Short Essay Draft (Asleep in the Fire)

Most of the house is cold. My family is scattered through the first floor rooms - the children shrieking in one, my wife eating a lukewarm supper in another. She is silent so I am as well. We are just trying to get through the day, through the night, through whatever lies beyond. We clench our teeth as the shrieking pierces the air, then falls and winks out suddenly, leaving its mark on the silence like a fingerprint on a cold window. I wander into the living room, seeking warmth like an animal let loose in the snow.

The fire is speaking to me. Hisses most often - rising off the backs of the flames, a constant voice in the background. The layers of flame stretch arms around the tender edge of the wood, the sound doubling and tripling itself in slightly different keys. Sometimes, they rise in a whistle. Here and there, a brief shriek - a scream like a reflection of life in a tiny snatch of air - a spirit trying to make itself known before vanishing completely.

One by one, my family has drifted into the room. The lights are dim, the TV off. We watch the fire.

From deeper inside the flames, a chorus rolls out in soft, round punches of thunder. Here is the voice of the fuel, of the heat; the anchor for the thin spokes of orange and yellow that strike out at the black expanse of the chimney's throat. It is the sound of subtle insistence.

The image of the fire is one of constant motion - the velvet orange in a fit of restless dancing, the dense, malevolent center, the scattering of sparks like memories that flare and gutter.

The dead are scattered across the floor. Excised from the maelstrom, chunks of wood disintegrate with a papery, chalky sound, falling into sugar-cube-sized blocks of the color of bone.

The company of coals seems eternal - even inside the ash, tiny fireworms crawl and twist, carrying pinpoints of light from place to place. Beside them, cubes of red-tinged tangerine, flushed and pulsing hour upon hour - long after the bright strings of flame have disappeared.

Later, we will kick the fire apart, each piece to its separate space, each to its own bed of ashes. When the hour comes, I will find my own bed and dream of golden snakes of fire in and around my head and my heart, moving too quickly to be defined.