A flash fiction story from this semesterās creative writing class
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Prompt: A character sets something on fire. The time the fire burns for determines the length of the story.
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Robin flicked her cigarette ashes onto the pile of kindling in front of her, and the white-hot sparks soon erupted into full flames. The fire danced in her vision. She was entranced, unable to look away. Slowly, she kneeled down.
She was now at the fireās height. The flames jumped and dived, spun in circles, grew and shrank. She could have sworn for a minute that the fire mightāve blown her a kiss. For just a moment, she felt like a performance was being put on, just for her.
Robin could hear yelling from behind her. Her mother asked if anybody else could smell smoke. She didnāt understand why her mother sounded so concerned, the fire was contained. Sheād dug a hole and surrounded it with rocksā she wasnāt an idiot. She tuned the voices out, focused entirely on the melody of the heat in front of her.
Robin shifted from her knees to her backside, sitting fully in the dirt. Now the fire loomed over her, tall and foreboding. She peered up at the growing flames like a small child, and the flames seemed to stand taller. Robin tossed a handful of green grass into the flames and watched the smoke turn darker from the moisture. The light from the flames made her brown hair shine, and she seemed to glow.
Behind her, she heard the back door of her house swing open. Heavy booted footsteps made their way through the dirt over to Robin and her very own personal performance. She glanced behind her, then looked back at the fire, and the fire waved goodbye.
Robin waved back. Then, she reached out her hand. Towards the heat, the light, the special dancer in front of her.
Then a bowl full of water was splashed over the fire, leaving Robin alone, with just her father in front of her holding an empty bowl.
