Cue dramatic lights and music!
The results are in for the first round of the Competition!
For added result, I shall reverse the order of merit! Interesting eh?
Honourable Mention
Strop's work certainly deserves some form of mention and credit here!
As a child, he found himself unable to explain the source of his fear, why even a lit candle caused him to shrink back, lest he might brush against the flame and burn himself, or, in his vividly puerile imagination, be consumed in a conflagaration and be reduced to a pile of ashes. Worse yet, he was driven to distraction by the worry that the flame, dancing about on the wick by means completely unfathomable to him, might entice him to reach out and grasp it. This compulsion, too, was beyond his comprehension, but nonetheless it drove him as far as refusing to blow out the increasingly numerous candles on his birthday cakes, much to the confusion of his parents
The stories that children and teens liked to spread and speculate upon did nothing to alleviate Jake's torment. Arguments about spontaeneous combustion had Jake break out in cold sweats, an absurd reaction, he knew it to be judging by the laughter and guffaws of his classmates. But reasonable or not, he couldn't help but wonder whether he, too, might one day burst into flames, even without the aid of the demonic candle that haunted him still. He thought it might be ironic, even fitting if the catastrophe were to be willed into existence by his frantic preoccupation, which in turn had him sweating yet more profusely until he felt soaked to the soles of his Doc Martens. Perhaps that much might be barely sufficient to protect him from the imminent danger, and that, he reasoned, was the reason he survived his school years.
Years passed and Jake grew to be a resourceful young man. He had grown tired of this irrational- yes, that was definitely what it was- fear of his and with a newfound resolution set out to banish this phobia, for, as reason would have it, surely the heights of reason would triumph over this baser reaction of his. He pored over books, spent hours online downloading images and videos (once again much to the confusion of his parents, who had expected a rather different development), and in so doing he felt that at least he might be able to wrestle with the demon that held him captive his whole life long. Squaring his shoulders, he sat himself down infront of the stone fireplace in the family house, hands trembling as he stacked the wood and rolled the paper, heart pounding as he knelt, holding the matches and gazing upon the shrine, or perhaps the effigy, that he had built. He did not know how long it was, but surely it was hours, if not days before he finally flicked his wrist, and as if already burnt, tossed the lit match into the fireplace. It took every ounce of his willpower not to run away, but he watched, both hypnotised and petrified as the paper curled and blackened and the flames spread, licking at the kindling until the kindling caught fire, causing Jake to twitch every time the wood cracked and popped, the embers fluttering away and dying on the carpet. Jake saw that he was facing a beast- tamed but barely so, beating at the stone walls, leaving them scorched, searching for the way out and bellowing its protest as it found itself trapped, doomed to rage upon itself until it would dwindle and die.
When the fire was finally extinguished, Jake reached in and sifted through the ashes, turning the fragments of charred wood in his hand. They felt cold and brittle, which disturbed him. He thought that he might have finally conquered his fear yet there was something missing, something he could not figure out. Or, perhaps more appropriately, something he did not want to figure out, for he suspected he knew exactly what he must do, yet surely it was the most terrifying thing of all.
Against his better judgement, Jake found himself working that Summer as a volunteer firefighter in the middle of the dry Australian scrub.
As his seniors were fond of saying, it was a "right scorcher", and as fires went, Australian bushland was notorious for them, for their sheer destructiveness, the way the summer winds and heat would blow them across the land faster than any human could travel across the land.
"Didya know at least eighty percent of these fires are lit by humans?" drawled his supervisor as they sat at the table in the sweltering shed. From his extensive research, Jake actually did. He knew further that while many of those were left by careless campers, the majority were deliberately lit. Arsonists- Jake could not even begin to understand the madness behind it all, but perhaps madder still was the casual way in which his coworkers discussed it, even joked about it. Was this what they meant by the stoic Australian spirit? Or was sardonic a better word? Or perhaps just plain insane?
There was no more time to think about it, for Jake's ears were torn asunder by the screeching of the alarm. "Here we go again!" grunted his supervisor as he lugged himself into the red truck. Mindlessly, Jake followed, numbly gripping the strap of the seatbelt as the truck roared out of the shed, siren blaring. It was all he could do not to collapse in the face of this unrelenting chaos, so he just let himself be swept along, not heeding the chatter of the other passengers or the static of the CB radio.
Suddenly, the inferno was upon them. The truck screeched to a halt and Jake stumbled out. It took him a while to realise he had his hands over his ears, for the cacophony of earlier was blown away into nothing by what he could only call the heralding of doom. All around him, the scene was transformed into flickering red and yellow and heavy, oppressive black, and unbearable heat.
