fortysixninetyone

Fire Down the Hill

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Clear skies illuminated with the stars that shine bright
throughout the heavens. Wind moves the trees ‒they fan
each another‒ as it passes between the trees.

Clear skies illuminated with the stars that shine bright
throughout the heavens. Wind moves the trees ‒they fan
each another‒ as it passes between the trees.

Bright lights and howling screams pass by and converge on
a flaming home that falls apart and collapses into the night.

The voices can be heard, but nothing can be made out.

Beneath the trees a man squats watching, fixated upon the
fire and its violent invasion of the homes around it.

Flame collapses from the ceiling—liquid descending
onto the white hard floor. The brightness spreads across
flowered wall-paper and burgundy paint‒sofa bordering
walls catching cotton ablaze. Frightened eyes watch locked
on to approaching death and beg against it. A man’s hand
ignites torn-cloth in a glass bottle. A woman pleads for
reason. “They can’t take this shit now!” Destroyed dreams
and alky blood fuel a deadly rage. A collapsing roof takes
life with it and leaves behind obsidian flaked wood. Insects
shrivel in pain—convulsing. A front door opens for escape
and backward knees break across crisp carpet and squeezes
through the shutting door. Outside the house: bright like a
jack-o-lantern on Halloween night. Ruined lives. “Carl you
didn’t have to.” A candle on a lawn. Neighbors watch as a
possessed man enters his car raving about the world and the
consuming evil. “They made me do this.” The man’s
speech is no longer audible. Fire like phosphorous. By
dawn the corpse is ashen with charcoal like wood. A
woman sits wailing into her arms, her eyes look to be as
two hollow holes.

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