>My first post! It's rather long... but it's a short story, so I didn't want to chop it in half. So read and review! Be as blunt as 500 year old axe! Yay!<
The fire circled warily like a feral animal. It flickered forward, as if to test its footing, and then crackled on, menacingly, like a wolf stalking its prey. It crawled slowly across the wooden floor, warping and blackening the boards, gulping them down like a seal ingests fish. It moved deliberately, mockingly, destruction in its path. A lion playing with its food.
Meredith knew she was going to die. She could feel her lungs gyrating against her heart, heaving for air. She could feel her eyes drying, though they frantically tried to water themselves. Already small burns decorated her body. They throbbed, pounding to some greater rhythm, melding with the hot stuffy haze that surrounded her, slowly becoming one final last laceration. She was already half-way gone. But she was okay with dying.
It was the journals that had made her turn back. She could have left her home and fled to safety. But she couldn’t leave her journals behind. They were her memories. Her life! If they died, she died. For what is a person without a past? She had leaped away from the open window, forgoing the safety it promised. She had returned to the lion’s den, dashing with all her might, throwing open the chest.
And now she was trapped, a small figure huddled on the floor in a corner, streaked with ash and soot. She cradled her diaries in her arms. She knew most people would call her stupid. Insane, suicidal, mad. But she didn’t care. All she had to do now was wait for judgment day. Which was approaching fast. The fire sizzled and screamed, a horrendous, decisive sound.
Since she didn’t have long left, she opened a journal at random and began reading. Ah. Her first kiss. Oh! And there: the summer she’d spent at the lake. If there had been enough moisture in her eyes, she would have been crying. How fitting, that she should die alone, with nothing but memories. She was a Viking, being cremated with symbols of her life.
Her journals had been with her all throughout her life. They had been there when her sister ceased, when Meredith dropped out of high school, when her mother died. When Harold had passed on. When he died, the diaries had become her best friends; keeping her company in her grief. Before they had been somewhat of a chore. Suddenly, they were a necessity. She would sit in her bathrobe, sobbing, smiling, giggling at the last remnants of Harold, her tender memories brought to life on the gently lined pages.
The heat of the fire seemed to increase, though Meredith knew that was hardly possible. It must be time then. Her flesh was burning from its very bone. She stood, still holding her precious diaries, waiting. The fire no longer popped and howled for blood; an eerie silence coated the blazing room. The lions den was now full of lions, preparing to pounce. Meredith choked. Her lungs were failing, her breaths rattling, gasping; strange guttural, loud noises in the absence of sound that settled around her like snowfall.
A beam crashed to the floor, shooting sparks that seemed to ignite the very air. She heard this distantly, though, as if she were underwater or entering a tunnel. She found she could not close her eyes, too dry they were, shriveled and itching in the smoke.
But then Meredith felt the breeze. She looked up. There, there in the burning roof, was a hole that had sprouted when the timber had fallen. The fire crinkled around the edges, eating away, hungry for more. Then Meredith saw the star. It glowed, glimmered, shone more fiercely than any star she had ever seen before. Its diamond light was brighter than the sun’s, it’s brightness made the surrounding dusk seem as dark as night, black as space.
But this was not the strange thing. Meredith glanced down at the journals in her arms, and then stared back up at the star. The odd thing was… the star was warm. She could feel it, its light beaming down upon her face. It was… tender, loving. It pulsed with a kind fury. The fire that was destroying her home was cold; it lived and killed, indifferent to its victims. It did not care whether she died; she was food for the lions, a snack, a statistic, something that did not matter.
But the star cared. Scenes flitted through her mind, memories that she had in fact not reflected upon for a long time: Her return to school. Her wedding. Her first child, her birthdays, her friends, her father; more and more came, rapidly filling her brain, swirling like the fire that was now licking her body, igniting her notebooks. The journals tumbled from her arms, aflame. She saw her first grade teacher, the kind man at the library, the roses in her garden… She gazed beseechingly at the star.
Give me more, she begged.
It flickered, she felt its gentle laughter. Make your own, it replied warmly.
