Lakeside Fire

The fire, piled high with driftwood torn from docks in a recent tornado, sent up tendrils to lick the sky. Sparks and bright orange curls of wood dusted the clouds which covered the sky in dull overcast sheet, stealing away all the stars, any hint of moon tucked away until the only lights are those that shine across the water, green lights at the end of docks, yellow squares of windows, and our fire, crackling  and roaring in the silence, bravely and proudly rearing against the blank vault of the sky. I sat before it, feet and hands glittering where they were smudged with mica filled sand, glimmering scales on my palm like a fish. The heat of the fire was intense, forcing us to sit back from it in a wide half circle. It was a witching type of night. We had drawn mystic patterns in the sand by light of the setting sun. In the dark we told stories, weaving our own magic in the gloom and the sparks, our faces bathed in shadows and flames.

As the fire burnt low, so did we, our stories became grim and intricate. I believe we all felt remorse when we put out the fire, sizzling and roaring in its death throes, send up billows of gray smoke. We walked back up to the house, glittering sand trailing from our feet.


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