Arsonist

By Elsha Hawk

When Charlie meets Wendy, he thinks she is crazy. But she is the only person in the world with whom he can share his love of fire. She gets it. She gets him. But when she coerces him to build bigger and better conflagrations, he questions her motives. What will happen if they get caught?

Wendy knows Charlie is destined for greatness, but he can't see it yet. With careful nurturing and coaxing, the same way a flame is nursed into a roaring blaze, she will bring him into his own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elsha Hawk
• Release date: Aug 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476112664

Elsha Hawk

Elsha Hawk is working on two full-length novels and several short stories. She writes YA fantasy, cyberpunk, noir, dystopian, and sci-fi. You can find her sci-fi works on hawkandyoung.com where she co-authors with Eddie-Joe Young.Winner of “Write to Win” contest Fall 2009Published in Eclectic Flash 2010Published in Antimatter Magazine 2017Published in Rejected Manuscripts 2018Published in #SFFiction anthology of #vss 2020She also writes with her husband. She teaches Middle Schoolers with special needs while also being a wife to a wonderful husband and mother to two smart boys.

Book preview

Arsonist

Written by Elsha Hawk and ALRO613 over a 2 year period on the now defunct Ficlets.com

You can find them both on ficly.com, the new and improved website.

Edited By: Elsha Hawk

Copyright: 2012

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Chapter 1

I loved the way it danced; perfect in its imperfection, alive and so hungry, a dance of joy and consumption.

I loved the way it smelled, especially leaves. Burning leaves were almost sweet. Wood burnt with a thick and heavy scent, but comforting.

When certain metals were lit, they made colorful flames; blue, green, purple, in contrast to the reds, yellows and oranges of fire’s normal palette.

I loved the way it sounded, from soft and crackling to roaring and angry when it was very large; strong like a lion, or a train.

I knew it was dangerous. It could hurt me if I let it get out of control. But I didn't. I learned to control it. Feeding it more food, I watched it grow. I cared for it like a pet, a very hungry and fast growing pet. When there wasn't any food left, it would settle down in its dark black bed and die.

I would miss it. Hiding, I watched the Fire Marshall crawl all over its burial, defiling its final resting place. Part of me would get angry and desire revenge.

Honey, turn on the news. My Mom was ever the sweet angel. She had a hard time raising her voice. Even in an emergency, she'd be like, ‘call 911 dear, and I'll get some towels, that poor bloody man.'

I turned on the evening news. I was greeted by a charming aerial shot of the most perfect blaze of orange flames. I stared. I didn't even hear the reporter’s words as the camera shots changed, displaying all angles of the inferno. The only bad thing is television can't capture the small details, color changes, nor the whole dance of the fire in a few camera shots. It was really disappointing. It left me wanting more..

So terrible. Mom interrupted my thoughts.

What? I questioned, ready to defend fire's brilliance and power if need be.

It was an arson. At least it was an abandoned house. Imagine if someone was living there! It would be terrible!

She walked away, to stir something, but her words resonated inside me.

Next time I'd have to be more careful.

We had one of those Chiminea's on our back patio to light a little fire inside and create ambiance. I didn't like it. I wanted to view the fire in its natural environment. I could only see an oval-shaped window of its performance.

I also didn't like how the fire was trapped in there, kept small, not allowed to grow naturally. It reminded me of the way some Chinese women wrap their feet to keep them dainty. It's unnatural.

So I built a fire pit in the back yard. I go out there every evening and burn papers, sticks, leaves, anything. It's like playing with a pet on a leash. It is allowed some room to grow and dance, but controlled.

I have also learned to control my urge to set the fire free. I have been supervised by my parents, and have proven that I am safe with fire. They join me often, sometimes with marshmallows, or even let me roast hot dogs.

Here I muse, plan, and take in the wonder that is the element of fire. I stoke and calm it, play with it, and admire it.

Tonight it is unsatisfying.

I worked in the yard, making my fire pit bigger. I let it die down to baby embers, promising it that I would let it grow soon.

I moved the rocks out to make a larger