Wednesday, December 06, 2006

Nanowrimo #6

The fire roared when the man finally got it started. Starting fires was no longer an everyday activity for the two of them. At some point two hundred years ago people began to forget how to do things like starting fires. We learned new things like how to light gas stoves and cigarettes, but something more basic was lost in the shuffle. The Man remembered when he went with his father on trips to the mountains. He thought that remembered that you start little pieces of cotton and get slowly bigger, until the flame could lick its way around the trunks of trees and rise into the night sky filled with crickets and stars and the lake lapping the shore. He didn’t have any cottonballs, but he managed with a pack of matches and some twigs. This fire was captive, inside the stone fireplace, and considerably smaller than the ones that he remembered laboring over with his father, but after an hour he reared it to a point where the two of them could relax and sit back in the simple, luxurious armchairs in the sitting room.

Neither of them spoke a word as they sat in the armchairs, both believing the other to be deep in thought regarding their faltering love. What they were both really thinking about, however, was the snow bunny that they saw dash away hours earlier, into the forest where the animals lived secret lives away from the eyes of all of us.

1 Comments:

Blogger Tom Bailey said...

A 74 year old cursing, blogging accountant, that isnt something you read everyday. Great blog.

5:18 PM  

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