Proleck

Proleck’s fingers long to bathe themselves in its glory, but it is a shrunken thing, an echo of itself.  The flame is small; he cannot afford for it to be seen.  Instead, he must worship only an ember, hiding its godhead behind a cupped hand.

He strikes another match.  Against the friction of the red phosphorous, the head blossoms into life; a newborn deity who Proleck showers with a lifetime of adoration within the brief seconds it lives.

Charred, it dies. Proleck stops and cocks his head, for inside the station the carillon of the fire bell calls him to prayer.

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~ by Electro-mechanical Man on March 4, 2011.

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