The average match burns for eight seconds, and at over 600 degrees Celsius..
Maya Cann has unknowingly made a name for herself.
Matches.
She has one rule, one golden rule.
She won't start a fire, nor stop one either.
Her obsession with fire however goes beyond pyromania and Luke Scott seems to be the only one willing to burn a few matches to find out why.
The progression of growth.
Or to dumb it down; change.
Over time, as we come to engage in new experiences, we develop as people. Stronger personalities, different characteristics and new dreams are barely the beginning of this process.
He was nineteen when he found her journal and you could say that's when it started. With a shit track record of previous job histories, Luke was struggling to find a source of employment. Even his own uncle had given him the sack because he couldn't support Luke's wages. That wasn't really the case though; his uncle was just not able to pay someone who was incompetent when it came to motor engines. Luke walked home early that day; taking the long route that cut across the main park leading onto the street of hid apartment block . It just sat there on a bench, the cover was bent up a little, letting curious gazes glimpse at the name on the first page.
Matches.
That was all it said. He looked around, hoping to find its owner still somewhere around but the park was abandoned, minus the odd parrot scratching at the ground. His calloused fingers brushed over the leather bindings, fanning the pages, cover to cover, he caught the faint smell of paper. He had scarcely skimmed the first few pages that day before he quickly stuffed it into his messenger bag to read once he got home.
That was a month ago, he thought back over what he had reread for the umpteenth time. Her thoughts were clear in her writing, her wording was almost attractive in a way, she explained her reasoning stirred something that lay dormant within him. He had to know more, but how? He didn't even know who she was other than her pen-name.
Matches.
Her name was signed elegantly at the bottom of each page, followed by a date. Scrawls of pen showed the last entry was the day he found the journal. It had been last on a park bench when he saw it. Lonely, yet it didn't feel abandoned, more so, as if it was purposely left there by her for some intended reason.
Each day since he found the journal, he paved a visit to that exact bench with her journal in hand. He waits exactly thirty minutes, scanning through his favourite parts, before continuing on. Unbeknownst to him however, the writer of the journal sitting beneath a tree just out of sight, rolling a box of matches in her hand.
Flames are enchanting, the twists, the turns, a non-choreographed dance, spontaneous, yet captivating. Fire is beautiful, no mistake, accidental fire, there's something else entirely.
Unwanted heat damages, it overtakes, it possesses, killing the warmth. Heat chokes suffocates. Heavy burning.
