A muted orange glow emanates from the core. The base, black as the night that envelops it, sits sentry, a stoic guard devouring excess light. No sound escapes save an occasional hiss, an infrequent pop. Insects swirl and dive, attacking the heart and the people surrounding it. Some bite, some buzz, some are simply deranged by the scene. One is sacrificed, blindly, indiscriminately, causing a momentary surge, a spark of energy, and then a return to peace. Beyond bugs, it consumes thoughts, mesmerizing those who come within its range, leaving them silent, pensive, reminiscent or maybe depressed. The warmth is a ruse. Comforting, but the lure places the unaware at risk. A siren song beckons the reckless and immature. Their reward is pain.
I love this. I enjoy your compressed pieces such as this one. You do such appealing things with language in them.
This was a treat for me to read after a hard week. Thank you, Jeff.
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Thank you Georgia. I’m truly having a lot of fun with writing these days.
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You have written a beautiful picture and feeling! I wanna grab my “pokin’ stick” and sit and let my thoughts be consumed.
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Careful, Angie, it’s a dangerous game.
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This speaks to my inner pyromaniac. I swear I was a moth in a former life or something. Beautiful words and images.
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Thanks Tyronica. I’ve never been able to sit and stare. Always gotta be poking at something.
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It’s too mesmerizing not to.
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“consumes thoughts” … i’ve been in that place before.
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I’ve been the immature guy who got burned.
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physically or metaphorically? … bit of both?
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Both for sure, but I was thinking of physical.
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The captivating imagery you pulled us into brought to mind a slightly different take on the old Rush lyrics to mind
“Drawn like moths we drift into the city [fire]
The timeless old attraction.”
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I’ll look that song up. Thanks for dropping by.
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