In the end everything will ignite.
Books. Skin. Pre-apocalyptic utopian puppies.
All of it.
My second novel will smoulder alongside the incinerated remains of my first while I stab at my molten keyboard, desperate to smash out a story idea before my fingertips fuse to the metal.
Hephaestus will fester in the corner savouring nasal gifts, choking out sporadic sulphurous laughs while a female character combusts beautifully against a backdrop of missed characterisation opportunities.
Down in the valley of parenthood whole afternoons will be engulfed by the incendiary pressure of time.
Fire in the hole.
Fire in the disco.
Author’s note: this piece was inspired by a conversation with a longtime friend, the adhoc fiction weekly prompt and several blog posts from people I thoroughly enjoy reading (and did so this evening), namely:-
If you take the time to check out all the links it’ll make a whole heap more sense…