Short story book / poetry

Fireplace

A fireplace in a warm home

The crisp crackling of the fire, for is it strange to see a fire, something that can harm someone so easily, to be so giving. The giving of warmth for example, has gripped young and old and holds them in a blanket of stillness. The sturdy, and cold, yet somehow seems warm as it encases the smoke. Cement holding each piece of itself together, yet the brick is unmatched in its strong yet warm stature. The bright and gleaming orange flames lick the wall, bringing in sight the other side as it comes back in for another turn. Ambers fly like Phoenixes, stretching there wings, and taking flight. The smoke floats unwillingly up like a cloud, reaching with its unstable hands as it floats up into the abyss that is the chimney, which is lit by the fire. the long chimney, growing into eternity, without even knowing the warmth of the fire, ever growing beneath itself. The wood, witch brings a warm outside smell into the house, is now being burnt, from brown to grey, the colors fade to a pale white, similar to being sickly, and as it crumbles to the ground it has changed completely, for it is no longer of its former self, blown away from the warmth it has given the people, and animals. In exchange for the heat it has turned into dust or rather, ash. Ash reminds me of sleep. Lying in a slumber, the ash stayes still, and in wait for itself to be moved. It's motivation to do absolutely nothing, is peaceful and calming. The black floor boards are originally cold and chilly, but the more people that join and leave, the warmer they get. And finally, the crackling, a sound that can be made by nothing other than fire. Each crack pierces through the air like a flaming dart, if alone, the crack would be frightening, a scared shock to all to bear wittiness, but instead, a symphony of crackles and snaps lies dormant in each piece of wood, ready to please all ears within earshot.