Fire's Angle.
A novel.
I could feel the heat of the flames against my face, making my cheeks turn red and my eyes water, but for some odd reason, I though it a delightful feeling. My mother sat by the fireplace with me, her long silk-like hair falling around her shoulders. She was smiling, her clear, blue eyes shining brightly, seeming to reflect the flames.
“You see, Serenity.” She would start, as she always did with her stories. “Fire, is an extraordinary thing. It dances and puts on a show, it makes people wonder and try to figure out how to tame such a wild thing, but only a few very special people have learned how to control it.” I sat forward on the rug in front of the fireplace, hanging onto every word that escaped my mother’s lips. Her stories were always enchanting. Or maybe it was because I was a young child who devoured stories and saw them like pictures in my mind. I must have been but only nine then, perhaps ten.
“Go on mum.” I said eagerly. “Don’t stop. Go on!” Mum smiled and tucked a piece of my red hair behind my ear.
“But I don’t need to continue, Serenity. You already know.”
I sighed.
“Yes, but what does it matter? Just because you’ve already heard a story doesn’t mean that it’s not worth hearing again!” I told her, shaking the lock of red hair that she had tucked behind my ear back into its original place. Mum chuckled softy, lying back against the rug. I watched her before lying down next to her.
“Listen, my fiery angle.” She said, calling me by my dubbed nickname. “One day soon, you will learn that my stories are more than just, stories.” I turned my head and watched her carefully, not sure at all what she meant. I often wondered how she remembered such tales, for there was not a book to be seen in our house. I had once asked her about this and she had put down her wooden stirring spoon and propped her hip against the granite counter.
“Because, Serenity. Fire devours books, even the coolest, smallest flame can spread in the blink of an eye.” She told me, her eyes wild. “It munches on words and washed them down with ink, books are never safe when there is a flame in sight.” I had nodded, completely understanding what she said. She had then picked up her spoon again and went back to stirring the soup. I had never noticed this before that moment, but there were no burners where the pot sat. There was no oven either. I thought this was strange, considering that our food was always hot, but I never said anything about it.
“Curiosity killed the cat, Serenity.” Mum would always tell me. So now, laying on the rug next to her, the heat of the flames licking our bare toes and bathing the small room in warm, friendly light, I began to wonder even more about it. But before I could ask, mum got up and left the room, no doubt to make supper. I watched her go, the words she had said seeming to reverberate through my young, curious mind.
Now I know. Now I know, as young women of twenty should know, that my mum’s words were very, very true. Sometimes the truth is scary, and I am a firm believer in that. My mum said that only a few people hold the power to tame the fire, and I am one of those people. Now mind you, that I didn’t figure out my gift for a while after she told me, and when I did in fact figure it out, I was scared half to death.
It happened one night when snow flakes the size of large pepple were falling down, covering the ground in what looked like vanilla frosting. I had my nose pressed up against the glass, my red hair framing my face. Mum was upstairs, probably preparing supper. I could hear her humming to a nameless song, I often wonderd if she knew any actuall songs, not just ones she conjuerd up in the blink of an eye.
{{I will add to it little by litte.}}
