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Winter Fire

Snow is falling like ashes. I know they’re hot and cold. One leaves
black streaks on my cheeks, the other tears. Maybe the ashes were
falling with the snow, not enough water to put out the fire, just to
stir the embers. If you screamed I couldn’t hear you. It was all
fluffy drops in slow motion making the world sound proof. Talking
under water while the buildings burned in winter. You were shouting
something important. I couldn’t make out the words. All I saw were our
things losing their shape in the flames. The soft beat of wings, time
for the owls to take flight. The one in your study is struggling, I’m
sure, to free itself from the nails pounded through talons to a block
of 2 by 4. I always loved that owl, paralyzed in attack, its last
moment of greatness before death. I knew his magnificent feathers were
melting now. Someone turned up the volume. She’s still inside! You
scream. No I’m not. I’m in the snow and ash on our street, looking up
at existence through smoke and blaze. How did he use so few colors to
paint us? We are black, white and burning. Burning alive. The bodies
in Pompeii, we knew how they felt when the apocalypse hit, frozen.


About deadendemily

Emily lives in Austin, TX. She has a minor in chaos and a major in spray paint. She likes Vincent Price and ABBA. She enjoys being covered in fake blood and writing horror stories. Most of the time she just hopes that her cat is not plotting to murder her, her cat being a minion of Satan and all. They would never suspect the cat.

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