Jane could smell burning. It wasn’t the beef casserole she was slaving over, she was sure of it. A quick inspection of the kitchen showed no signs of burning foodstuffs. Paul had said something about lighting the fire. In a frenzy, Jane abandoned her kitchen utensils, sprinting to the living room as fast as the obstructing furniture would allow. Images of the cream carpet ablaze and streaks of fire assailing the walls entered her head. Even her daughter Emily, lulled to sleep by the strangling fumes, lying motionless, surrounded by flames.
Flying into the living room, with her hands holding her to the doorframe, Jane gasped.
The room wasn’t ablaze. It took a moment for the adrenaline to fade, for the panic to subside before Jane could instil a calming breath.
“Mummy?” Came the innocent voice of Emily. Little Emily, breathing, alive.
“I can smell burning; honey, are you alright?”
“Yes. It’s smelly though.”
“What is, darling?”
“Percy is.” Emily stated simply, pointing to the fire. Jane walked into the room, her eyes fixed on the fireplace.
“Emily!” Jane cried, throwing herself down onto the carpet.
“But he’s an ugly teddy!” She justified with her brutal, yet honest reasoning.
Ugly he might have been, but Percy is, was an old bear, Jane thought as she watched the teddy crumple under the weight of the flames. Not from her mother, nor her grandmother, but her great, great grandmother. That was three corpses that would be turning in their coffins tonight.
“Stefanie told me too. She didn’t want to catch his ugliness.” Emily said. Jane eyed the pink furred teddy huddled in her daughter’s lap. She couldn’t return her gaze to the fire. Percy was gone, after all those years. All those tempestuous nights with Percy snuggled beneath the bed sheets to keep the generations safe from the scary weather. Never again.
“Mummy?” Emily asked as Jane stared into space. “Don’t let dinner burn!”
Showing posts with label Fireside. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fireside. Show all posts
Friday, 4 May 2012
LATE ENTRY Fireside by Nick Trussler
The fire roared and cracked as the old man poked it absentmindedly. He coughed and spat a dark spittle of phlegm onto the hearth. He smoked too much. People said it was good for your health, cleared the lungs and body of ill humours but he had seen enough men coughing, being blinded by the smoke on a far distant battlefield, to know that it was nonsense. Still, out of habit, his hand reached his tobacco pouch. Empty. It had been empty for a long time now as had his belly. He poked the fire some more. Each stab into the crackling wood was replayed in his mind as some enemy now long dead, but who still returned nightly to haunt his dreams. He would not sleep tonight. It was not just the hunger keeping him awake. All the glory had gone, if indeed there had ever been any. And now he just sat here, a shell of who he used to be. He sighed. He could not even remember what he had looked like in his youth. He could not afford to be painted, like some gentleman. Not even a rough sketch of him was ever made. It was all vanity anyway.
The fires of hell would come for him, he knew, to punish him for all his wickedness in youth. He had laughed in the face of the evangelical then, but now he knew he was damned. He could face the devil fighting but what was the point? In a way he welcomed death. There was nothing for him here anymore. He poked the fire more vigorously now, each strike sending a wave of sparks that grew perilously close to catching his clothes on fire. He grinned and poked some more.
Later as the hours of night slowly drew back and let dark blue morning slowly reveal itself the fire had already spread to the lower part of the house. From a fluttering ember landing on a table cloth it had grown and roared into life as it ate the possessions of one person’s life.
Now the smoke choked the night air.
The old man lay in bed and did not open his eyes. Hell had come for him at last. As the smoke filled his lungs, he welcomed the pain. Breathing deeply, trying to hold the coughs that were now ravishing his chest he wore a sardonic grin. Let the devil come, he thought, let the devil come.
The fires of hell would come for him, he knew, to punish him for all his wickedness in youth. He had laughed in the face of the evangelical then, but now he knew he was damned. He could face the devil fighting but what was the point? In a way he welcomed death. There was nothing for him here anymore. He poked the fire more vigorously now, each strike sending a wave of sparks that grew perilously close to catching his clothes on fire. He grinned and poked some more.
Later as the hours of night slowly drew back and let dark blue morning slowly reveal itself the fire had already spread to the lower part of the house. From a fluttering ember landing on a table cloth it had grown and roared into life as it ate the possessions of one person’s life.
Now the smoke choked the night air.
The old man lay in bed and did not open his eyes. Hell had come for him at last. As the smoke filled his lungs, he welcomed the pain. Breathing deeply, trying to hold the coughs that were now ravishing his chest he wore a sardonic grin. Let the devil come, he thought, let the devil come.