But I can’t, she tried to cry, but her lips were dry, cracking, the blood evaporating straight off her skin. Her throat parched and thirsty felt like it was splintering. Her hair burned as the last of the journals at her feet were reduced to charcoal. They were gone.
Go child, whispered the star, get out. A puff of smoke then obliterated her view, and the star vanished, a tiny point in an evil black vastness.
Meredith began to walk. She walked straight through the lions, their bellows and screams distant and muted. She felt the tremors, the vibrations as more and more blazing timbers fell to the ground behind her. She walked a non-descript walk, neither fast or slow, harried or calm… she just walked. Walked down what used to be her hallway. Walked past what used to be Harold’s office. Her kitchen. There. That’s were her front door usually was. Now it was a bed of hot coals, spitting in fury and distaste.
She paused in her walk. Hesitated. But then an opening in the wall of flame appeared, and again, she felt a cool breeze. The star beckoned.
Come child.
She walked through the blaze, out of the lion’s den. The cool air swirled around her, a healing and calming mist. She walked down her driveway, past her crooked mailbox.
She heard the screams, the gasps of horror, from the crowd that had gathered:
“Oh my god, look at her skin!”
“Somebody get the paramedics over here!”
“Help!”
She felt their presence, their fluttering hands, wanting to help but too scared to touch; glimpsed their faces, pale and shocked, shadows cast on their features by the burning monstrosity behind her. She experienced all of this, in a detached sort of way.
She could feel the pain now, black spots blossoming in her vision, the agony of every muscle in her body. She retched, vomiting black spittle onto the asphalt. Her breathing was arrhythmic, tortured, she was still so close to death. Perhaps she had not escaped the lions after all.
She turned, slowly, joints creaking like a coffin opening, joints breaking from being so brittle and dry.
She watched as her home folded on itself, imploding with a giant boom and crashing of beams, crackling its way to non-existence, sparks flying like fireworks. A beautiful and deadly sight. And a heart-breaking one.
Meredith wondered vaguely if she would be reimbursed for the damage. She would have smiled if she had been able to. How ironic that she was dying and all could she could think about was whether or not the insurance would pay for her fallen house. Wasn’t it obvious that she was already gone? The black flowers in her mind were growing petals, threatening to overwhelm her. She collapsed, still facing her dead home, the pavement tearing at the charred, papery skin on her cheek.
Peace, child. She attempted to widen her eyes in surprise, but they weren’t cooperating. The star had returned to her. She felt its warm presence once more. Peace, it chided again. You wonder why you are worrying about insurance. Well, among other things, you are in extreme shock. It chuckled. Fires do tend to have that effect.
Meredith found its dry humor extremely reassuring. It, for some reason, reminded her of Harold.
Oh… Harold… She had left him! He was gone. Forever. It was as if he had died again. Sorrow swallowed her, drowning her in sadness. If only she could die and join her journals in their fiery oblivion-
Shh, said the star tenderly. You know, I have a little secret to tell you. Do you want to know why you were able to walk out of that lion’s den?
Ah. So the star knew about her little metaphor.
It chuckled again. Yes, it replied. You were able to escape because you possess a beautiful thing. Something that almost all humans have.
It’s called hope.
Now, it continued, suddenly business-like, I believe you have a new beginning ahead of you. The warmth was fading. You won’t be seeing me, it remarked cheerfully. And then it was gone.
New beginning. The phrase echoed in her mind, bounced around in her brain until it was pushed aside by the inky-black petals whose stems had finally taken root. The blackness swelled and Meredith fell into darkness.
She woke in a white room, to a beeping noise. Something warm held her hand. She turned her head stiffly, wincing as her bandages tore at her wounds. It was the kind man from the library.
“Well,” he said, grinning tiredly. “I do believe you’ve had quite an adventure.”
She smiled. “I had a little help,” she croaked. Meredith thanked the star one last time and twisted more towards the man, so she could bask in the warm rays of tender heat that she could feel radiating from his heart.
The way you wrote it made it seem like it was a true experience you'd lived.
