obsession, the pull towards the heat as the flames grew height and hotter. No one knew how it began, only the consequences that followed. As the lights grew brighter in the outside world the ignition inside grew dim.