Writing

The Fire Whisperer

No one knows how the fire started, and even how it stopped. Everything happened too fast.

The village was quiet that night. Not many people on the streets at that late hour. Except by Brandy Brady, the town’s official drunk. The bar had been closed for almost 2 hours, but Brady was still wandering around, talking to the wind, even on that still night.

Then the houses were suddenly set ablaze. First one, then the next, and the next, until the fire had spread throughout the entire village and all the houses became a huge pyre.

People were awekening amidst the flames and trying to escape their houses as not to be burnt alive. It was so fast that by the time the fire department was notified and came, all was finished and consumed by the fire.

No one saw him, except again Brady, but later no one would believe him.

He was sitting at a bench at the other side of the road that circled the village, looking at the fire in deep concentration. His lips moving slightly, as if he could speak with the fire and control it. The flames ran fast bringing everything down with them, turning all to ashes. When they reached the road, right in front of his bench, they went down. Immediately. As if someone had cut the gas on a gas stove.

He got up and walked away.


This post was written based on the prompt Fire, from Writer Write’s October prompts.

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