The crested hedge blocked the
view of the campsite, but Elliot could smell the charring of apple wood. The bush was beautiful in its wildness
and Elliot bashed it aside without a second thought to gaze down at the little
fire, indented into the earth. The logs wore weak. They had aged, greying and
textured with dried out wrinkles. Falling ash powdered
his head to disguise him as one of them. The lapping vixens wound their way
between the martyred trees. With each twirl, their heat brought the wood to
life – in orange—and then, like gorgons, their embossed innards transformed into dust. Elliot’s eyes
joined them: he felt himself carried on the current of flames and he whirled
the dervishes with them, broke into languid waltzes with them, was dipped into
tango with them. Soon he forgot about the logs under his pounding feet. The vixens caressed his cheek. They wound around
him now, up his legs, to tease his lips with warmth. When they nibbled his ears
he felt himself evaporating into the sky and his legs become cramped with
arthritis and his muscles atrophy, his skin grown taught. The thunder
broke his trance. When he glanced below
again, it was the pyre that was puttering out.
©2014 Lex Vex
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