Amber Fire MAG

January 29, 2018
By Trinitystarr GOLD, Stratford, New Jersey
Trinitystarr GOLD, Stratford, New Jersey
11 articles 0 photos 0 comments

Her eyes were embers, orange and bright in the white background. The rest of her face was still, similar to the gray stones she was lounging on. But it was in her eyes. Fire raging, burning her from the inside out, smoked trailing from her nostrils as she flicked her cigarette. I watched the ashes trail down, burrowing in the snow. Suddenly she barks laughter in raspy short breaths.


“Lighten up, kid.” She winks while blowing me a kiss with her red stained lips. I try to smirk, but her bemused grin tells me I failed. “C’mon.” She grabs my hand, her warmth lighting me up. I chase after her, following the fire. She is a beacon in our frozen wasteland. We dodge through trees, over mounds of snow, around divitsi. She leads like an expert, never faltering. Her confidence makes me trust her more. It always has. She was the only one who could light me up, make me feel something. She came into my life three years ago, and burned away the past.


I was attracted to her like a moth. How could I not be? Rusty hair that flowed to her full waist, cupping her curves, full red lips, freckles dotted across constantly rosey cheeks. And her eyes – the emotion always pressed up against the glass. I embraced the flame, but was careful not to get burned like the rest.


“I see a spark in you. And I will ignite it,” she always told me, warning me of the day to come.


Snow soaks my sneakers and frost bites my lips, but I push forward, feeding the fire. I laugh, listening to myself as it takes a manic form. Controlled chaos – another phrase she taught me. We run into a new part of the woods, and eventually skid to a stop. Her cigarette is abandoned, but smoke heaves from her mouth. I control my breathing and collect myself before she does. In the stillness you can hear running water from somewhere close.


“Impressive … kid. Smoker’s lung sucks … don't smoke.” I roll my eyes; second hand smoke kills just as much. Kid is my nickname despite the fact that I am older than her by two hours and three minutes. “Say a word, kid.” It’s been eight days since I’ve heard that manly voice of yours.” She swoons into my arms, batting her orange eyes at me. I watch her contacts slip out of place when she does. Instead of answering her, I kiss her. She kisses back. Still no sparks.


“Still waiting?” I smile at being caught. “The day that you fall for me is the day Hitler rises from the dead.” I mimic a zombie and make her laugh. She is beautiful; even I can't deny that. Even though I tried, i do not love her. She has told me that I have schizoid. After a quick Google search, I found out that it means you have a problem with relationships and expressing emotions.


She grips me violently, literally shaking me out of my thoughts. “Say.Something,” she whines. She never whines.


“My my … feet are. Are wet.” Her eyes seem different as I stumble through the sentence. I reach toward her, but someone cut off her oxygen. Her fire dies out. “H- hey, what’s what’s wrong?” Her eyes light up for a second. I grab her hand limply not knowing if it is appropriate. She smiles blankly, back to the stone.


“Nothing, kiddo.” She pauses, watching the snowy landscape. I follow her eyes and notice a gorge with gray rocks dropping down into the frozen riven. Water bubbles between the chucks of slowly drifting ice. We creep toward the edge, watching each other in our peripheral vision. She turns to me when we are the closest we can get without falling over. Her eyes reflect me, dark eyes and thin bones blinking. Her hair rages around her, foiling the stoic look on her face.


“Amber?” I reach for her, feeling a numbing cold spread through me. It settles in my chest like a stone. She blinks, water collecting at the corners of her eyes. She watches me like a stranger; only her chest moves steadily like the river below. Suddenly, a blinding smile appears on her face. On her cheek, a tear glimmers like the snow that is beginning to fall in her hair.


“Ignite. Burn them all.”


Then she jumps. 



Similar Articles

JOIN THE DISCUSSION

This article has 2 comments.


on Sep. 24 at 1:29 pm
Hermione-Granger BRONZE, Bethel Park, Pennsylvania
1 article 0 photos 22 comments
This was a cool story, but some background information on the characters would be nice.

on Jul. 26 at 12:20 pm
WhiteWolf815 GOLD, Avondale, Arizona
10 articles 26 photos 11 comments

Favorite Quote:
"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat." —Theodore Roosevelt

Considering that I am a bit of a pyro myself, this piece appeals to me way too much. Love the imagery by the way.




Swoon Reads

Aspiring Writer? Take Our Online Course!