bonfire - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The fire came to light up the night, to warm air that was more accustomed to the winter chill. It lit each face and they felt the heat go to their core. Then as the night became day, as the stars blended into the blue, they could choose to recall the warmth or only see cold ashes.
We are roasted from the front, frozen from behind - the bonfire cooking us gently and the November wind reminding us that winter isn't far away. There is something about the flame that renders us without smiles, yet content, the echoes of the hearth perhaps.
The white shafts of daylight have passed, gone are the shadows of evening. The dry tinder in the yard is lit and the flames rise boldly against the black sky. Before that great fire our skin glows red, orange and gold. Every eye reflects the flickering, each iris containing a small picture of the bonfire before us. Yet it isn't simply the sight that has us mesmerized, so too has the crackling and the woody fragrance of smoke.
A red, orange and yellow ball of rage roared upward eating its way through the wooden pyramid at its base. Plumes of grey were buffeted into the night sky, carried aimlessly by a chill November wind. Ashen debris glided silently away from the smoke onto the throng of excited children and talkative adults that all stood in awe of the great beast, their eyes transformed into orbs of light, each flickering orange flame playing a light show on their pupils.
"Bonfire," I guess that means "good-fire," as opposed to the bad sort that burns your house down. We build them as November draws near, not too soon or the critters bed down in them and get cooked as we throw on tin-foil wrapped potatoes. Always the weather is ghastly, always they are started with paraffin. The damp wood and leaves will all eventually burn, the moisture joining the dark smoke, twisting in air currents only feathers notice. I wonder what it is that draws us: the closeness to a primal force, destruction dressed up as a festival, maybe both. Either way I wouldn't miss it, hell, I even stacked my fair share of the wood.
The bonfire was as large as a house, the sparks flying well above the treetops. Its dark smoke was lost in the night, grey melting into black, dulling the shine of the stars. For miles downwind the villagers talked of the aroma of the burning and wondered if a forest fire would come their way.
The bonfire at number twelve was outrageous. The Pulcher family did their fires like their christmas trees - enormous to the point of ridiculousness. The adults lived in fear of the flames reaching our homes, the children were in awe of the flames - eyes glued to their window panes.
We watch bonfires here like your televisions in the city. They aren't so different. Flames move, "talk," and the burning wood shows a passage of time. I'd say our way is better, though. Here, we tell the stories and the laughter is ours - not canned. Sure, you'll smell of smoke come bedtime, but you'll leave with real memories - not "shows" you can barely recall five minutes later.
I watch the bonfire as if it can burn up my inner rage, as if my frustrations and anger are the fuel turns into black confetti. I feel the heat dry my skin, scorching, ordering a few steps backward, but I don't. I watch, eyes full open, posture square to the flames. Here I will stay until the glowing embers die, until the wind blows cold once more. Home is easier when the others sleep, faux solitude, no need for a mask of docility.