Xeela was running. Did she always, or was it just an illusion that she had been running forever? In her mind, clouded by smoke and frantically pumping blood as it was, there could be no distinction. Behind her, the horrified silence of what few onlookers there were to her crime was broken by sporadic coughs and sobs intermingling with the lovely, lovely sound of the greatest element: Fire! Dancing merrily over the collapsing house it clung to, clothed in nature's wondrous fineries, it should have had her audience gasping. NO. They were not enlightened, she knew.

To run with the fire's flames- this was good. 


Behind her, part of the burning roof of her artwork collapsed, sending burning debris onto the houses adjacent on both sides, which caught on fire as well. 

The fire truck was not even close yet.

A glance back from our prodigy, and exultation raced through her mind much in the same way she did through the boring, dark, streets. Now even those stupid, unnatainable stars were weaker than her blaze- yes, of course the blaze was hers! Herfamily's house, maybe, but her doing! Even the stars were blotted out now by her fire. This was power.

Power. Powere. Poure. Oor. Oor! Her brother had been sleeping in the house, and he was too young to escape on his own! But... he was a tribute to a force greater than himself, greater than all of us, was he not? No! He should be here to see her triumph- she had to return.


Now cut to an areal view of the neighborhood. Half the place is now in flames, and already a firetruck lies abandoned  while others struggle. Put in place now the dotted line that is Xeela's path. Now pick it up again- but some is burning in the fires. This does not stop her, though: how can it when those tongues of red are her children? No, she races on, but with new pain in her crispy legs- like KFC. KFC is burning in her head too, a bucket of crispy Xeela legs tossed one by one into the pot.  Here is her house (is it her house? how can she tell?), and it is flattened. No baby can survive a bed of embers and molten nails. or can they?

Maybe she can. 

There is pain at first, and then blissful nothingness. She is fire, regal and queenly, surrounded by the softest of flickering veils. But then that, too, leaves, and she is falling away.

Away from home.

The End

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