"We're in too deep, we'll have to fight our way out!" How could it be possible, that humans would willingly throw themselves against the flaming claws of Satan himself? Hell closed around Jake, suffocating and paralysing him, ready to crush him into dust. Blurry yellow figures rushed about with hoses, waving about puny streams swept aside with a disdainful, crackling laughter. Jake simply stared, the flames dancing in his eyes, his thoughts following their erratic choreography. He should have known- he knew everything there was to know about fire. He knew the the importance of flash points, the way fires spread, he knew its ecological context, the cycles and even the chemistry of fire. But all that was as ashes in the wind, in the face of what he faced now. None of that knowledge could ever capture the feeling of powerlessness, of insignificance, of the moment Jake realised the nature of his impermanence, whether or not he lived through this trial.
Paradoxically, Jake smiled.
In the depths of his fear, he had found beauty.
A bold attempt at creating a story centering around a phobia of fire and trying to solve it. The words used were exquisitely beautiful, giving life to this story.
However I felt the plot was a little jumpy and bumpy at places. For example, the protagonist suddenly had his irrational life-long fear cured after burning a fire in his hearth. It was a little unbelievable at places, but altogether a nice job!
Third Placing
Second runners up...goes to.....Pixie!
I am the god of hell and fire... ok you know the rest. The start, my overture is important though some people may see it as an excuse but my psychiatrist doesn't seem to think so. My mother was a single parent and I and only child. My father had left us when I was young and I resent him; so much I feel it burning in the pit of my stomach. Anyway, enough about "him", 5 years ago on the 21st March, Mothering Sunday, I woke up especially early to make my mother some breakfast. She always used to make my cereal and then we would sit and eat together and she would eat her toast. I had watched her make the toast and knew what to do; I got out the bread and the toaster and the jam. I thought I knew what do to. As it turns out didn't and the toast, somehow, got stuck. Plumes of smoke shoe up into the sky and I panicked. I'm not entirely sure what happened next but flames started to lick up from toaster, then from the cabinet and then from the floor to ceiling. There were two ways to go: one, out the door and to safety. Someone would surely help. Or two, through the flames and try and save her. I panicked, I fled and sobbed into my shirt arms wrapped round my legs. All I really remember know are the screams. I heard here shouting and wailing for her life and all I did was cover my ears.
And that, that is what changed me or so they say. Dr. Walters my psychiatrist, the bane of my life. I sit and talk to him thinking of the logical answer, the right one, all the time hating and resenting him. You see my problem isn't my mothers death or the haunting nightmares. He doesn't care what happens to me, I know that he won't admit it but I know, all he cares about is the other stupid people out there. My compulsion as he calls it is fire, to start it, to nourish and care for it. To make it spread. Now ol' Walters over there he thinks it's wrong "eople have died" he says but what does that matter they certainly don't. But the flames do they have a hold of me. When I set fire to little, old Miss Johnsons house they spoke. I head it. She leaves all the doors unlocked, how trusting, all I did was light a small fire and, well, it grew. I ran but came back to the house. Not to help just to stand in the amassed crowd and watch. That�s when I heard them, those brilliant dancing flames. They thanked me and said well done and told me to do it again. Again, more and more that is what they commanded and that is exactly what I will do.
The plan. My plan, "their" plan my world gets mixed up in merged with what the fire thinks sometimes is bigger than usual. So far the few fires I have created targeted small numbers of people. I mean I'm not a monster only a few people have died 7, maybe 10 at the most. I don't know I'm not a psychopath, though I'm sure Mr. Walters would disagree. But the this plan is huge. The houses in the next town over are old, wooden (the perfect food and nourishment for my flames) and all terraced lined up like little matchboxes. A fire in one would quickly spread to he other. Lithium salts do the most beautiful things to flames. They make them go the brightest red you could imagine. As a special trick a bit of flair during the night I will spread some of the salts about and the flames will dance on them.
