So seeing as I see alot of people posting stories on here, i thought i would post one i wrote a few years ago in a spur of the moment kind of thing. Just a short story. I edited it a bit today more to my liking :)
The fire dances across the wooden frames of my roof, devouring what was once mine, yet there is some beauty that is accentuated by the lick of the flames. A smile creaks my old worn face and memories flood my mind as the flames climb the supports of my bed. These memories exceed the power of the fire and numb the pain.
My frail body shifts warily and I manage to turn onto my side. Eyes caress the figure that is my love; she looks so young in that photo, so very beautiful. The photo sits upon the darkly oiled oak side table I so delicately crafted.
There is coffee on the oak table.
I first met her at the café down Main Street; she was a waitress there, and so graceful and elegant was she that from the moment I saw her I knew that she was the one. I reach over and pick up the rose that I was sure I would place upon her grave for today's visit. The roof groans in its struggle to support itself and loose boards rain down upon the table next to my bed, and swallow the memories, burn away the edges and turn them to ash. I roll onto my back and clutch the rose to my chest, another smile creases my face. The stars shine through the cracks in the timber above me.
With a heave I sit myself up and stare down the hallway. My little boy, walking towards me is taking his first steps. His mother would have been so proud. Once again, that memory is taken away as the hallways are replaced by flames.
The roof fails to hold, gold light falls onto my legs and fireflies dance around and caress my face.
They make me beautiful and young.
A moon winks at me from behind the willow tree that is now visible through my roof. When I was young I would climb that tree and fall. I would soar like a bird, only to be caught in the arms of my father.
I miss the feeling of being loved unconditionally.
"The skin on my hands might fold from age, but at this moment, I feel like I am the only thing that hasn't aged."
I fall to my back and hold the rose even tighter in my hand and even as the thorns pierce my papery skin I feel no pain. The roar of the fire is overwhelming and the blood that runs down my hand is drenched an orange hue, "How beautiful, and yet how strange" I sigh with finality as smile once again creases my face and brings with it a tear.
A whisper, "I'll miss these memories."
The roof erupts and then falls, the walls collapse, the rose burns and the memories are taken. Fireflies erupt from the wreckage and make passage towards the heavens.
The sun rises up from the horizon and casts light upon charred remains of the house. In the distance a young man appears over a hill on the dirt road that leads to the house, his brown hair ruffled by the wind. His eyes move towards the wreckage and his hand clenches the brake, he stands and stares at remains. Minutes pass until the man starts to casually ride once again along the bendy, old dirt road towards the house. The bike passes through the front gate, past the willow tree and then comes to a stop at the front door. The man lightly laughs and then walks around the house absorbing the scene. He stops and looks down. There at his feet is a rose half eaten by the fire that must have taken place a few days ago. He smiles and whispers;