Soul Food

The cabin in the woods had been there for years but one night, a candle burned in the window. The glow was a welcome light in the desolate husk of a home, a beacon of warning to all who looked upon it.

Flickering flames of gold danced sporadically through the cracked glass of the window pane, the dust particles in the air distorted by the flames impetuous heat, flustered by the altered state of it's usual path.

The little fire licked impatiently at the atmosphere around it, reaching out to consume what was once there, but had long passed away. Searching the vacant halls, it wept to find them empty. Every room, every corner, devoid of fuel for the fragile, fledgling fire. And so it sat on the cotton wick and it waited.

Tales of the mysterious fire travelled through the little town that laid claim to the to it, but no one dared cross the threshold to investigate the spooky sparks. Theories were exchanged between the citizens. Was it a ghost? A sign? Part of a prophecy? A warning, maybe? But soon the fandom died down and they forgot. The theories, inquiries, questions all forgotten. But time was folly for the little flame, so it continued it's waiting game.

Finally, the infant inferno was introduced once more to it's lifeblood. One crisp winter evening, frigid winds ushered it into the cabin, swirling and twirling about. Rusty hinges squawked, betraying their age, as the intruders pushed their way in, the tiny tinder teetering upon the wick, clinging with casual confidence. The door was shoved closed, halting the wind, stilling the stir.

Peace once again restored, the flame flickered fanatically, finally within reach of something familiar. Curious, the intruders grew closer, watching as it danced upon it's waxy stage, putting on a rather magnificent performance. Craving more entertainment, more warmth, they decided to bring the fire into the old stove. Intending, of course, to fertilize the flame and expose more of the bitter, battered cabin to it's delightful glow.

Tipping the candle forward, they urged the burning blaze onto a prepared bed of kindling, each lending a breath to stir the embers into a new, violent fury. Leaning close, they could feel the warmth on the fuzz of their faces, as if it had reached out to caress their chilled cheeks, brushing the last of the flakes from their lashes.

Satisfied with a job well done, they began to better insulate the homey hut, putting ancient pieces of furniture and décor in front of holes that time and neglect had worn into it. Sitting again, they held up their fingers full of frost, watching as the colors danced before their eyes. Slowly, warmth began to spread through their numb limbs, the familiar prickle of feeling returning to the tips of their noses, their toes. Skin now warm, they continued to view the playful of amber, rose and gold show, sparks and colors shifting with delight at the attention. At the taste.

Soon, the little flame became less entertainment and more light as the intruders went on with other activities. From light, it was shifted to furnace as they settled in for a long night, the monstrous storm barely yet showing it's ugly head. Huddled, the individuals closed their eyes and dreamed of a welcome rescue and hot cocoa.

However, the little flame did not sleep. Nor did it crackle. As it grew, it was not consuming the debris put beneath it. Nor was it swallowing the oxygen in the air, turning the kindling to ash. Instead, it slowly seeped from it's place in the stove and started to slide across the floor, leaving the brittle, wooden floorboards behind unscathed. Slipping between each crack of wood, the blaze blew forward, sliding slowly beneath the guests.

Convinced of their state of slumber, the flame began to feed. The heat of the fire grew more intense as it shifted it's color from amber to azure, it's fingers beginning to explore. Humming, almost purring as the previous hair, so gently warmed, now curled as it was singed with the ferocious flame. As they drew in their relaxed, deep breaths of slumber, the unlucky usurpers began to burn. As the cinders stirred the sleeping pair, the was nothing to be heard besides that sound. The humming. The cracking.

The cracking.

Eyes still shut in ignorant slumber, the intruders' bodies hovered inches from the dust covered floor, the cold blue flame reaching inside, burning their very souls to ash. Licking up every morsel, every dust fragment that had once been a whole soul. It consumed the fabric of their identity, drawn in further with each unknowing breath. As the flickers were fed to flames, and flames fed to pillars, and pillars to waves, the visitors began to deflate.

Every limb, every appendage. Each part of their being began to concave, smiling cheeks shrunken to bones, eyes sinking into their skulls. Skin wrinkled and sucked dry, locked against their frames with an air tight seal. Replenished, the inferno released them, placing them back upon their permanent resting place. Returning, it found itself once again in the window, the light welcome and warm, watching, on it's wick, as the snow waged it's own violent war outside. And it waited. For another intruder, another guest. Another visitor to delight and amaze. It waited and it waits.

And hungers, just for a taste.