So I wake up the sound of carbon monoxide detectors beepin their little beep. The house is dark. Really dark. Why's the house this dark? Flip. Flip. OH BOY
I tip toe to the stairs, edge down to the kitchen, and drift like a sleep walker searching for a dormant heartbeat. I find the stove in the pitch black and rub the cool, smooth metal for a spiral handle. It unlocks like a safe, then a puff of wind pushes back against my face with the scent and flavor of wood ash. My mind flashes to the compost pile, to the wood pile, to the forest. Paper and kindling can be found 6' to the left, and so I crawl through the blue-black on my knees. The paper yeilds to pressure, giving up the stink of formaldehyde and ink. I grab 4 small, dry sticks with a total weight of 4 lbs, taken from a tree that grew 800' North West of this place for 90 years. It grew before there was a stove, before there was a house, before myself, my father, grandfather, or even before the road. The oak died a violent death, but it was not the end. The wood has a tale that remains to be told. My hand pulls red matches hidden in a drawer, from a commode I saved from a dumpster 20 years ago (the lone surviving remnant of my bachelorhood). Streaks of light rip the dark and I see my hands, my arms, my legs. I am real. I'm alive. The living room is still here, the world reborn through flame. The single match is overpowering, hot white light cradled in my hands as I turn for the paper. I'm close. I can almost touch it.
Then the lights come on. DAMN IT!!
I tip toe to the stairs, edge down to the kitchen, and drift like a sleep walker searching for a dormant heartbeat. I find the stove in the pitch black and rub the cool, smooth metal for a spiral handle. It unlocks like a safe, then a puff of wind pushes back against my face with the scent and flavor of wood ash. My mind flashes to the compost pile, to the wood pile, to the forest. Paper and kindling can be found 6' to the left, and so I crawl through the blue-black on my knees. The paper yeilds to pressure, giving up the stink of formaldehyde and ink. I grab 4 small, dry sticks with a total weight of 4 lbs, taken from a tree that grew 800' North West of this place for 90 years. It grew before there was a stove, before there was a house, before myself, my father, grandfather, or even before the road. The oak died a violent death, but it was not the end. The wood has a tale that remains to be told. My hand pulls red matches hidden in a drawer, from a commode I saved from a dumpster 20 years ago (the lone surviving remnant of my bachelorhood). Streaks of light rip the dark and I see my hands, my arms, my legs. I am real. I'm alive. The living room is still here, the world reborn through flame. The single match is overpowering, hot white light cradled in my hands as I turn for the paper. I'm close. I can almost touch it.
Then the lights come on. DAMN IT
!!
why were the carbon monoxide detectors going off?
