View Full Version : The Fire, The Ice

11-04-13, 04:02 PM
The Fire, The Ice

The Fire that burns gives me no choice. Absence of such fuels the burn, the kill—even closer to death. The flames grow large as the sticks disappear. The sticks and twigs, hollow on the center emit a glow that warns the others. Stay away, or you’ll be next! The lake besides the pit wonders of how such things could happen. How uncontrolled the substance really is happens to lure more bodies of water.

Streams run close, twist and turn but stay at a distance. They wrap and curve and roar, whispering, trickling, around themselves. The trees caught between this madness grow concerned at their own vulnerability. Leaves and grass lean far from the possibility of being engulfed.

The process is daily and slow. Thousands of fires mimic this one as this one echoes right back. The key is to keep this sacred distance. For each fire must not know of any other constantly laughing, constantly burning. Even on the late July morning, the dew can only cool so much. The flame, now hidden under the crisp black logs lay waiting—lay wanting. To escape is ideal, the trees—its food.

Time is the enemy along with persistence. Melted and molded, seconds tick by feeling like hours. Can you not kill what is not alive? The breaking point is unknown—most curiously, the overhanging trees. For the pit will always remain, scarred and charred but never touched. The oxygen does the devil’s deeds. Constantly pumping life into something that strives to be just a bitter memory. The logs and remnants want out, want what the mystical rose bush has. They scream, chirp, crackle—no answer is given.

Deer in a neighboring wood flinch but never look nor draw near. Even the simplest of beasts, as complex at heart may be, know their limits. The fire does not delay, busy yelling, haunting, all whom dare step close.

The ice that cools, freezes, isolates the isolated, mirrors my friend the fire. Conformity and teamwork relax the tiny pores allowing time to not but apply. Is just a game, a hobby—a nervous-less passerby can advise both parties, knows the relationship. Such person does not exist, not in this story, for it is too high of a deed. The distance, you ask, between the parties keeps the two from combusting. Unity would be devastating for only a fire can hold flames—only ice can bear cold.

Embracement and embarrassment would flood, intrude only the innocent at heart. Devastation would follow with madness for all. Children would be tarnished and adults speechless, only burnt—only frozen.

The fire was chosen, was meant to be—for reasons remain undeclared. Some creature lit the match that snowballed its way to this patch of countryside. Separation of Church and Blaze allows the responsibility, the entertainment, to sit on a pile o’ log. Here it stands in amusement, in apathy. They watch, along with the trees and grass, streams and lakes to the oh-so interesting turnout—oh-so interesting burnout. Fires must be fires, as long as Ice remains ice. [crackling, hiss, pop]