Feed the Fire
The burning leaves curl under the fire's heat, making snaps and crackles that were slowly lulling her to sleep by the heat of the fire.
Tomorrow would be cold, just like the weatherman predicted. Every day was cold now. Every day was a scramble for the food to feed that nights fire. And if she was very lucky, she wouldn't go without the means to feed herself.
Every day was a struggle and every night was a battle of wills. Wrestling with her thoughts every night as she huddled behind a snow bank on the frozen tundra, her brain seldom delivering her anything but nightmares.
The beasts had gotten more bold, and she wondered more and more if the amulet she still clutched so desperately would ever reach its destination.
[I don't know if this fits the prompt, but I enjoyed writing it! (:
Let me know if I should write more!]
Wild fire
Soft white flakes drift
On the hot current of air
And settle amongst
The dry grass stalks
Baked brown and crisp
By the unrelenting sun
On the ridge, blue smoke
Curls and coils like serpents
And, with the aid of binoculars
It's possible to see the orange glow
Of the fire, licking, devouring
Everything in it's path
Leaving only charred remains
It crackles and pops
As it tastes this trunk
And spits out that rock
As it journeys up the slope
Accelerating like a race car
With a hungry V8 engine
The wind picks up
Whipping itself into a frenzy
Carrying the flames higher
And higher again
Lifting the smoke
And tossing it though the hot air
Soon the valley is shrouded
With grey, greasy haze
The heat shimmers on the ground
The soft flakes dance on the breeze
Then settle on the dusty ground
Feather light, til everything is white
The fire makes it's slow descent
From the flatness of the ridge
Into the once verdant valley
Leaving a trail of wanton destruction
In it's smouldering wake
Corpses, stumps, ash
The air is thick now
With heat and smoke.
It's getting hard to breathe now
The acrid air sears eyes and throat
It's mistress, the fire lurks
Perhaps near, perhaps far away
A sudden gust of wind
Carries bad omens
Singed gum leaves,
Edges still aglow
With the greedy embers
Of the ravenous fire
The hose feels small
The water tepid, weak
In the face of this monster
The only blessing is the drought
It's turned the country to dust
And dust is no food for fire
Still, the burning leaves alight
And soon a grass stalk flickers
With the dancing orange flame
A moment of joyous life
Before the harsh wind
Blows it roughly out
beneath the leaves and fire
It was under the leaves. Buried underneath the gold and brown, I could no longer see it but I knew it was under there, and no longer breathing.
The smell of burning leaves was awful. It made my eyes water and bile was the primary taste in my mouth. I don't know, actually, if that was because of the leaves or who was burning under them.
Burning Leaves
A/N: The words in italics come from another challenge I combined with this one. I comes from a writing group I belong to.
We have a gloriously warm day and a date with a burning barrel or perhaps just a match. I think the barrel is a better idea. My home is deep in the maple forests of north western Vermont. Sugar maple country, and since we produce it within a strict set of organic rules.
Each step of the process clearly written on a placard on the boiling room wall, comes from long experience of a century long business. There could be no confusionor question about how we make our world famous syrup. It would cost us a fortune if the media did a story maligning the quality of our products.
The narrow stream beside the building enclosing the giant kettles, ran through a waterwheel on the opposite side. Grinding flour from milo, wheat, oats and other specialty grains is the other side of our business. It was a milestone of mass funding from people willing to donate to help us a sustainable powersource.
Soaring spruce trees with huge roots creating trip hazards stood in a tight row behind the mill house. Someone mentioned water was the wrong way to go, thinking wind had better potential. Not so, the steep section of our brook, almost a waterfall, never freezes over. Not even on record cold days. The steam from it obscures the entire production section of the homestead. The only mistake was the need to divert water when the waterwheel ends up under a ton of ice.
Not that it matters. We are finsihed our grinding for this year. Limited product in niche market allows for increased profits in any case.
I hoped I could get the piles of leaves dealt with before the first late fall rains hit. Wet debris like this was a slip hazard. If I went down hard, being lazywas my only option. Which might not be a problem. Spreading a blanket close to our chalet style home, my husband was the only other resident here.
Our employees were on vacation as was tradition.
“The leaves can wait. Oscar and Hilda will be back in two days. We’ll make an event of it. The weather will hold, we’ve got a solid omega block.” He held out the book I was reading and gestured toward the picnic basket. Pointing to the rills broken into lace like patterns between polished river rock, he continued, “Our wine is staying cold in the eddy there, and you need to relax.”
I stepped into his arms, “We’re all alone, for once. Burning them is always a chore better shared. Your weather predictions are never wrong.”
His lips were soft on mine. When I caught my breath, he said, “Let’s see what other fires I can light.”