The flame burned brightly, minding its own business. Alone. Aloof. Strong and silent. It flickered tantalizingly, unaware of its appeal, and the light it threw about just by being.
The moth stood in the shadows, observing quietly. She couldn't understand why she was drawn to this quiet, enigmatic flame. She could feel its light and its warmth, and she wondered if she dared get close... if she dared reach out and touch it...
It paid her no heed, just shared light and heat and energy unconsciously.
She thought, and gathered courage, and finally went straight to it... edging a wing into the liquid, airy orange. And the flame consumed her. She became the flame.
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1953 Called. They'd Like Their Racists Back.
7 years ago
