When the fire came

When the Fire Came

It doesn’t begin with flames.

It begins with the body knowing before the mind catches up.

A tightening in the chest.

A metallic taste.

The smell — sharp, bitter, wrong —

burning eucalyptus, burning earth, burning things that should never burn.

The air feels aggressive, pressing in,

as if the world itself has turned hostile.

It arrives before the flames—

that sound.

A roar that isn’t wind,

isn’t thunder,

but something alive

and starving.

The noise fills every space,

climbs inside ears and ribs,

vibrates through bone.

It is not just loud —

it is intentional, relentless,

a predator announcing itself.

The heat hits like a fist.

Air burns my lungs.

Ash rains sideways,

stinging skin,

blinding eyes,

the sky turning feral orange.

Breathing becomes work.

Every inhale scrapes.

Smoke coats the mouth, the throat,

leaves grit between teeth.

The sky feels low, collapsing,

as if it might crush us just by existing.

Animals scream.

Not noise—

screams.

The kind that rip through bone

because fear has found a voice.

Their terror is unbearable because it is pure.

No logic. No hope.

Only instinct clawing for survival.

It slices through me faster than the heat.

My dogs cry and claw and circle,

wild-eyed, knowing

what I don’t want to say aloud:

this is it.

Time fractures.

Hands shake so hard they feel borrowed.

I search for something useful to do,

something that feels like fighting back,

even if it’s meaningless.

I hose the shed like it matters,

hands shaking,

water hissing uselessly against fire’s breath.

“Shh, it’s okay,” I lie to them,

while my heart tries to escape my chest.

The water smells clean for half a second

before it vanishes into steam.

The fire answers with a deeper roar,

leaning closer, daring us to believe.

Through the roar, I barely hear it—

the raw growl of the plane overhead,

cutting the sky open,

spilling red water everywhere.

Each pass I pray,

please let this one be enough.

Firefighters move through smoke like ghosts,

faces tight, voices sharp,

doing what they can

against something that wants everything.

They look impossibly small.

Human.

Brave in a way that feels fragile

against a force that does not care.

I believe—

no, I know—

we will be swallowed.

The heat becomes unbearable,

skin screaming retreat.

Fear sharpens into certainty.

This is how it ends —

not quietly,

but screaming and bright and merciless.

I run inside,

leave the noise clawing at the walls,

kneel where prayers feel small and desperate,

begging God, the universe, anyone—

please.

The sound outside is monstrous,

so violent it feels like it alone

could kill us.

Like terror has weight.

Like noise can crush life.

Then—

quiet.

Not peace.

Just absence.

Even afterward, sleep will smell like smoke,

dreams crackle awake,

silence flinches,

shadows glow,

and I will listen for sirens,

counting breaths,

waiting for morning

to prove survival again today.

The silence is wrong.

The body doesn’t trust it.

Ears ring.

Heart stumbles, unsure what to do without terror driving it.

The heat loosens its grip,

smoke drifts instead of attacks.

I peek out—

firefighters gulp water,

faces streaked with ash,

still hosing,

still fighting,

refusing to let the fire win its last hunger.

Everything is black.

Trees—skeletons.

Ground—charred memory.

The world reduced to ash and silence.

Smoke clings,

threads itself into lungs,

into clothes,

into time.

I wonder if I will ever smell anything

but soot again.

The smell feels permanent,

like it has branded memory itself.

Like this moment will follow forever.

I look at the dogs.

They stop crying.

As if they understand

the danger has stepped back,

not gone—

but paused.

What’s left is ruin.

Blackness.

And breath.

And somehow—

we are still here