forest fire - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The forest that was once so alive now chills me. In this thirty degree heat I'm actually shaking. The trees that sheltered so many with their spreading canopy of green and provided so much are now lifeless sticks of charcoal, no more vibrant than the old lamp-posts in the city. The unfettered light illuminates the scorched ground and still that smell of burning lingers despite the rain. They couldn't beat us in court so they brought cheap petrol and a five cent matchbook. Who will stand in the way of their progress now? If I were to close my eyes I would still see the virescent mosaic above, I could feel the humid air and hear the sounds of the frogs. But I won't, I can't. This reality was cruel enough the first time when we stood mute before the flames, I don't think I could survive that again.
The fire will take what is alive and sacred to us and cast it as confetti into the sky, first glowing red before cooling to black. By the morrow we will stand on the ashes and pray for the spirits of our brother and sister spirits who dwelt in the trees, pray that they found a safe harbour.
A ghastly orange grin, tearing through the verdant woodland. Unfettered flames, devouring hungrily, licking and lapping at the coppice, twisting and swaying in a dance without rhythm. Blackened bodies, charred bones, unsettled souls, snatched before their time.
Months had passed, but the earth had not forgotten. Fire tainted the earth with grey, stripping the trees of the virescent beauty, leaving their gaunt, skeletal remains rooted to the barren soil. They seemed to reach out to the sky like pallid, gnarled hands, as if desperate to latch on to the realm, whole again.
Time had only festered the wound on the forest, and the ground was barren and dead.
The sun has been savage all season long, rising above the pleasant temperatures that are normal to an oven-like sear. The forest has been tinder try for weeks, every fallen piece of wood bleached and dehydrated, almost as good as scattered kerosene. Now the wildfires rage sending billows of black smoke into the sky and giving us a blood-sun. The firefighters work endlessly, the army has been called in, water is dumped from old bombers and all the rest of us can do is pray.
The forest will be gone by dawn leaving a jungle of charred stumps. Though the mourning will go on for some time, the yearning for that dappled shade and the noises of the creatures who dwelt there, what comes next will be strong grasses and the mammals that graze. This is the way of life, this is what happens when lightening strikes parched undergrowth.
The smell of smoke has us moving right away, no time for the belongings, family only. Our only chance is to out-run the flames and that'll be hard enough on the forest tracks. So once we're all in Harley guns the engine and we pull out faster than gangsters in a movie.
There is nothing for it but to head for the bunker. Soon the air will be too smoky to breathe and hot enough to scorch the skin. As we sit in the dark, air masks over our faces, we hear the flames as they devour all that we have built these past few years in the forest. Everything is wood, so everything is gone.
The fire burns like a temper, as if the leaping flames have a terrible anger toward the living world. It moves faster than a person can run though the deer stand a strong chance, moving swiftly as they do. The air smells and tastes like bonfire while the horizon glows orange beneath the smokey wind-dragged plume.