Friday, November 19, 2004

Fire Flies

The house is all a-burning. I see it clearly in my head. The flames licking the wooden white walls, the smoke sifting out the windows, the bright orange halo overhead. There is cackling from inside, popping, crunching sounds of things burning. The linoleum floors, the washed-out rugs, the burnt oven-toaster. No screams, no piercing cries from within however. And so there is relief from all around. The firemen want everyone out of the way. They shove and shout and motion the bystanders to leave. But they stay, drawn to the light-show the house is putting on. It is a marvel looking at destruction. Courting death is a secret delight and there is a perverse need to stay on and watch.

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