burning - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
All we could do was aim the hose at the base of the fire and pray. The smoke and the flames take the attention, but the solution is always right there at the ignition point. We were afraid of course, but we loved that old house. It was time to stop the burning, to save what was still standing, something solid to preserve and build from.
Outside, anxious Neighbours watch and witness flames licking the brickwork as the house is engulfed by the deadly fire.
The entire village burned in a sea of red, yellow and orange and the cries of the people echoed into the night. The young boy watched as the flames ripped their way through the buildings surrounding him, tendrils of smoke reaching desperately into the sky, as if trying to escape the blazing inferno below.
As I ambled across the street in a daze I observed glistening shards of glass cascading from the burning building as flames licked the charred window frames.
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.
The plastic recoils like it can feel the heat, wrinkling into a ruche around the burn. Ricky watches with motionless eyes and brings the flame in again. This time he holds it on until a black wisp of smoke curls upwards, eddying in the late fall air like the perfect strokes of an artist. In seconds a yellow flame consumes it entirely. He flies to open the window as the acridness of the fumes stings his eyes into motion and makes him cough. When he turns back it is simply black and fragile, its flexibility lost. Then his face cracks into a sly grin. Already his mind is searching his home and school for more things to burn. With one strike of his match they would never be the same again, it was a similar thrill to the one he had when he made his first maze in woodwork, but so very much easier.
The flame burns with colours I never thought it would. With each flare I know another of my possessions is alight. Even from all the way across the street its like a bonfire. I can almost imagine the kids throwing some potatoes on there in tin foil. But this is no celebration, this is the burning of all my celluloid memories, souvenirs of a life well spent and trinkets my father gave me from his long ago youth. How did it go up so fast without an accelerant? The wood is fast becoming ash and the vinyl siding is sliding down like chocolate in the summer heat. The smoke is being carried to the left by the wind, over the housing estate, raining down dirty ash like anti-snow. As the sirens become noticeable, wailing around the bypass, I imagine all the people I know rushing out to bring in the laundry. I watch like it's on TV, not my house, my home.
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.
The city burned in the distance, beautiful flames danced in the night sky and the stars looked alittle brighter. My eyes started to tear up because of the thick smoke.
There were two adults and two children, Selwyn remembered, all four were tied to a huge log in the middle of a mountain of firewood that the whole town collected. Selwyn could recall the family be engulfed by the swirling inferno to the tune of cheering and laughter. She did not want the same fate to befall a man she had rescued from the tides and certain death.