Flames Writing Novels & Stories

I turned away from the flames that had kept me sane the whole night she spoke. There was just something about the flames that thrilled me and not because I was an arsonist of some sort but because I was always fucked up since I was a kid. Just think something like fire, some sort of dancing wind could destroy everything in its path without even blinking. And when it was fierce, stoked, louder, nothing could stop it, not even water. And in the fire, I saw myself, I was the flames destroying everything in its path, taking everything and leaving nothing in its wake.

My heart was soaring, my hands trembling with the thrill of creation, and I could not stop speaking, words tumbling out faster than I could even sort them. “Damian, can you believe it? Fire as a theme, dancers spinning like flames, colors bursting like embers on the plates. Oh, the flavors we could weave into it—smoked paprika, charred citrus, saffron glowing like molten gold. I could design a menu that makes people feel they are breathing in fire and swallowing light. And dessert, Damian, wait until you taste the dessert I am already imagining. It will be like ash and sweetness colliding in a single bite.”

Two flames. And me, caught in the middle, already burning.

“It’s rewriting everything every world, every choice, every moment. It wants to start over.” The flame pulsed, and the whisper became a roar, not of words but of intent, a primal force that shook the ground, the sky, the stars. Makers, you have woven worlds, forged purpose, carried pain. But I am the Flame of All Beginnings. I am the spark before choice, the fire before creation. Surrender to me, or I will burn all you are.

They forgot—I am the flame. And flames don't die. They just find new ways to burn.

Fire was passion, and its flames flickered like long, lean legs, poking out from beneath the hem of a dress, kicking into the air in an elemental twist. The flames of the pyre rose higher, growing like mountains from stone before me. They twirled, a life’s end into daybreak, and, as my hands came free of the grass, they faded back down into a glowing, soft-edged warmth that encompassed the logs beneath.

When they finally crawled ashore, Owen looked at me pitifully and asked if I remembered anything. When I shook my head, disappointment filled his eyes. Still, he said, "It's okay. I'll keep trying to help you remember." He brought me roses every day, saying that they were my favorite flowers. But I didn't care. The sight of that bright red color only made me feel disgusted. He also brought me an embroidered wedding dress, saying that it was a gift from my mentor. Apparently, I had worn it for him once before, and he had been completely captivated.

He took another slow drag from his cigarette before exhaling, the smoke curling lazily in the dimly lit gym. “Not all flames die out quickly, son,” he mused, tapping the ash off his cigarette. “Some need a slow, controlled burn before they truly turn to ash.” I clenched my jaw. “I don’t have the patience for slow.” He hummed in amusement, his sharp eyes watching me like he already knew how this would end. “Then make her burn the way you want. But be careful not to get burned yourself.” I let out a dry chuckle, rolling my shoulders to shake off the irritation settling in my bones.

FLAMES devoured the world. No—it devoured me. The heat bit at my skin, burned my lungs, and made my very bones ache as though they had been wrapped in molten rock. Smoke curled thick in the air, choking my breath, and above me, the heavens wept. Rain fell in great torrents, drowning the earth in sorrow. Yet the fire did not die.

Simon was restless the whole drive, punching numbers into his phone only to be met with dead lines. He pressed the driver to speed up, the car roaring as it raced through a field blooming with flowers. A sea of roses stretched out before them. Roses, he remembered, were my favorite. A memory flashed in Simon's mind. Nine years ago, in the throes of courtship, he would leave a grand bouquet of roses at my door each day. A different hue for every day of the week. He never imagined a time would come when he would lose the chance to send even a single petal.