It was a flavorful month.
First with a delightful treat of Black Walnut,
followed by a week of chestnut.
The splendorous aroma
of cooking meat on a rotating spit
the sizzle as the juices dripped running down,
covering his fingers and wrists with grease and fat
to drip into the burning flame
of the fire he had sheltered near.
The night was cold
but the fire would warm him.
(I'm done. Spoke the meat to the bone. I can no longer stay here with you and listen to your ramblings and lost dreams. I'm leaving you, she whispered. The old bone gasped, stricken. Please, do not go.
He reached for her and grasped tendrils, holding on to nay release.
And so the bone held the meat, but just barely.
The spit was held still, a sliver of flesh carved off
nearly pulling it all.
A smile at his face, as he replaced his knife to a home of supple, tan leather
stained black with charcoal.
Still broad-faced, he shut his eyes and gorged.
After
hist beard stubble provided a maze for the drippings to puzzle,
tracing towards his chin to run and leap,
and splatter and soak into the hard packed dirt below.
It had not yet rained, for many span.
So the fire would burn.
And crackle,
and sear substance that was brought too near its boundaries.
How it liked to char.
Its scorching embrace,
meant to suffocate with smoking laughter
curling upwards toward the trees
spreading all throughout the land.
Imagining creatures hundreds of miles,
breathing in and knowing vulnerability when coughing tumbled topside
and shook their entire being until,
until they understood her power
and how she came to be.
As stated, it had not rained for quite some time,
seven years and thirteen days to be exact.
And so, seven years ago,
(for the rain that came held saturation up to the thirteenth day)
she sparked into existence.
Quite literally, remarking on the above statement,
a passing knight atop a stumbling steed was fumbling around,
unwittingly, he had taken a trip down river which his horse had not been thrilled about.
While being chased by a horde of grey goblin trolls,
after he had blundered into their hunting party
he decided to escape through a stream
he had heard they were afraid of running water.
But his information was wrong,
and the throng
chased him down,
till the stream turned to river which turned to faster until
waterfall.
And so they went and now were sodden and miserable.
He rode along until Cudge, his haughty horse, refused to budge.
So, he built a fire and the following morn he rode away without putting it out.
Along his route,
his flint stone happened to drop,
out of a saddle bag and onto a rock,
causing a spark to light upon a bed of dry leaves,
which led to the creation of our dear fiery friend.
She spent years collecting herself
after the Tinder War.
Briefly explained:
Another fire that was left to burn
did not want to share
any of the forest around where the road did turn
all should be his no other fire would dare
challenge him.
This was her first test
as she felt meek and small
her flames could not jest
against his that were tall
but she prevailed and tricked him.
Fueled with victory,
she became an inferno,
and raged with widespread havoc,
till one day she murdered a magpie,
perched on the forest floor her heat overwhelming,
till his soul escaped to forever fly the skies never landing upon the earth again.
Lusting with virtuous eyes
she eradicated and slaughtered
till she killed a village.
A lone survivor,
a child who could not see.
She cried tears of lost.
And brought flooding to the land that washed away the fire
till nothing,
but a spark was left.
The fire never forgot,
the pain,
the life she had snuffed out,
for what?
She changed her ways,
and lived out her days,
remembering her suffering faze as a young blaze.
But happy now
to provide company to this occasional traveler
and his trusty steed.
And so, encircling back (or forward we should considerately say),
to a month known as February which was particularly tasteful.
She, the fire, was enjoying her recent companions,
known as a knight and a horse called Cudge,
who had fed her planking from foreign floors
that tasted salty
from shipwrecks that had sailed to shore and he had carried for firewood.
Although she did not need wood to continue her life,
she relished the savory timber,
and in return provided a spirited heat to perfectly roast a pheasant.
Her name was Yori and she was fire.
The next night it rained.
The End.
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Note: (Entirely too long to read as a poem so consider it a stanza-stepped-story)
