A Slow Fire Burning Novels & Stories

She found herself listening for his footsteps, waiting for his loving embrace, and her soul ached with the emptiness that his absence wrought. In the living room, the fireplace roared with a life of its own. The flames leaped and danced, an endless ballet that flickered and swirled. The crackle of burning wood was like a distant drumbeat, and the warmth that once filled their home with comfort now seemed to taunt Violet with its inadequacy. One evening, Violet found herself entranced by the fire, her eyes following the intricate dance of flames. The room was filled with the rich scent of burning logs, the warm glow casting elongated shadows that seemed to come to life with their own stories.

Riley's POV The burning was fading. Not all at once, not with a sudden snap, but slowly, like a fire dying down to embers. For what felt like an eternity, I had been trapped in a hazy world of heat and confusion, barely aware of anything but the relentless warmth that consumed me from the inside. Now, that heat was still there, but it was gentle, almost soothing. It was like a warm blanket instead of a searing flame.

The flames were growing fast, spreading to the wooden shelves. Selene's eyes widened. She rushed forward and tried to put out the fire with a cloth, but the flames only grew bigger. She coughed as the smoke filled the room. Her eyes stung. She tried to move away, but the fire was blocking the path to the door. The heat was intense. She kept coughing, her burned hand throbbing with pain as she struggled to find a way out. The fire crackled louder, spreading across the kitchen. Selene backed away, her heart racing with fear. The smoke was getting thicker. She couldn't breathe properly. She dropped to her knees, coughing violently, trying to cover her mouth.

“Now they will have to kill me to stop it.” The door rattled under heavy fists. The slow burn had finally caught. And the flames were only beginning.

"What the hell?" The flames spread quickly, licking up the walls, engulfing the house like a beast devouring its prey. In a matter of moments, the building was ablaze, burning to the ground before his eyes. It was surreal, like a nightmare unfolding in slow motion. "How could this happen?" He hadn’t set the fire. He was sure of it. But now the evidence was disappearing, going up in smoke.

I was getting nowhere like this; I dodged her fiery balls of rage. Greta’s chest rapidly fell up and down. The more she let her anger dictate her actions, the more reckless and exhausted she became. The room filled with smoke as small fires began to crackle as they joined together. The decaying wood was the perfect food to fuel the fire. In the blink of an eye, the fire was growing faster and more robust. With the fire spreading and the treated timber on the walls, inhaling these fumes were dangerous. How could Greta, a damn fire witch, be this stupid?

“Fire sees us as something that belongs to it. You can sense how much joy it feels with us… as long as we give it the stroking it craves that only we can give it.” Strangely, instead of feeling nervous because of his intrusion, I stayed relaxed. We stood there, holding hands and holding Fire. When the flames started to move lower towards the blackened wood, Lamont requested for me to ask it to leave. I did as he said, thanking it for spending time with us and letting it know that it was welcome to leave. The flames rose higher and then settled into a subtle glow, slowly dying out, leaving only a trail of undulating smoke rising to the ceiling.

“It might mean not the way I want it to go at the speed I want it to go.” “I know,” he said. “Can you do slowly?” I said. He looked at the candle. Almost smiled. “I’ve been doing slowly for nine weeks,” he said. I looked at him. “Fair point,” I said. The candle. The dining room. The house around us in its Sunday evening quiet. “After the birthday,” I said. “After the week. After slowly.” “Yes,” he said. “What do we call it?” I said. “This thing. When it has room to be what it is.”

The room, now engulfed in flames, flickers with the erratic dance of destruction. "Help me, please!" I scream again, my voice hoarse from the smoke. I glance around, desperately searching for any sign of assistance. The fire rages on, mocking my cries for help. The walls, once soundproofed and indifferent, seem to close in as the flames consume the space. The air thickens with smoke, making it harder to breathe. I cough violently, the taste of ash coating my tongue. Sweating profusely, I realize the gravity of the situation. The fire, now an unrelenting force, has transformed the room into a fiery nightmare.

She quips. My mouth stays clamped shut. The fire surges in the fireplace. The logs crackling at the flame’s intensity. The fire is almost white in the center, fanning out in yellow and oranges. The flame far too hot to cook over, one that would burn even a hanging stew pot guided away from the flame.