Burning Trash

By Dylan Robinson

As the first tree exploded, sending nature’s shrapnel onto the hill just outside his yard, Jay decided he was going to kill himself. It was an accident, but as the forest continued to erupt like fireworks set off too close to the ground, he had his doubts that the town would see it that way, or care. The smoke had already begun to billow, a signal flare, as if God himself was pointing his finger saying, “Here he is. Here’s the idiot who set your homes on fire.”

It was, after all, obvious.

There was a distinct line, like the kind kids draw in the sand, around his well-hydrated Kentucky Blue-Grass lawn. An invisible wall against what now looked like Vietnam after the advent of the flamethrower. By now, the love child that Jay and his disgusting trash burning habit had created was roaring. Little monsters grow so fast.

So, he ran.

Sucking silver monarchs and wooden fireflies as holy penance, he ran to his fire. As his Nike’s began to melt on the desolate blackness, a highway he paved for his funeral, he left rubber behind, and ran. He stumbled to the tree-line just as his hair began to combust and his Levi’s began to meld with his skin. There are fates worse than death.

Headline: Cache Creek Fire Claims One

Categories: Fiction, Issue 5 | Leave a comment

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