|Kind of Fire
Author: Definition PM
How many kinds of fire can there be? An infinite, eternalized number, and this describes only one of the more aggressive kinds.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Suspense - Words: 1,091 - Reviews: 2 - Published: 11-03-06 - Status: Complete - id: 2271087
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
This is a picture prompt that I did recently in school :) The part that describes the picture is in bold.
I got this graded; perfect score. Only person to receive a perfect score in the grade o.o... Enjoy reading it :) Please review!
Screams of panic and worry rang sharply in the air as the sky turned steadily black with thick smoke. Once magnificent buildings now crumbled easily as if the fire was a fiery monster stamping down, roaring and bellowing his anger out to the world. The flames greedily wove past streets, chasing everything in sight.
A boy stood in the midst of the flames, oblivious to the havoc and chaos around him. He didn't flinch or cry out in pain when the fire licked at his bare arms and hands. No, this boy caressed the fire so lovingly, so gently. His fingers touched the flames and molded them into many shapes, defining every detail and figure.
The fire obeyed him willingly; the fire was completely tamed and content.
The boy sat back and watched the flames dance playfully as if it was all a happy game. Yet the flames soon began to flare dangerously again; it crept closer and closer to the boy, who was so absorbed that he never noticed. Only when the boy started feeling scorched heat burning down to his heart did he finally realize that fire was never his friend. His heart beat faster as it filled with betrayal and remorse, his hands clenched into hard fists.
But the fire refused to let the boy escape. They felt no pity or regret as they mercilessly devoured him. The boy was now part of fire himself. His body burned with heat and pain, yet his eyes blazed not with fire, but with pure hatred, cold and hard as ice. He lifted his head up to the stained sky and opened his burning lips.
The scream pierced through the charred city, running along the cracks in the streets, tracing the ashes left behind on the grey sidewalks. There were no more tears to cry; the fire kissed them away. No more broken hearts; the flames had already stopped their steady beat.
The boy was sprawled on the hot concrete; endless tears ran down his closed face, and his shattered heart beat faster as if it had never beat so quickly before. However, the fire seemed satisfied. Thick rain suddenly poured from the sky and quenched the city of its harsh burns.
Anya tore her gaze from the page's inky words. Her chin rested on her soft palm; her other hand lay outstretched on the page, suddenly tensed and stiff. Her pure blue eyes glinted dangerously, aware of every movement and sound.
Anya blinked, her face thoughtful. A single pearly tear slid down her smooth cheek and stopped briefly at her chin. It quivered slightly before gravity brought it down; it feel slowly, almost reluctantly. The tiniest splash could be heard as the colorless tear stained the page. The ink began to deform into a wet blur. Anya slowly rose from the leather chair and walked to the door. She took one last look at the open pages of the book, and closed the door softly behind her.
A slight breeze from the open window rustled the parchment. The pages flew past, one by one, as the breeze grew stronger, until the book was open to the very first page: the dedication page.
It traced defined letters that formed into a complete story,
yet so flexible
in it very own special way.
Every second in the constant tick of the clock
brought more words
that morphed into an endless story.
The pen skated on and on,
oblivious to the chaos
and havoc of the world all around.
Its ink memorized love, joy, death, sorrow, war, pain.
It wrote down eternalized secrets;
it showed adventures that awaited so far away,
yet so close nearby.
The pen skated forever on the hard ice,
pausing only to dot the i's, cross the t's.
Only stopped to show the difference between each word,
And finally when the ink was no more,
only then the story ended,
when every detail,
was perfected to
-Dedicated to Loki, the one and only fire-tamer, if not the best of all.
The wind changed direction again, as if it had finished reading and wanted more. This time the pages flew back to the last few sheets.
The city was perfected in every way possible, the people experienced once more another Golden Age. The busy, crowded streets echoed with babble and laughter, market sellers shouted out their wares. High, polished towers rose to the sky and streets were paved with the finest silver. Lush gardens were filled with sweet roses and beautiful maples. The sun shined brightly down and reflected off sparkling fountains and precious jewelry that lay on red cushions for public display.
Yet there was a single flaw.
The shortest candle stub was burning the weakest flame. Parchment lay peacefully beside the candle, unaware of any danger. It was only when the tiniest wind blew gently at the flame, when the fire skimmed the parchment's yellowed edges.
The wind teased the fire; it began to blow more forcefully. The heat quickly spread from the paper to a bundle of clothes laying beside endless piles of hay.
The small hut was determined many years after, wooden.
Trees that bordered closely around the hut soon lost their green foliage to the new flames. Their branches shared and passed on its flames to other nearby branches.
And so the fire spread through the city once more, with increased strength and power. It once more gave birth to screams and shouts, it once more swallowed everything in its path. The candle was like the butterfly that had flapped its wings once in Japan, and there was soon later a hurricane in South America. Fire had once burned the city before, and it would do so again. But now there was no Loki to tame the sweeping flames.
No, Loki was now part of the fire himself; he devoured everything, never showing any mercy.
The bright sun soon clouded over, not with rain clouds, but with thick, heavy smoke that choked the city of its life.
The strongest breeze suddenly slammed the book shut.
A single, lit candle loomed over the closed book. Its flame flickered as the wind grew steadily stronger…