Tonight is the night, I've cycled down tot he terraces I have "treated" and all I need is an opportunity. The fire has warned me to be careful, that more people mean more danger. It said I should "take care of them all before hand; but not too kill them because it wanted that pleasure". It was easy all I had to do was acquire the necessary tools. I had to decide what how to do it... Chloroform was useful but dangerous I could kill them accidentally, holds and chokes to make them pass out were too strenuous, so I settled on ketamine it is easy to administer and to dose and takes no effort on my part. I snook into each house and each room sedating people as I found them. I felt like the worlds quietest mouse sneaking up behind people. The dropped, they all dropped instantly and silently onto the floor. I tucked them up nicely into bed and cleaned up; a few of them were drinking or eating when I got them. Then, almost regretfully, I had to spoil my own neat work. I splashed petrol about each residence, then I ripped out the phones and barricaded them in their rooms. No escape. Finally at house number 17 I got out my matches. The swan smiled at me. I lit the whole box up and threw it. The flames shot up and so quickly the whole row was aflame, a shimmering sea of red sequins. It was beautiful just like they said it would. Then came the shouts. Not screams not like before it was the fire shouting at me with great cheers thanking me. But I was transfixed, I couldn't move yet alone run. And then they came...
I was put in prison for those deaths and basically any other unexplained or mysterious house fire in the local area. They had little or no proof they had no idea. Though I did do them and many others. I was there for so long they even let me work in the kitchens which made me laugh. But know I'm here, reformed and chatting every week to pathetic, WHINY, LIT... to Mr. Walters. And he helps. He says he helps me deal with my "ain" and "emotional state" he gives me advice and pills to take. But all he does really is to help me focus; to focus my mind and my hate. Yes he has blocked out a few of the voices but they're there silenced but still screaming like a bizarre mime. But I carry on telling Mr. Walters the right answers and they give me more freedom, trips and so forth but the more freedom I get the more freedom the voices get and I so want to listen and obey.
Indeed...chronic fetish and fear of fire. Wonderful touch and fantastic plot. Many personal reflections that showcase the mind of an arsonist from a painful experience in youth till a vehement distrust of psychiatrist. However, the language was a little bumpy and phrasing clumsy.
Second Place
Second place for this first round...goes to...Gantic!
It was dark and quiet on the street outside and there was nothing to guide the young man to the front door but the candlelight from the windows above him. He sorted through his keys and jabbed it through the keyhole. The lights did not work. A soft yellowy glow filled the hallway as if the streetlights took refuge in the kitchen. His father sat at the dining room table trying to read the newspaper by a flashlight hung from the ceiling lamp and the candlelight from the kitchen counter.
The man tossed his bag on his bed and went into his room. The digital clock on his desk read 6:44. The lights did not work. Neither did the power strip attached to his computer. He slumped himself on the sofa in the living room and grabbed the remote. The television did not respond. He pulled aside the curtains to the dark street. Flashlights wove about in the garage across the street. His car still worked. Forget the radio.
His father was reading the paper. The man took a nearby plastic bottle candle holder and held it up to the wall clock. 6:46. He sat across his father and picked up a section. It was Monday's paper. He glanced over the article titles and skimmed through the captions.
"When I was young, we didn't have electricity," his father said. "We didn't have candles, either."
The man stared at the steady flame across the room.
"We did everything by fire."
"When's the electricity coming back?" the man asked.
The man flicked the switch on the portable radio.
"Everyone would be in the same room. Lamp oil wasn't cheap."
The outage was caused by downed power lines.
"We didn't have a fireplace. If it was cold, we would stay near the kitchen stove after we ate until the heat left the stove. We didn't have gas. We burned straw to keep the fire going. You remember?"
Crews had been working on it since around 5:30.
"Is there anything to eat?"
"Don't try to turn on the stove."
They had a portable stove, but the young man did not want to heat up anything if power was going to be restored soon. He fumbled through the refrigerator and removed some ham and lettuce. There was only one loaf of sourdough. He cut the sandwich in half and gave a plate to his father.
"Most of the time we only ate plain rice cooked on the stove."
Some power has been restored to parts of the city.
"Sometimes we would have a fish or vegetables."
The weather is hindering further work.
His father placed the sandwich half in front of him.
"You eat it. I'm not hungry."
His father looked much older than he remembered and he only saw him yesterday or perhaps the day before. Gray hairs started showing and firmness was missing from his cheeks. His face looked sallow in the dimming light. A candle had died out.
"Here, relight it." His father handed him a lighter.
A fluorescent lamp flickered down the hallway.
"You forgot to flip the switch off,� his father said.
The son picked up the plate and walked off to his room. 6:55
For his wonderful, mind-penetrating take on a generation gap, and a son-father relationship, with the main theme of 'My past was his future', using nothing more than a common incident of a blackout.
Reminded me of E.B White's 'One More to the White Lake', it was certainly soul-searching. Short and succint, it was sweet, however, it was a little too short to bring out it's full potential.
Grand Prize
Drull Rolls please. The winner of the First Round is....Jezz!
Atop the mountain of cracked rock and sun-bleached grass lives I, Saskya. My fingertips possess a power that I unleash upon the villages before me.