LATE ENTRY Fireside by Ben Hayward
“See this oak here son, it stood in our village for a thousand years. It was here when William the Conq beat ol’ Harold. It was here during the Blitz. It was here when Ollie Crom taught that toff Charlie who's boss.”
Dad’s head sunk while he was trying to make the next statement. Carefully I liberated his hand of the block of wood, and placed it on the floor beside his chair, so as not to damage the well-finished flooring. I decided that it was best to leave him in his chair beside the fire to keep him warm. If I were to move him he wouldn’t get back to sleep. Not to mention the fact that he’d continue to rant about that blasted tree. I’d only taken a branch off.
Dad’s head sunk while he was trying to make the next statement. Carefully I liberated his hand of the block of wood, and placed it on the floor beside his chair, so as not to damage the well-finished flooring. I decided that it was best to leave him in his chair beside the fire to keep him warm. If I were to move him he wouldn’t get back to sleep. Not to mention the fact that he’d continue to rant about that blasted tree. I’d only taken a branch off.
I let the dog in to nestle against his leg. In the absence of electricity he proved to be a useful alarm system. I hope the power comes back soon so I don’t have to dismember the rest of that tree. I’ll never hear the end of it.
Thursday, 3 May 2012
Fireside by Sara Travis
The glow of the fire casts gloomy shadows around the room. Eerie creatures lurk in the corners, under the heavy oak desk, behind the thick drapes. I stand at the fireside and watch as the flames dance in my own private performance, I hear the crackle of the flames, the thud as a log slips, and step back as it spits its embers across the rug.
I sigh, the thick smoke heavy in my lungs, and fight the urge to cough and splutter. This is my penance; I must suffer still longer. The room is too hot, the smoke too intense. My collar is wet with sweat, this tie around my throat is too tight, this woollen blazer so heavy on my shoulders. I can’t bear it, the tie must come off, the jacket must be removed. My fingers, damp with perspiration, fumble with the knot, and the tie very nearly ends up in the flames. I am careless with the jacket, throwing it over the arm of the armchair behind me. I turn back to the fire, unbuttoning my collar, glad for some respite from the heat.
And then I see it – did it fall out of my jacket? Her black and white eyes still smile, despite the flames that lick at her face, her long hair is charring already, the corners of the picture curl round as her face is devoured by the blaze. The panic rises in my chest, a small yelp escapes my lips, and without thinking, I shove my hand into the flames.
I sigh, the thick smoke heavy in my lungs, and fight the urge to cough and splutter. This is my penance; I must suffer still longer. The room is too hot, the smoke too intense. My collar is wet with sweat, this tie around my throat is too tight, this woollen blazer so heavy on my shoulders. I can’t bear it, the tie must come off, the jacket must be removed. My fingers, damp with perspiration, fumble with the knot, and the tie very nearly ends up in the flames. I am careless with the jacket, throwing it over the arm of the armchair behind me. I turn back to the fire, unbuttoning my collar, glad for some respite from the heat.
And then I see it – did it fall out of my jacket? Her black and white eyes still smile, despite the flames that lick at her face, her long hair is charring already, the corners of the picture curl round as her face is devoured by the blaze. The panic rises in my chest, a small yelp escapes my lips, and without thinking, I shove my hand into the flames.
Fireside by Sam Smith
I didn’t live there anymore, so I burnt it down.
We moved in four years ago. Mum was the first to hate the house. She didn’t want to move. She said it was wrong to leave the place where I was growing up. I told her that it didn’t matter, but she was still worried.
It took five minutes driving on a muddy track through thick trees to reach the house from the road. There were no other houses along the track. Even the postman wouldn’t come to the house because it was too far out of the way. Dad doesn’t like to talk very much, so I think he wanted to be far away from everyone else.
The house was old and small. I said it was pretty, trying to convince Mum that it would be fine. She didn’t say anything. Neither did Dad. We got out of the car and carried all of our boxes and piled them in the kitchen. Every surface was made of a light wood, with lots of lines all over it.
For three years we lived in the house quietly. The loudest noise coming from the house was the creaking when it was very windy. Otherwise, it was silent. We disturbed nothing around us. It was like we weren’t there.
Dad went outside to smoke a cigarette. He sat on the windowsill in front of the house like he always did. When he came back inside, he brought a box into the room where Mum and I were sitting. He found it on the step leading up to the front door.
The box was never opened. It was as big as a shoe box, but made of dark, heavy wood. Dad put it in the corner of the kitchen, under the table.
The night that Dad found it, I crawled under the kitchen table to open the box, but it wasn’t there. When I looked in the morning, it was back. Dad sat at the table, one foot resting on the box.
