Untold flames

I stared into the fire. The day had been warm, but the wind had changed and the air was tending towards cool.

There is something about the colour of fire. How can you legitimitely give it a colour? "Orange", "red" or "yellow" seem to do it little justice. The colour of fire is something else.

Against a cloudy sky with a clouded moon, it raised tiny rivers of brightness around the sawn wooden planks and dead, discarded branches which it fed upon - hungrily, yet held back, like a polite guest at a late dinner - streaming tongues of hazy, impure light heavenward, casting shadows in places it deemed unworthy.

I stared into the fire, and thought of other fires. Other fireplaces, other times. The promise of toasted marshmallows and buttered baguettes. A fireplace far away, a fireplace backwards in time, conversations with friends that now completely escaped my memory. Fires monstrously large that consume entire forests and fields and houses and homes, fires that cause all creatures to cower in fear.

Fires that have been, fires that have died. Fires that may never be lit. Fires, desires in the hearts of men. The promise of toasted marshmallows and buttered baguettes.

[Corresponding dandruff flake] [Comment?]

01 January 2002, Tuesday, 10:59 PM

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Alter ego of dandruff

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