ABC writing challenge

•|A - Arson|•

b - barson /j
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  If you'd ever sat and just watched the flames, you would know the beauty fire holds. It's always in motion, always flowing and folding over itself. Always dancing the same wonderfully destructive dance.

  I'm not sure, however, if I should consider myself the producer or the choreographer. Though it is true I didn't teach these flames their instinctual dance, I did set their path.

  Oh, how beautiful it is, to see the red hot tango trailing down the line of lighter fluid. To watch as flame births the next spark, only for spark to become flame. They danced against the asphalt just for me.

  I couldn't help but watch adoringly from the alleyway as they formed a bright yellow conga line straight towards the disgustingly bland building.

  It was simply a construction site. No one was inside, so no one would be hurt. Not physically, at least. I did feel a little bad for the workers, but not enough to care.

  The flames danced up one of the tarp covered walls, still flicking. Then, suddenly, it bursted. The flames reached out as far as they could, yearning for more, then quickly spread along the building. A magnificent display, it truly was.

  A couple of car alarms began screaming and I knew that now I didn't have much longer. It was truly sad, I was enjoying the show. I might just have to miss the climax.

  Yet, I was proven wrong as, surprisingly soon, the machinery left around the site began to combust and crumble. My beautiful little flames never ceased to amaze me.

  I watched on until I heard sirens, and the walls turned blue. That was when I knew to leave the warmth behind. A small bit of flame caught my coat, and I let the small light stay with me as we fled down the way.

  Then, I sadly had to snuff it out. I clapped it between my hands, and it burned my palms in return. I didn't mind, I cannot blame it for it's anger.

  Once it was out I jumped into a can and hid. I could hear them putting out the fire, destroying my work, but I ignored it. I cannot make more from within a cell, after all.

  ...

  When the fire was dead, and the sirens had gone, I remained with the stench just a little longer. Then, slowly, I pulled myself out. My job wasn't over.

  I knew I'd left them here somewhere... I dug around the alleyway, looking, searching for my other tools. Then I found my paintbrushes.

  I can't paint fire with spray paint. It's too bumpy. Fire is smooth. So, instead, I stood on the stool for hours with my brushes and acrylics, leaving one last reminder of the flame's floating beauty.

A bright mural. Still, but eloquent enough to mistake for the real thing. Almost. Underneath, I wrote the word "encore."

It wasn't completely over.