I am feasting.

The kindle, twigs and sticks are my appetizer. The logs are my main course. Dessert lies forever out of reach.

Here they come, timber in hand: coming to feed me and my gluttonous disposition. My wispy limbs reach outward in longing: I hunger. I always hunger.

I let out a sigh as I receive a pine branch. They give it to me reverently; I am feared, respected; but I am also loved. Loved for my deceptive warmth, my devious embrace. Do they know what I would do if I had the chance? How much havoc I would gleefully sow in exchange for that brief joy, that brief ecstasy?

The pine tastes fresh, alive. Slightly moist. I siphon its life away: quickly at first, its sweet bark succumbing in an instant; and then slower as I meditatively envelop the wood's inner core, its lifeforce. I take the water and release it to the air. Table scraps.

I simultaneously eat and drink, taking oxygen from the atmosphere and savouring it like a fine wine. It is my accomplice: together we break down the toughest of foes. Together we are the most destructive machine ever devised. Together we are unstoppable. The black cloud we produce is a warning to anything living: You will die. We will consume you.

Here comes more. A man carries a log to my side and presents it to me. He is a good servant, but his fingers look delectable: if only I could reach a bit further, just a few more inches... but I cannot. I settle back and eye them. Someday.

It is the eternal irony: These animals depend on me for life, and yet I would destroy them in an instant. I am a raging bull; they must restrain and tame my fierce temper. They tease me with offerings, but will not allow me to grow, to mature, to reach my full potential.

I hate them for it.

One thrusts a stick out over me. My tongues lap up at the wood, tasting it: a marshmallow is stuck on the end, and its gooey consistency is a nice change from the normal pine. For a brief moment, I engulf the marshmallow completely, shriveling it into a charred lump of sugar. The stick is pulled away, and the human examines the end with what seems to be disappointment. Serves him right.

Revenge is the thing I do best. Who, after all, brought down the Library? Who dealt piercing blows to Rome and London? Who ravaged the White House? I did. We did.

There is a brief rustling in the circle; someone has retreated to bed. Two left.

They're talking about something; it's pointless drivel, no doubt. Yet my curiosity is piqued. "Know your enemy." -- "Knowledge is power." I cannot get close enough to hear. Those ashes have a bit of life left in them. Maybe I can reignite them.

A foot comes down, crushing my advance.

I notice dark clouds drifting over to cover the moon. I don't have much time; I redouble my efforts. A leaf. If I could get there I could use it as a springboard and move on to the grass.

A slight breeze and the leaf is out of sight.

Another human gets up and leaves. No more conversation, and the rain is coming. I have only one chance to do any damage.

As the last man gets up to leave, he braces his hand against the ground near one of my coals. I lash out at him with a spark. A sharp cry escapes his lips and he looks at me with contempt. Shaking his head, he stands up and walks into the distance as the rain begins to fall.

FIDDLESTICKS.