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.


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

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: