I Fear The Fire

A flash fiction story with a twist

“Fear.” Image created by author with Midjourney AI, all rights reserved.

I fear the fire.

I fear the way it licks the air, roaring its hunger.

I’m afraid it will bite my hands if I try to light it, the heat from birthday candles searing holes in my skin.

I come from a land of wildfire, you see, where flames storm down mountains and devour whatever trees or barns or houses lie in their path. Maybe I was born to be afraid. Or maybe the land taught me.

I worry that the firefighters will not get here in time, or if they do, they will overlook my house in favor of others, just as people overlook me for those who are louder, more sociable, less lonely. Then the flames will engulf my house, feasting on my memories and belching out the remains in a cloud of ash.

I fear the fire.

And yet… I fear that the fire within me is dead.

The torch that once blazed bright inside my breast, the flame of youth and hope and glory, is tiny now, an ember so small that sometimes I forget it’s there at all.

I worry that this ember will grow cold, never spreading light into my limbs, my heart, my face, my smile.

Maybe the fire I wanted to light in the world will never roar, and I will sit here, lonely and bitter and clothed in my fear of the future — for what future is there for me, clenched up and afraid? My fear will drive others away to find those who still dance around the soaring flames.

I fear the fire. And yet, the fire is life. And I will not be afraid.

“The torch.” Image created by author with Midjourney AI, all rights reserved.

Thanks for reading! If you liked this piece, you might love my poems Zen In The Tea House:

Zen In The Tea House

and Panic in Paris:

Panic Attack In Paris

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