Dying Fires by Sofia Armstrong

When we were young, seemingly surrounded by feigned chaos and forever friends, we built a fire together. We carried imperfect slabs of wood to a warm hearth; feeding the flames that had sprung out of nowhere when we meet, giving us both heat and joy.

Together we heaved the wood onto the home of the generous flames. Sparks shot out at us but never burned our outstretched arms. The wood was always light when we helped each other carry it. The task was never a burden, never a chore. We enjoyed the trips back and forth with each other, they always produced laughs and fun stories.

One day I, and evidently only I, thought that I must be sick for the sticks and logs were suddenly getting heavier. I never mentioned to her because she hadn’t expressed concerns herself, only a gleeful willingness. The wood got heavier as time went on. I was no longer holding onto them, rather resting the palms of my hands on the bottom sides of the slabs. She proceeded, ignorantly unaware of how little I was helping and that the smile was gone from my face. I stalked tirelessly with her, pretending to help while only receiving painful and unnecessary splinters that stuck out of my fingers at odd angles. However, as one would who is doing something so miserable, I became restless.

Finally, I stepped back. She trotted loyally along ahead still holding the wooden beam out as if I hadn’t moved. I wasn’t holding on any longer. I was free. Yet I lingered nearby. She didn’t notice. After a few rounds of her carrying wood by herself to the lonely hearth, her eyes grew wide and panicked. The fire had begun to fade; the flames no longer dancing among their friends, instead they circled solemnly as if at a wake. She ran to the wood pile and began hurling great logs frantically onto the bed of ashes. The extra wood only smothered the little fire that had been left. She spun gravely towards me. I, still watching, amused, from a distance, didn’t move to help.

“When you get the chance could you join me again? Reignite the fire?” She stated politely. No hint of sarcasm or ire, only a plea of the past wrapped in a weak request.

I shook my head. Why should I help? I made the decision to back away from that tedious job long ago.

She persisted, tossing dry sticks, paper, even gasoline into the hearth. But to no avail. There was no warmth left, no flame; only a desperate pile of cold wood. Full of hope, she looked at me one last time. I slid my hands into my pockets, shrugged, and turned to leave. As I walked away I felt in my pocket a full case of matches.

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Sofia Armstrong is a high school student taking advanced placement literary and composition classes.

Photo: Jamie Street