Fire, fire, the object of my desire


The flames are wildly dancing, hugging buildings, devouring them insatiably, unstoppable and free.

“What a great spectacle!”

He is touching his lyre lovingly, striking gently its chords, letting out this beautiful sound of melancholic mourning, so deep, so sad, so real.

“A new, better, stronger city should come from its ashes.” He’s talking softly to himself, almost tearing up. They are sad tears of joy, as letting go feels.
“This is the price of progress, lost lives, lost homes, lost history. This is never easy.”

“Did you do it?”

He is startled, looks behind to where the voice came. No one is there. He turns back, striking his lyre once more, murmuring softly a love song.

“Did you do it?”

He drops his lyre, shouting: “Who is there?” “Who’s talking?” No answer. He is silent.
He asks: “Have I done what?”

“Did you set the city on fire?”

“What? “What question is that? “Of course I didn’t!”

“People think you did.”

“What? “How can people think I could do something like that? “What kind of person would do such a thing?”

“People think your kind of person.”

“Ah, what do people know what kind of person I am?” “What do they know about the hard choices I make all the time?” “Why would I care what people think?”

“Did you do it?”

Written for the Weekly Challenge – Object


3 thoughts on “Fire, fire, the object of my desire

  1. Pingback: Miss Neglected | dandelionsinwind

  2. Pingback: Injecting object | Ireland, Multiple Sclerosis & Me

  3. Pingback: An Insignificant Object | Wired With Words

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