Breathing Flames

Something is calling me, a wolf howl, a drum beat , the scent of smoke on the wind. At night, spinning and spitting flames, we are more than what we are.

Ring around the moon, bright in my eye, thin wailing howl coming from my throat, ripped from there by the rushing wind scattering sparks around us.

A deep breath, hesitation. Pressing the bottle to my lips, mouth filling with the slick warmth of lamp oil. Not too much. Don’t swallow, don’t spit. Hold it in your mouth, like a pouch, a water jug. Don’t spit, wait for the torch.

I wonder if the dragon was scared the first time he breathed fire.

The air is tight in my lungs, ready to burst forth, wanting to push the liquid from my mouth. Hold the torch up, not too close.

Then release.

Fire blooms before my face, searing my lips with heat, roaring in the dark. Just as quickly it fades away, leaving me to wipe oil from my chin and spit out the last of it from my mouth. I will taste it all night, not just the lingering oil but the flames as well, flickering in my dreams until it startles me awake with the acrid scent of smoke in the dark.

Something is calling me, a wolf howl, a drum beat , the scent of smoke on the wind. At night, spinning and spitting flames, we are more than what we are.

Ring around the moon, bright in my eye, thin wailing howl coming from my throat, ripped from there by the rushing wind scattering sparks around us.

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