Thanks for coming to read my story! To Burn relays the story of Ember Dupree – a strange girl with a strange name and an even stranger occupation. She has a story to tell – a peculiar tale, and most certainly not ordinary, but one worth listening to – but that story has its risks. Are you willing to take them? Thanks for reading! (The poem at the beginning is an ORIGINAL by ME. Please don’t steal it.) Please rate and comment. UPDATE: The sequel, Fireblue, is posted now!
A Flame Rekindled
Burn away the lace.
Taste the fire's sweet embrace.
And don't ever go back.
Nothing but clothes and an old leather pack.
I'm a Flamerunner. I'll never burn.
Be none with day.
Be one with night.
Ignore all another's petty plight.
Bite the bullet.
A bystander's none.
They'll be nothing left here once you're done.
I'm a Flamerunner. I'll never burn.
A burst of sparks.
A shatter; a crack.
A trickle of fire down your back.
A dancing match.
A flick of the wrist.
A figure emerges from the smoky mist.
I may not have mercy.
I may not have a heart.
I may have no emotion to tear me apart.
I may run by no rule, but there's one thing I've learned -
I'm a Flamerunner.
And never will a Flamerunner burn.
There's one thing I love in this world. It's a strange love, I guess - we're not exactly on good terms, but what lovers are? - and only a few will relate to what I'm about to say. If you do, run. The 'why' isn't important. Just do it. I did, and that's why I'm here, writing this in an abandoned shed in the backyard of a billionaire's mansion (which is about to about to be blown to smithereens, but that's beside the point) on a filthy napkin I scrounged from a nearby dumpster. At least I think it's a napkin. Considering its source, it could've been anything. But I'm drifting off topic - characteristic, we all know that. Or at least I do.
But moving on. My love.
I was five the first time my dearly departed mother set me in front of a blazing hearth - I remember that moment. Even today. I remember the colors - I didn't have names for them then, so they became emotions. The flickering orange at the top - that was happiness. Elation. It was bright and joyous, dancing with brightness, swaying back and forth like leaves whispering in an October wind. It was the warm, soothing feeling you get when someone praises you, wrapping you in an almost human-like embrace. The ferocious red it sprouted from was rage. I thought I knew it then - after all, I'd had my crayons stolen more than once - but the fire taught me that pure anger, pure, mind-numbing anger, was so much more. Something beyond us. After all, why do you think the words 'fire' and 'fury' are so close to one another, so similar? They are each other. Embody each other. Every Flamerunner knows that - you might not. But I'm getting ahead of myself again. Where was I?
Ah. Yes. The fire, the emotions. Right.
Orange. Red. In the heart of it was saffron - yellow. Some might call it cheerful; sunshine, rainbows, golden fields, happy children. Am I on the right track? Most likely. But we know what yellow really is - a color of mourning. Our lost are laid to rest on a bed of yellow roses; the next of kin plucks a single blossom from the casket and throws it into an open flame, signifying death, and then frees the rose's ashes to the wind, encouraging new life to follow in death's footsteps. That's us, with our odd customs. I suggest you don't judge.
I suggest very strongly you don't judge.
But, anyway. Happiness, rage, sorrow - it's all rooted in neutral blue. You know the very base of the fire, where the orange and the red reach an intensity so hot and brilliant that they turn glacial cobalt? It's mesmerizing. Beneath the roar and crackle of hungry flame, a silent row of indigo flares, calm yet blazing. Mysterious, that. Like people. It looks so harmless, but in reality, one lick of that flame will burn like you never dreamed it could. Believe me. I should know.
And then there's love. You don't see it much - a flicker of soft white dancing over the coals, a warm, pearly glow at the bottom of the log or on the underside of an ember. Scarce, I know - it's gone in a heartbeat. But in its moment of glory the heat and intensity can dazzle like no gemstone ever could. I've only seen it once or twice, and I've seen a lot of fire in my time. More than a fourteen-year-old girl should. Explaining that takes an awful long while, and a Flamerunner's story has never reached the ears or eyes of an outsider. But I'm not your regular Flamerunner, and since, by some unexplainable coincidence, you've found my writings, you must not be a regular outsider. Are you comfortable? Sitting down? Stretched out? Away from an open flame? This story's a long one, so relax. Close your eyes for a second; open them. I hope you're ready.
My name is Ember Hope Dupree, and by some twist of fate, you've found my story.
Turn the page, reader. I dare you.
You'll wish you never had.
A/N: Thanks for reading, and sorry for such a short first chapter! Please leave your thoughts, ratings, and comments - they all mean the world to me!