| Biographical Non-Fiction posted April 11, 2022 |
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Memories of fire and love.
The Flame Within
by LisaMay
An Aries, I am linked to fire. I’m tuned into the creative spark, the light in the dark that illuminates, and passion’s flame within. I’m deeply aware of fire’s dangerous potential to leave a wasteland of ashes, imprinted on me since childhood growing up in Australia's beauty and terror. Fire can comfort or destroy.
My earliest memory of fire is my father’s pipe. “Put that smelly old thing out!” my mother would admonish, but I loved to watch Dad strike matches and puff out an aromatic cloud of smoke. The flare of flame was captivating. I used to ‘borrow’ Dad’s matches and burn things. When I was four years old I set fire to the hedge beside our family home, luckily without incurring casualties.
“Our daughter’s a pyromaniac,” I overheard Mum tell Dad one day, triggering my interest in knowing what words mean, and how to spell.
I also enjoyed cooking flour-and-water ‘damper’ twisted on a stick, or spuds wrapped in tinfoil, in a stone-circled fireplace in the backyard with my brothers.
Our family spent happy times camping during school holidays. We cooked sausages over the campfire then sat around it afterwards. Dad played his harmonica and Mum sang. I’d poke the embers with a stick, then twirl it to write words that sparkled against the night sky. Our dog lay so close to the fire we could smell his hair singeing.
Mum died when I was a teenager. I used to write letters to her then set fire to them, hoping she’d receive them and know my love still flamed within. In later years, when Dad had Alzheimer’s and was living with me, as a treat I’d sometimes erect a tent in the lounge room by the open fire. We’d sniff the woodsmoke nostalgically while toasting marshmallows on sticks together like in the good old days when he was my hero.
I want to be cremated when I die. It seems a quicker way to get to Heaven, being wafted, twirling skywards into the blue – although my green conscience will give a little twinge at being a pollutant.
Family Memories writing prompt entry
An Aries, I am linked to fire. I’m tuned into the creative spark, the light in the dark that illuminates, and passion’s flame within. I’m deeply aware of fire’s dangerous potential to leave a wasteland of ashes, imprinted on me since childhood growing up in Australia's beauty and terror. Fire can comfort or destroy.
My earliest memory of fire is my father’s pipe. “Put that smelly old thing out!” my mother would admonish, but I loved to watch Dad strike matches and puff out an aromatic cloud of smoke. The flare of flame was captivating. I used to ‘borrow’ Dad’s matches and burn things. When I was four years old I set fire to the hedge beside our family home, luckily without incurring casualties.
“Our daughter’s a pyromaniac,” I overheard Mum tell Dad one day, triggering my interest in knowing what words mean, and how to spell.
I also enjoyed cooking flour-and-water ‘damper’ twisted on a stick, or spuds wrapped in tinfoil, in a stone-circled fireplace in the backyard with my brothers.
Our family spent happy times camping during school holidays. We cooked sausages over the campfire then sat around it afterwards. Dad played his harmonica and Mum sang. I’d poke the embers with a stick, then twirl it to write words that sparkled against the night sky. Our dog lay so close to the fire we could smell his hair singeing.
Mum died when I was a teenager. I used to write letters to her then set fire to them, hoping she’d receive them and know my love still flamed within. In later years, when Dad had Alzheimer’s and was living with me, as a treat I’d sometimes erect a tent in the lounge room by the open fire. We’d sniff the woodsmoke nostalgically while toasting marshmallows on sticks together like in the good old days when he was my hero.
I want to be cremated when I die. It seems a quicker way to get to Heaven, being wafted, twirling skywards into the blue – although my green conscience will give a little twinge at being a pollutant.
My earliest memory of fire is my father’s pipe. “Put that smelly old thing out!” my mother would admonish, but I loved to watch Dad strike matches and puff out an aromatic cloud of smoke. The flare of flame was captivating. I used to ‘borrow’ Dad’s matches and burn things. When I was four years old I set fire to the hedge beside our family home, luckily without incurring casualties.
“Our daughter’s a pyromaniac,” I overheard Mum tell Dad one day, triggering my interest in knowing what words mean, and how to spell.
I also enjoyed cooking flour-and-water ‘damper’ twisted on a stick, or spuds wrapped in tinfoil, in a stone-circled fireplace in the backyard with my brothers.
Our family spent happy times camping during school holidays. We cooked sausages over the campfire then sat around it afterwards. Dad played his harmonica and Mum sang. I’d poke the embers with a stick, then twirl it to write words that sparkled against the night sky. Our dog lay so close to the fire we could smell his hair singeing.
Mum died when I was a teenager. I used to write letters to her then set fire to them, hoping she’d receive them and know my love still flamed within. In later years, when Dad had Alzheimer’s and was living with me, as a treat I’d sometimes erect a tent in the lounge room by the open fire. We’d sniff the woodsmoke nostalgically while toasting marshmallows on sticks together like in the good old days when he was my hero.
I want to be cremated when I die. It seems a quicker way to get to Heaven, being wafted, twirling skywards into the blue – although my green conscience will give a little twinge at being a pollutant.
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Writing Prompt Word count--300-350 NO vulgar words, profanity, or sex/no satire |
 Recognized |
Author Note:
Word count for story according to www.wordcounter.net is 350 words.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Word count for story according to www.wordcounter.net is 350 words.
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