Imagine what it must have been like for those bearded scholars, their togas flapping in the wind fanning the flames ever higher. Think of how much human learning was lost and never recovered. Perhaps one of those scrolls eaten by fire might have led to the early discovery of gravity. Or the invention of penicillin. How different human history, but for a single spark?

What knowledge was destroyed in the grubby little offices of a solicitor? Less important perhaps, but you don’t want to take the chance. Admit it, though, your heart wasn’t really in it. Especially after your visit to the old woman’s cottage. The scream didn’t even fade this time, just pulsed in syncopated counterpoint with the crackle and roar of the solicitor’s case files. You didn’t even stay to watch. Outside, the flames dancing behind the windows seemed dull and gray. You knew at once it wouldn’t catch. You don’t even know for sure the solicitor was involved. Did he know?

The schoolteacher knew. You can still see her, standing in her little cottage, her back arched, her face contorted in pain. She saw you; you know that, don’t you? She saw you peering in through the window, and she knew. And you knew that she knew. Then her eyes rolled up into her head and she dropped, falling in slow motion, head crashing down against the stone hearth.

That’s exactly how she went. A life extinguished. A snuffing out of all that past. All that knowledge and experience, all those long, long years, gone in an instant.

Consumed by fire.

POSTED BY thefirewatcher AT 6:08 AM

12 COMMENTS

Firebug69 said . . .

Bazzameat1 said . . .

That’s sick @Firebug69 I’ve only done rubbish bins

Jenna1975 said . . .

Is she dead then? How does the story end? I don’t get it

Gigiono@hella said . . .

This blog is boring af #getalife

1 Next

Tyler splashes cold water onto his face and rubs at his temples. He opens the door of the bathroom cabinet in search of help that isn’t there. Not so much as an aspirin. In the shower, he turns the water temperature down until it’s the colder side of lukewarm. The droplets of water evaporate against his overheated skin. He holds that position, face raised to the showerhead in supplication, cheeks radiating heat like the radioactive rods of a power station.

Oscar is gone. He can’t remember when exactly, just that he was here and now he’s not. He has an image of them dancing in slow time across the laminate flooring to some jazz tune. A favorite of Gerald’s, apparently. Why did that idea not seem creepy last night? There’s not much he can remember about the evening at all. Just the two of them dancing forlornly in the dark. And the fact that Oscar kept buying them drinks.