Write nonfiction, fiction, or poetry, and share here. It might be a current story—this very summer. Or a first memory of a smoke/fire story, childhood fears manifest. Or futuristic. Let’s keep this open.
As we seat around a campfire, I marvel at its uncanny ability to pull words from people. Seat in a circle around a blazing fire long enough and you can’t, you can’t possibly resist the primordial urge to offer something to it — a story, a song, a confession. Unlike Gods, the fire isn’t picky: its flaming tongues will devour both your sorrows and your joys with the same eagerness.
I watch the fire burn and feel a lump in my throat — it’s a story asking to be told. I lay it at the fire’s feet for I’m not sure I can hold it.
___
I hug my father tightly, my head resting on his shoulder. No amount of our tears or water could be enough to save his studio which is made mainly of wood. My dad loves wood and woodcraft. I love it too. Even now.
As we are left to watch it all burn, I ‘m overcome with the primal awe of the fire’s benevolent violence. Because it didn’t mean to hurt me, did it? It isn’t picky: it’s flaming tongues will devour both the logs you offer it and the things you didn’t mean to be eaten. I lay my grief at the fires feet. “Can you devour it too?” I whisper. For I’m not sure I can hold it.
Sep 1, 2023·edited Sep 1, 2023Liked by Alison Acheson
I wrote this in the middle of the August you are talking about. Just after Lahaina and the fires in the interior of BC were flaring up. The formatting went weird when I posted.
Summer 2023 was not the contest we wanted to win, but we did.
Our prize was what the neighbors called Extreme Heat Covid and we got to lock down and stay inside from June 15 to today. There were too many reports of people dropping dead because they did not believe what Extreme Advisory meant and ventured outdoors anyway.
The summer days of longer light and no school were totally hijacked and held hostage by a force we could not negotiate with.
The weather reports tell us the high heat dome is not done with us and it won't be until September 15 when you can think you can step outside and breath without your brain signaling that your body was not built to convert air at 110 to something cooler and acceptable to your lungs.
We did not want to win The Hottest Summer and set records for consecutive worst nights and consecutive worst days, but we did.
As her daughter took the exit leading back toward Sandria Harbor, Gloria tried not to think about what she would find when they arrived. Would the chimney still be standing? What about the sugar maple in the front yard? She shook her head slightly, then closed her eyes and let herself be lead back to her home for one final goodbye.
When her daughter, Kara, had arrived two weeks before saying that she needed to evacuate, Gloria had known deep in her bones that this would be the end. The end of her time in Sandria Harbor. The end of her life alone in the little grey house she and Warren had purchased nearly six decades ago as newlyweds.
She had paused in the closet to run her hands over Warren’s shirts one last time before tucking his favorite silver tie into her suitcase. There simply wasn’t room in Kara’s little car for more. What would life be like, she wondered, without being surrounded by all these memories of her late husband, of the life they had shared together? Would she still be the same person she had always been? Could she even hope to be happy?
As the car turned onto what remained of her street, passing the burned-out shell of the little café on the corner, and then her neighbors’ charred houses, Gloria felt in her heart a whispering of assurance that she would in fact be okay. This was certainly the end of one chapter, a long and beautiful one. But it was also a new beginning.
As we seat around a campfire, I marvel at its uncanny ability to pull words from people. Seat in a circle around a blazing fire long enough and you can’t, you can’t possibly resist the primordial urge to offer something to it — a story, a song, a confession. Unlike Gods, the fire isn’t picky: its flaming tongues will devour both your sorrows and your joys with the same eagerness.
I watch the fire burn and feel a lump in my throat — it’s a story asking to be told. I lay it at the fire’s feet for I’m not sure I can hold it.
___
I hug my father tightly, my head resting on his shoulder. No amount of our tears or water could be enough to save his studio which is made mainly of wood. My dad loves wood and woodcraft. I love it too. Even now.
As we are left to watch it all burn, I ‘m overcome with the primal awe of the fire’s benevolent violence. Because it didn’t mean to hurt me, did it? It isn’t picky: it’s flaming tongues will devour both the logs you offer it and the things you didn’t mean to be eaten. I lay my grief at the fires feet. “Can you devour it too?” I whisper. For I’m not sure I can hold it.
I wrote this in the middle of the August you are talking about. Just after Lahaina and the fires in the interior of BC were flaring up. The formatting went weird when I posted.
End Times
The lights went out in the Barbie movie
and I panicked, as if Ken and the patriarchy
had conspired to keep us trapped in seats
H13 & 14, bought online for an extra buck.
My first thought was FIRE and I pushed
down the aisle, while some pre-teens started
a girl band in front of their captive audience.
I pictured trash compactor scenes and
stampedes. Barbie was in a cowgirl outfit
and crying. Anything could happen. Bat
man did not enter my thoughts, but
my friend recalled the shooter
at a screening of the Dark Knight Rises,
just as she clicked the bathroom door
shut. The dark hall with its emergency
lights. Peach-fuzz ushers apologizing.
Me and Columbine, the Polytechnique
Montreal. We were in a heat wave
and I'd just wanted a little relief.
Management said the power was out
all over Chilliwack and I hoped the
end times hadn't come. How would
I jet across the highway if the traffic
lights didn't work? Irrepressible
thoughts of death. Barbie, I followed
my friend back into the theatre
for her hot pink gummies. The little girls
still dancing, but starting to sweat.
Metaphorically Speaking
The cat lies glowing in the heat.
He’s real, not metaphor.
And he’s not calico,
or tuxedo, or tortie.
He’s just orange,
like the sun at dawn
when there’s something
in the air.
Summer 2023 was not the contest we wanted to win, but we did.
Our prize was what the neighbors called Extreme Heat Covid and we got to lock down and stay inside from June 15 to today. There were too many reports of people dropping dead because they did not believe what Extreme Advisory meant and ventured outdoors anyway.
The summer days of longer light and no school were totally hijacked and held hostage by a force we could not negotiate with.
The weather reports tell us the high heat dome is not done with us and it won't be until September 15 when you can think you can step outside and breath without your brain signaling that your body was not built to convert air at 110 to something cooler and acceptable to your lungs.
We did not want to win The Hottest Summer and set records for consecutive worst nights and consecutive worst days, but we did.
As her daughter took the exit leading back toward Sandria Harbor, Gloria tried not to think about what she would find when they arrived. Would the chimney still be standing? What about the sugar maple in the front yard? She shook her head slightly, then closed her eyes and let herself be lead back to her home for one final goodbye.
When her daughter, Kara, had arrived two weeks before saying that she needed to evacuate, Gloria had known deep in her bones that this would be the end. The end of her time in Sandria Harbor. The end of her life alone in the little grey house she and Warren had purchased nearly six decades ago as newlyweds.
She had paused in the closet to run her hands over Warren’s shirts one last time before tucking his favorite silver tie into her suitcase. There simply wasn’t room in Kara’s little car for more. What would life be like, she wondered, without being surrounded by all these memories of her late husband, of the life they had shared together? Would she still be the same person she had always been? Could she even hope to be happy?
As the car turned onto what remained of her street, passing the burned-out shell of the little café on the corner, and then her neighbors’ charred houses, Gloria felt in her heart a whispering of assurance that she would in fact be okay. This was certainly the end of one chapter, a long and beautiful one. But it was also a new beginning.
Ash doesn't rain;
It floats like motes of dust on a sunbeam.