Saturday, October 27, 2012
The Man Who Was Fire; or, the Story of Averett Emberhart
Flames savagely licked up and down Averett’s large, imposing frame; he was the son of rage and fire and all he wanted to do, more than any other thing, was hug her. He wanted to embrace her, kiss her, dance with her, be with her, his unreachable goal—but all he could do was burn and uncomfortably laugh at his misfortune. He was a man who had become the very sin that consumed and raged in his insides, and he couldn’t hide it with fancy words reserved for fancy occasions, used to conceal the most troubling of secrets in the most polite of societies. His pain and anguish was visible to all as he lived on in a state few could understand, a state so misunderstood that others mocked and scorned out of a primal fear of the burning light and pure unpredictable emotion he produced.
His body betrayed his desire, unable to succumb to his wants, only regret and temptation. So instead he stood afar off, not daring to reach for the woman he wanted to adore until finally the rage and flames devoured him, leaving only gray ash floating in the breeze that came from the breath of his scorners, a breath that had previously fed him. The tiny bits of gray ash danced in circles round and round, fell on her with a soft kiss, and embraced her in a way she could not appreciate, because she had only seen the man who was fire as something to fear.