He whispers, Stay.
I give a languid smile and leave my cigarette to burn on the nightstand next to his grandmother’s old lamp. I adjust my wig and slip on my red heels. The door closes behind me, as smoke curls around the bed.
I won’t be seeing him again.
Karin Osterberg grew up on the prairie where she transformed dreary winter landscapes into faraway lands. Now living in Oregon, with BAs in Biology and Chemistry, she analyzes chromosomes by day and creates worlds of fiction by night.
The fire raged in the downtown office block.
Flames danced angrily, a seething mass of hatred,
Ruthlessly punishing with every inch they consumed.
From a distance, he watched his handiwork.
The fire raged within him. Still.
White hot and all encompassing
Equally violent, fuelling the next part of his revenge.
From the North West of England, Jon works in local government, with a background in newspaper journalism. He is currently enjoying experimenting with short forms of writing, likes to think he can do so creatively, and quite often has to delete everything he has written and start again.
Sirens scream while lights, like fireworks of red and white, slice at twinkling skies. Engines slow, firemen race inside for the old couple.
Blanket-wrapped, on the street, they whisper: “Think they’ll figure it out?”
The Chief sadly reports: “The cause is under investigation.”
They nod, squeezing closer, bedroom sheets smoldering.
is an aviator, author, and speaker on ways risk and fear can work to our advantage to dream and explore. She is preparing for suborbital space flight.
I ran away from home.
My folks came after me. They found me. They brought me back.
I ran away from home again.
My folks came right after me. I hid. They still found me. They brought me back again.
The next time, I burnt the house down first.
Joe Malone is living with a Wora woman and her three sisters in South Sudan. Read more of his writing at joem18b.wordpress.com.
“No, sir,” said she, sincere as can be, “I never did ignite this fire!”
“Listen well, girl,” answered Inspector Earl, “I half suspect you are a liar!”
“Suspicions of arson?” inquired the parson, obsequious, timid, subdued.
“Indeed,” replied Earl, “though, no, not the girl… The arsonist, sir; it was you!”
This poem was based on the prompt “this fire” at TypeTrigger.
Jim called Sally and said he just wanted to be friends. He told her there was no spark in their relationship.
Sally showed up at Jim’s house later that night. She figured that Jim needed more than just a spark. She lit a match and set his home on fire.
John has interests that range from guitars to the Incredible Hulk. He was born and raised in St. Louis, Missouri and still lives there to this day. You can hear him on the weekly podcast at www.comicbookshowdown.com.