Burn Forevermore

There was a bush on fire outside of her apartment.

She hadn't smelled the burning, that's what she told herself afterwards. Her apartment was old, and she suspected her gas oven was even older. It had a faint burning smell whenever she turned it on. And she was a lifelong smoker. Got her first lighter from her dad when she was eleven just before he left. Years of chain smoking had left her sense of smell impacted. So she wouldn’t have noticed it anyway. 

On that night she’d lit an ill-advised cigarette - it’s her apartment, what the hell - and opened the window.

And that’s when she saw it. In the parking lot behind the apartment, outside her single panel window. A blazing fire nearly 8 feet tall. For a moment she thought it was a dumpster lit ablaze. Some poor soul looking for warmth or teenage dirtbags looking for a cheap thrill. Dropped their dollar store lighters, used a little too much gasoline and panicked. But whatever it was, it was burning with an unnatural fury. And it was too close to the apartment.

Sara had always thought she’d be good in an emergency. Three-time U16 alpine skiing champion. She’d raced down mountains at a hundred miles per hour like it was nobody’s business. But that was ten years ago. And the best that Sarah of now could do was scramble for the water filter on the counter and run out the door.

There was no one around outside. The night was dead quiet as she ran into the parking lot. As she approached the fire she realized she could feel no warmth from it, no heat at all.

And then it spoke.

Be not afraid. The voice was resonant, thundering through her bones and rattling her teeth. Sara felt her heart drop into her stomach. All consuming. This is what your god says, is it not? Be not afraid.

She fought for something to say in the presence of something that apparently strove to emulate the divine and could only think of, “I don't believe in God. Not all of us do.”

The flames billowed in the wind. Its next words were thoughtful. I see. Your sacred texts were studied. We chose this form because we believed it would be familiar to you. And that it would gain notice. We see now that we have failed.

She remembered, vaguely, a story about a burning bush. A warning heeded. She had never been an expert on religion. Mostly she’d fallen asleep during Sunday school lessons. “Because nobody recognizes the symbol?”

Because none have taken notice. The blaze burned brighter, as if offended that no one had come to it. If circumstances were different she might have laughed. Is fire not destruction to you still? Does it not pollute your air, burn your crops, bring malady to all?

“Well, it’s early in the morning,” she protested. The desperation in her voice surprised her. The water filter hung off her hand lamely. “People are asleep.”

We have been here for hours. The fire was so bright against the pitch black of that early morning that it seared her eyes but she could not look away. She wished that she could. At first we were a small fire, so that we would not pose any danger. But people would not stop. They would complain, but they would not stop. So we grew, and grew, and still there was no one. 

“We’re just tired.” Sara could think of nothing more to say. 

So are we. Of watching you bear witness to your own calamity and remain stagnant. This is why we have come. Your sky fills with smoke, your winters get shorter, and your trees burn. We have come to choose a champion. The voice was rapturous now, almost prideful. She was forced to crane her neck higher as the fire grew. 

“And you came to Minnesota? Why here?”

We will go wherever people will listen. Wherever there are those who will follow our cause.

Sara took stock of the situation. Standing in her apartment parking lot with holey slippers and a Six Flags t-shirt. She hardly felt like the new messiah.

“Well you came to the wrong place. I’m not the person you’re looking for.”

Aren’t you? There was a flash as the flames fanned out, almost reaching her. She flinched. When you were 8 your school gave you a tree to plant in your backyard. You watered the sapling every day and measured its growth diligently. And when a storm that summer uprooted it you cried for hours. You care for the planet, do you not?

“But why not go to the billionaires,” she asked the fire, “the CEOs, someone who can do something about it? I’m nobody. I’m no one.” And shamefully, thinking of her rundown hovel of an apartment and a bed shared with no one she knew it to be the truth. She was no revolutionary. 

And would they notice a fire in their streets? Would they answer us?

Sara had run out of defenses. They knew it too, from the sparks the fire spat out. They were just as desperate for this as she was, whatever they were. “No. They wouldn't."

Then will you heed our call, Sara? She looked back to the apartment, praying for a window to open behind her. None did. And the world continued to sleep. Will you join us in saving your planet from its destruction? In changing its course?

She thought of second grade. Finding her tree in pieces strewn across their small backyard. Gathering each stick and broken branch with her mother and wailing into her pillow. Her parents telling her that this was just the way of the world, there had been no guarantee that the tree would have survived anyhow. And it was only one tree, after all. It was never going to save the world. The helplessness she’d felt. She reached up and emptied her water filter onto the bush. 

It kept burning.

“I have work tomorrow.”