Hey there! This was written for a school assignment. It was supposed to be a descriptive writing personal narrative thing. Tell me how you like it!
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Burning bushes are not only reserved for mountain tops and divine conversation.
The desire to see the verdure in flames must have been irresistible in my five year old mind. A flaming branches, plumes of smoke, ashes-ashes-they-all-fall-down style bonfire. There was beauty in destruction, I knew. The bank of bushes on the side of our house – green and lush, with leaves that were coated in a fine powder that came off in your hand like baking flour – called to me. They called to be incinerated. Sacrifices for the leaf gods. It was only right to give them what they wanted. I wasn't selfish as a kid, after all.
Besides, who doesn't want a little fire in their life?
And the tiny white flowers that cropped up every spring liked it hot.
So I carried the red gasoline can to the shrubbery with care, weighed down heavily on one side. Actually, the can needed to be hefted more than carried. Every few steps I would need swing it forward with all my strength in order to move it anywhere. Swing, step, swing, step. I could feel power sloshing around in there. The power to give and take, to burn or not to burn. That was the question, after all.
Oh yeah, Hamlet had it all figured out.
Grinning wildly, I reached the bushes and uncapped the can. The overpowering, stifling stench of gasoline punched me in the nose and gave me a lightheaded feeling. As if I was ten feet tall. Unconquerable. The pyromaniac inside of me surged at the smell. Crude oil is good stuff, you know. The engine's drink of choice, my weapon of choice.
I poured the gas onto the shrubs equally. The oily liquid came out in bursts, sloshing in, sloshing out. It was a deep yellow – urine colored – and tickled my nose. I could almost taste the smell. And the plants seemed to drink it up, like floral connoisseurs sipping champagne. Soon, the gas can was half-empty. Good enough, I thought. I heaved the can up and sat it on the grass, wiping sweat off of my forehead.
A lighter. I needed a lighter now.
On the barbecue, by the charcoal briquettes.
I made my way to the barbecue, snatched the lighter, and hurried back, careful to avoid any signs of mom and dad. They would know soon enough. The bush would be gone, the house would be singed, and I would have my satisfaction. I flicked the lighter a few times, sparks erupting like miniature fireworks displays, before a flame appeared, dancing, swaying. Slowly, I brought the lighter towards the dripping bushes and bit my lip, imagining a glorious five-alarm.
Keep the home fires burning, baby.
“Danielle!”
I nearly dropped the lighter as I whipped around, startled. My dad stood on the front lawn in disbelief, his eyes darting from the gas can to the lighter to the bushes, his mouth hanging open in a giant 'O'.
“Danielle!” he repeated. “What do you think you're doing!?”
The shock was mutating into anger. “That's gasoline. And that's a lighter! Get away from those bushes. Get the hell away from those bushes!”
“But Daddy – ” the lighter had long since gone out. My dad moved across the lawn – face contorted violently – faster than I'd ever seen him move before. He wrenched me up, lifting me several inches off of the ground, nearly dislocating my arm.
“You poured gasoline on the bush! You just killed that bush. Don't you have any common sense?”
“Dad -- Daddy, I'm sorry!”
He flipped me around, spun me on the spot and brought his hand down on my five year old bottom. Hard. The spanking seemed to squeeze tears out of me, like a juicer pureeing a lemon. The pain rippled up my spine and flashed behind my eyes in an explosion of light.
“Get in the house! In your room. Now!” he yelled.
Sobbing, regretting my bush flambe instantly, I ran up the steps to the front door, hurled myself inside and into my room. The vision of fire was gone. And the shrubs were still there. I cried for a long time and swore inwardly never to even think about arsony again.
Maybe burning bushes were earmarked only for heavenly communication.
To burn or not to burn?
Hamlet was an idiot.
