arson - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The flames that consumed demanded everything become ashes, the heat radiating outward as an anger, and the destruction a terrible joy. It was as if the fire was the reflection of the arsonist, of a broken child who wanted no more than to burn instead of face water. And in that black night, under more stars than the imagination could ever conjure, the emergency vehicle lights shone, a brilliant blue to meet the roaring of the red.
The flame has no culture, no pity, no mind, yet it consumes whatever it pleases. Its only criteria is if it can take it and reduce it to ash or something molten and foul, then it will. The flames burn hot, short and violent, with no care what will be left behind. So when I stare into this lit match it isn't fire I see, though the hot tear-drop dances yellow in the August breeze, I see you. I feel you. I recall how you torched my insides until they charred before disappearing with the money. My soul, my everything, was worth less to you than digits in a bank account that have no reality in the world. They are fiction and I am real; but you chose them anyway. So when this flickering spark drops to the gasoline on the ground I hope you know you earned it. More than that, you've paid for it in full.
It was as simple for Diana to make flame with the cigarette lighter as it was for her mother to cuss her out. Breaking her mind had been such a joy for the old hag who had been bullied her whole life too. Finally she'd had someone weaker to be her victim. Of course she never saw it that way, she was “helping” her daughter by calling her “fat” and “lazy.” She raised the roof every time Diana brought home more failing grades before lighting up her fags and playing her Bob Dylan so loud the walls vibrated. It was time to “take care” of all that. Some ash would be so much more manageable than the walls and everything in them. After taking care to spill the ethanol in a natural spill pattern she lit a piece of fabric and dropped it, running hard as her back became scorched by a wall of heat. Her hair was burning but she was out, she rolled in he dewy grass. Mother would be in bed, drunk. It wasn't at all hard to cry for the cops; she had, after all, lost a lot of hair.
Sam flips the lid of the old canister sending droplets of pungent kerosine onto his sun-beached jeans. He makes a mental note to make sure he puts them into the washing machine before he showers later on. He lets his eyes wonder the old place, in every corner is a memory and all of them bad. Taking out his iPod he turns on his playlist, the tunes that make him feel human again, at least until the last beat plays. Then like a terrible ballet dancer he twists, letting the pungent fluid soak into the fabrics of his childhood. Part of him wishes that this act would burn every memory from his mind, free him of their tyranny, but he knows that isn't likely. Every act of revenge he has ever taken left him, cold, cold and wanting more, bigger, less reversible... But, he wouldn't be cold tonight, tonight he would hide in the neighbours yard so that he could feel the heat of the flames and smell the destruction.
Leah let the fabric of the curtains slide through her newly ungloved hand, feeling the dirty velvet that had once been the most fabulous scarlet. She recalled the day her mother hung them there, her face like a bulldog, her usual sneering tone never leaving her voice. Mother always wanted what she wanted, did anyone else's opinion ever matter? The smallest of smiles played on her lips as she took out the hairspray, coating them thickly. The she lit the match, holding it to the material, watching the flame glows so red at the base and yellow at the tip. With a sudden scorch of heat she fell backward, landing in the dust, her limbs scrambling to take her away from the flame that already licked at the flaking ceiling.
Tommy wished he could burn his brain too, burn out the memories, the pain. All he could do was set fires, watch the consumption of material things, take was once solid at set it free into the air as dirty smoke. There was peace in watching the flames, they danced for him, only for him, in their seductive ways. When all was black and cold the spell broke, his feelings returned just as dark as before, and all that could drive them back was to find a new thing to torch.
Before Ian lit the match he could smell the smoke and see the destruction. It was that moment just before the burning began that he loved the best, the sweet feeling of intoxication, like getting close to a pretty girl. He felt heady, pupils dilating at the thought. He struck it, hearing the fizz of the head against the rough side of the box. Though he wasn't a spiritual man, this was the closest he ever came to his personal nirvana. Then he let it touch the petrol soaked rag, sticking out of the bottle, heavy and pungent. Right before he let go his smile sunk to a pleasurable grimace, allowing the feeling of power to settle in his core.
Some folk like perfume, for others it's home-cooking, Kevin just longed for the smell of burning. The flames, the smoke, set his mind to neutral gear, to calm and without that he festered, the urge to burn growing stronger until he caved in.
I see you baby flame, protected by my hand, illuminating the new wrinkles that have come with age. I feel your heat and see the yellow as fresh as any buttercup. I could be lighting a birthday candle, perhaps one on top of an over-frosted cupcake, but I'm not. I'm taking something precious and turning it into nothing but ashes and charr. I'm burning it down so it can't come back to haunt me.