He sat at his desk and watched the setting sun turn the grass from green to
orange yellow to evening shadow. Motionless seconds turned to hours to days
all lost in his thoughtfulness. He sits at his desk in such darkness that he can longer
see or write on the papers in front of him or even keep his mind open. Only the stacks
of paper keep his head up.
In his eyes, fires burn. Blue, the hottest of all flames, flows outward. He is himself the
source of the burn, the arsonist, but he cannot douse or fight fire. So, it slowly
consumes the house, his wife of smiling white teeth and black skin, his daughters of
no significant age, and himself. Before long, nothing is left except a pile of green
I love this... it's a got a great flow, but at the same time makes me feel like I'm sufficating (I'm sure that was your intent).
Bravo!
thanks, Robert!
Agree with Robert. I particularly enjoyed the final 2 lines. Excellent. Fave
thanks Gill