They pulse and sear as they send ash showering down the mountain. This hill is alive and it breathes inside me. Waves of red and gold come streaming down its face and I stand amidst this wonderous sight in awe. The magma blisters flesh and blackens bone but it dares not harm me. I sway back and forth as the flames dance around the doors of village huts. I rejoice as the flames lick at the windows and the faces of villagers huddled inside turn to horror and crumble. The entire ground bubbles and simmers with outrage but I press the fire onwards.
Then once I feel too weary to cause such chaos I call it back. It weaves its way up the mountain and rests by my feet as a contented cat would to an old lady.
I have been doing this for many years and it causes me such a pleasure I had never known before. My companion is fire; I am never alone. It cares for me as it knows what I want and it asks for nothing in return. Those village people do nothing for me except cower in fear. I do not need to spare them anything but the joy of feeling how I feel. When a hut is burning white hot and no amount of water can put it out I feel such euphoria and my spirit lifts.
But what is this?
A figure struggling up the mountain. His hands grab hold of the blistering fround and drag his heaving body up. His feet slip on the hard surface and he wipes his brow. He pulls himself up over a tricky over-hanging rock.
And he trips.
But I am by his side with arms outstretched, lest he should trip again. With my aid he makes it to my dwelling and sits a while on a patch of yellow grass, chest heaving. When he regains speech he croaks for water and I regrettably have none. I shun my fire aside and sit opposite him. He begins to tell me a story. A story of his village. A story of the rumour that has come about and the bet that has been placed.
Legend has it that there is a fire maiden living high atop this mountain who unleashes a hellish fire on anyone who dares trespass. Brave men have been challenged to climb this mountain and seek out the fire maiden to put an end to her and her fiery fiend.
This young man has come forth to stop me but now he is here he does not want to do the deed. I am externally grateful toward him for sparing me however I know in my heart that had he have tried to harm me he would be dead in an instant. He gathers up his gear and begins his trek back down the mountain.
Next morning I have my fire building up inside me and a rage burning so strong I send bursts of flame down the hill toward the next village in sight. This rage burns me up until my eyes are searing and I'm seeing red. The image of the man has been imprinted in my skull and I cannot think for lust. I play with fire until sunset and I let the weather cool.
Then I see a figure struggling up the mountain. I rush to his side and he tells me he just had to see me again. Flames lick at his heels but I bat them away and embrace him. We talk until sunrise then he bids me farewell and treks back down the mountain.
The next few weeks rush by and many villages breathe sighs of relief as each day the man visits me. We talk and dance and he sings me our song until sunrise and then he'll trek back down the mountain. All the while my flames grow angry and I must work extra hard to keep them at bay. After all, they only want to please me. I send them after more unsuspecting villages and more and more people perish. Sons and daughters begin to flee the area in fear of getting burnt to death. I am getting weary from this hard work.
One sunset my man visits me and I wrap him in my arms and we talk for hours. The flames beg me to send them down the mountain but I am too tired to work. I close my eyes and drift off while my man hums our song lightly. I awake to a roaring in my ears. I hear faint laughter mingled with a scream from a voice I recognise. My man is engulfed in flames. They lick at him and sear his skin and his eyes plead with me before they melt away. I cannot stop my flames from hurting my man so I turn away and hum our tune until the screaming stops.
My flames tell me they only want to please me. They know I need to work and feel the pleasure of letting them loose. I call my flames to stop and they finally come to rest at my feet. I turn back and gaze upon the sight of my man on the ground. A tear rolls down my face and I tell him i'm sorry. I run my fingers through his ashes and sparks sift and shimmer. I call them up and the ashes rise to form a hazy outline of my man. I send my fire down the mountain, set my man's soul free and dance with his ashes until sunrise.
One of the stories in a long time that kept me captivated till the last word! A 'Wow!' story. The plot was like a roller-coaster ride, winding here, spinning there. The word fire was used as a feature in many portions of the story. Fire as a weapon, fire as a faithful companion and friend, fiery emotions in a relationship.
The story was well crafted and phrased out, with much flowery description of action, objects, people, all adding to the detail!
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As promised, the winner gets a merit! And have theor story forever displayed on the blog.
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For everyone else who has submitted a story, but have not been mentioned, do not despair! All your stories were fabulous, leaving me a hard time to judge! I thoroughly enjoyed reading every single one of them! There are other rounds to compete in!
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Now, I will think up of a suitable theme for the second round and a dateline.
Thanks all! Wish you all a wonderful future experience in writing!
