General

White powdered ash from the burning logs were crowded in the crevices of the auburn bricks. The thick wood pieces were crackling and popping as the bright flame slowly ate away at it and turned it to black ashes, as if a shadow had corrupted its lively essence. The dancing fire licked and spat at the curved ceiling of the hearth with its glowing, bright golden flame, and its red base shimmered across the wood like a dawn upon a summer morning. The hearth was inviting to those who opened the door and let in the snowy breeze, and like all things, when there is nothing more for the shadow to corrupt, the flame must die.

By zmori, September 20, 2013.
General

The hearth had lain in ruin for a decade. Thick dust lay over the rustic brickwork and made the once black ironwork grey. Strung from one side to the other were layers of cobweb, which were just as abandoned as their surroundings. In the grate was a semi-charcoaled log, black and grey with just the smallest bit on unburnt wood at one end. It was a sign of life, that once in this place had danced a fire and there had been people to build it, stoke it and hold their hands to it's blaze. But Sarah guessed that was long ago, years, not months.

By Angela Abraham (daisy), November 1, 2014.
General

The hearth was stone cold. Clearly, it hadn't been touched for years. Yet the remnants of its last fire still remained - white ash and dust, the charred remains of firewood. The bricks around the hearth were blackened from soot, filling the air with a smoky scent that wasn't altogether pleasant, but somehow still reminded me of wet days sitting by the fire, curled up in a chair with a book in hand and a warm drink by my side.

By ec1aire, February 22, 2016.