Mum wanted to open the box, but Dad didn’t. He told her that it was not meant to be opened, it was meant to hold us together. I wasn’t sure what he meant and asked him about the box. He told me not to think about it. Every morning he would put the box under the table and every night he would take it somewhere.
Last night, I found another box. I heard a noise outside and opened the front door. The box was on the step, where Dad said he found the last one. I picked it up and took it up to my room. I opened it. There was a note inside. It read ‘There is no other box’. I didn’t believe the note. I hid the box under my bed.
When I went downstairs the next morning, Dad was sat at the kitchen table, his foot on the box. He turned and asked me who I was. Mum came downstairs and asked who I was. When I told them, they disagreed. Dad asked me to leave.
As I walked out of the house, there was another box on the step. I opened it. Inside was a match. I stood from behind a tree and watched as the house fell to the ground. Hot air rushed past me.
I didn’t live there anymore, so I burnt it down.
We moved in four years ago. Mum was the first to hate the house. She didn’t want to move. She said it was wrong to leave the place where I was growing up. I told her that it didn’t matter, but she was still worried.
It took five minutes driving on a muddy track through thick trees to reach the house from the road. There were no other houses along the track. Even the postman wouldn’t come to the house because it was too far out of the way. Dad doesn’t like to talk very much, so I think he wanted to be far away from everyone else.
The house was old and small. I said it was pretty, trying to convince Mum that it would be fine. She didn’t say anything. Neither did Dad. We got out of the car and carried all of our boxes and piled them in the kitchen. Every surface was made of a light wood, with lots of lines all over it.
For three years we lived in the house quietly. The loudest noise coming from the house was the creaking when it was very windy. Otherwise, it was silent. We disturbed nothing around us. It was like we weren’t there.
Dad went outside to smoke a cigarette. He sat on the windowsill in front of the house like he always did. When he came back inside, he brought a box into the room where Mum and I were sitting. He found it on the step leading up to the front door.
The box was never opened. It was as big as a shoe box, but made of dark, heavy wood. Dad put it in the corner of the kitchen, under the table.
The night that Dad found it, I crawled under the kitchen table to open the box, but it wasn’t there. When I looked in the morning, it was back. Dad sat at the table, one foot resting on the box.
Mum wanted to open the box, but Dad didn’t. He told her that it was not meant to be opened, it was meant to hold us together. I wasn’t sure what he meant and asked him about the box. He told me not to think about it. Every morning he would put the box under the table and every night he would take it somewhere.
Last night, I found another box. I heard a noise outside and opened the front door. The box was on the step, where Dad said he found the last one. I picked it up and took it up to my room. I opened it. There was a note inside. It read ‘There is no other box’. I didn’t believe the note. I hid the box under my bed.
When I went downstairs the next morning, Dad was sat at the kitchen table, his foot on the box. He turned and asked me who I was. Mum came downstairs and asked who I was. When I told them, they disagreed. Dad asked me to leave.
As I walked out of the house, there was another box on the step. I opened it. Inside was a match. I stood from behind a tree and watched as the house fell to the ground. Hot air rushed past me.
I didn’t live there anymore, so I burnt it down.
Fireside by Alison Wink
‘Come,’ he beckoned her, ‘Sit with me by the fireside. You are only wearing a thin dress. You must be freezing.’
She moved a little closer. She was shy, but she felt safe. He was a priest after all, a man of the cloth so his motives could only be good.
Fireside by Kim Warren
The fire was lit and a blanket had been placed by the fireside, with a picnic basket and two glasses of wine on top. Gentle, soothing music was floating through the house, the kids were at their aunts and the dog was locked in the back room. Everything was ready and waiting for her arrival. She would be leaving work soon and then the most romantic birthday of her life would begin. He had planned everything perfectly.
The door was closed and jammed with a chair so no one could disturb them. Moaning and heavy breathing was coming from within the manager’s office, were the contents of the desk was all over the floor and the wife of a loving husband was earning her promotion in the easiest way she could think of. She had never been one for hard work.
The door was closed and jammed with a chair so no one could disturb them. Moaning and heavy breathing was coming from within the manager’s office, were the contents of the desk was all over the floor and the wife of a loving husband was earning her promotion in the easiest way she could think of. She had never been one for hard work.
Fireside by Meg Burrows
Reduce, change, revolve and lift,
you the flames of tumbling wit,
do whisper me some stranger’s sighs,
all in secret, at firesides.
But swift and quick, the embers growl
a jealous heat does smother now
the beauty that lay in the smoke
that held the words, the flames you spoke.
you the flames of tumbling wit,
do whisper me some stranger’s sighs,
all in secret, at firesides.
But swift and quick, the embers growl
a jealous heat does smother now
the beauty that lay in the smoke
that held the words, the flames you spoke.
