This entry for Burn is not personal.
Even now, many years and thousands of drinks later, she can still remember both her gap-toothed, eager eighth-grade self and the way that first sip burned when she drank that first glass of whatever brown liquor someone scavenged from their parents’ liquor cabinet. At first, it burned so much, she didn’t understand why adults drank, but not wanting to be a wimp, she boldly drained the glass until the burn felt like love and friendship. Sometimes, as she gets ready to face how that became her longest relationship, she wishes she’d had the courage to be a wimp.
A tale from Hubby
They called it Going Baked Potato.
As the wildfire surrounded them, cackling and roaring, cutting them off, they'd pull out the emergency blankets, bundle themselves up, bury themselves in the dirt, and pray. An invisible hole would kill them, ignite the air in their lungs, leaving time for a scream.
The fire strolled over them, speaking as it went. Slowly they emerged, counted the living, the maimed, the dead, and followed.
The voice at the heart of the wildfire drew them, there was glory in the cathedral of the flames.
I did one, too!
~
She was the kind of bored that wriggled and squirmed and itched. The sun-struck piece of broken glass looked like something to scratch it with, even if she wasn’t sure how yet.
Poking hurt. It was too early to smash it, even if the sound would be satisfying. She held it low to the dead grass, to watch the sun flare inside it. The flame was just a curled finger of heat until the breeze blew it higher. Tearing through the dry brush like a hot snake. Merciless, irrevocable, beautiful.
Eight years old, and she had chosen fire over blood.
Wow, you guys are rocking it, today.
Maybe lots of writers think about addiction a lot. David Simon says the character he identifies with most is Bubbles, the informant/ heroin addict.
Because mine is kind of freaking out lately, I offer the prompt skin or Under my skin