Fireside by Samuel Gore
Fire beats Ice
Ice beats Rock
Rock beats scissors
Scissors beats paper
Paper beats possibility
Possibility beats procrastination
Procrastination beats studying
Studying beats flash fiction.
Ice beats Rock
Rock beats scissors
Scissors beats paper
Paper beats possibility
Possibility beats procrastination
Procrastination beats studying
Studying beats flash fiction.
Fireside by Emily Chadwick
The fire had all but died.
The boy peered out from his tight cocoon, his eyes reflecting the waning red gleam of the cinders. A few lumps of wood still smouldered in the grate, faded jewels dusted with ash. Faint warmth still emanated from the embers, but the boy shivered and pulled his ragged blanket tighter around himself. It was a cold night, a cursed night, and the dying fire was not enough.
He wished he were brave enough to get up and stoke the fire, to feed the flames with fresh wood, but his mother had forbidden it. The winter was long, she said, and there was not enough fuel to keep a blaze burning all night long. They were lucky to have a fire at all, she said.
The boy didn’t understand. If there wasn’t enough fuel, why didn’t his father just cut down some more trees? Wood came from trees, didn’t it? He had mentioned it to his mother, but she’d just muttered something about money. Surely you didn’t need to pay the trees to use their wood, though? Grown-ups were very stupid sometimes.
Besides, everyone knew that monsters could only come out in the dark.
The boy hid his face as the wind whistled through the chimney. The windows rattled in their frames, as though something was scrabbling to get in. A low moan stirred the curtains. The boy whimpered and squeezed his eyes shut tight.
“I’m not here,” he whispered, as if saying the words would make them true. “It’s not dark yet.”
There came a tapping on the windowpane. The hairs stood up on the back of the boy’s neck. He could almost imagine long bony fingers unfastening the latch, even though his mother would tell him it was only the wind in the trees.
“I’m not here.”
The fire went out.
The boy peered out from his tight cocoon, his eyes reflecting the waning red gleam of the cinders. A few lumps of wood still smouldered in the grate, faded jewels dusted with ash. Faint warmth still emanated from the embers, but the boy shivered and pulled his ragged blanket tighter around himself. It was a cold night, a cursed night, and the dying fire was not enough.
He wished he were brave enough to get up and stoke the fire, to feed the flames with fresh wood, but his mother had forbidden it. The winter was long, she said, and there was not enough fuel to keep a blaze burning all night long. They were lucky to have a fire at all, she said.
The boy didn’t understand. If there wasn’t enough fuel, why didn’t his father just cut down some more trees? Wood came from trees, didn’t it? He had mentioned it to his mother, but she’d just muttered something about money. Surely you didn’t need to pay the trees to use their wood, though? Grown-ups were very stupid sometimes.
Besides, everyone knew that monsters could only come out in the dark.
The boy hid his face as the wind whistled through the chimney. The windows rattled in their frames, as though something was scrabbling to get in. A low moan stirred the curtains. The boy whimpered and squeezed his eyes shut tight.
“I’m not here,” he whispered, as if saying the words would make them true. “It’s not dark yet.”
There came a tapping on the windowpane. The hairs stood up on the back of the boy’s neck. He could almost imagine long bony fingers unfastening the latch, even though his mother would tell him it was only the wind in the trees.
“I’m not here.”
The fire went out.
Fireside by Lesley Whyte
Fireside, fireside, fireside.
The word catches in my mind. There's nothing else, it's empty. A blank. A blank, red wall behind which creativity lurks, waiting to be reached.
Fireside, fireside, fireside.
It's almost like a spell. The right words chanted in the right place at the right time, leading to...something. Cloaked figures gathered around a fire, their hoods drawn up to hide their faces, muffling their low voices.
Fireside, fireside, fireside.
A silver blade flashes across an outstretched palm. A bead of blood glistens then drops into the flames. They billow and twist and soar, more red now than they were before. The orange and yellow flames now deep red under the thick black smoke that curls into the sky.
The chanting stops.
Everything has changed.
The word catches in my mind. There's nothing else, it's empty. A blank. A blank, red wall behind which creativity lurks, waiting to be reached.
Fireside, fireside, fireside.
It's almost like a spell. The right words chanted in the right place at the right time, leading to...something. Cloaked figures gathered around a fire, their hoods drawn up to hide their faces, muffling their low voices.
Fireside, fireside, fireside.
A silver blade flashes across an outstretched palm. A bead of blood glistens then drops into the flames. They billow and twist and soar, more red now than they were before. The orange and yellow flames now deep red under the thick black smoke that curls into the sky.
The chanting stops.
Everything has changed.
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