F l a m b o y a n t F i r e
by Butch Widing
Mark separated paper and cardboard when disposing of trash. He kept a special spot in the basement to store it. When he felt there was enough to warrant a fire, he hauled it behind his house, down the slope a ways, and stuffed it into the fire can. The can was a drum cannibalized from an old Maytag dryer. It was large and low, much better than a fifty-five gallon drum mostly everyone else used. He had cleared the overhead branches away to lower the risk of any sparks igniting them. He tended the fire until the highest flames reduced themselves to the lowest flames. He enjoyed this chore. He felt warmed by the fire, much more than the physical warmth it provided. It was friend and foe at the same time. On occasion, he smoked a Swisher Sweet, flicking the ashes off his small cigar into the ashes of the fire can.
This beautiful, crisp September morning found Mark in the basement consolidating discarded personal papers and empty Pepsi boxes. His wife drank coffee and watched early Saturday morning programming. She helped him carry paper to the can from time to time, but today's load was small. Mark set the box of paper and cardboard outside the basement door next to the other two boxes on the concrete patio. He slipped on his hooded sweatshirt and put a book of matches into the pocket.
"I'm going out to burn now," he yelled up the steps. He could hear the drone of the television.
He carried the three boxes down the slope to the dryer drum. A blue jay's shrill cry was answered by a group of crows cawing in the distance. He stuffed one box of papers into the can, shredded the box, laid the pieces on top, and pulled the matches out of his pocket. A butterfly landed on the cardboard pieces.
"Hey, shoo now fella, you're not gonna like this heat."
He wiggled the cardboard shred. The butterfly took off, flying erratically up the slope. Mark lit a match and dropped in into the drum. It puffed and went out. He lit another and held it under a piece of paper until the flames licked toward him. He dropped it atop the cardboard. Flames danced skyward. He grabbed his fire-stick, which started life as a mop handle. He always kept it stuck in the ground next to the can. He pressed down the burning papers. A splinter slid into his thumb.
"Damn!" He shook it rapidly. A few small droplets of blood sizzled in the fire. A semi drove by the front of his house breaking the spell the burning had provided. "Noisy bastards," Mark muttered. "I wish I had the power to do something about them."
The ground trembled under Mark's feet; he staggered backwards. The fire can danced sideways.
"What the hell?" He steadied himself with his fire stick.
Thick, black smoke emerged from the center of the fire, spiraling up like television’s depiction of the Tasmanian Devil. It corkscrewed up to twenty feet and sank back down to ten. Mark stepped back a few more feet, mesmerized. The blackness within the smoke thrashed outward in random directions. The ground tremors ceased. A figure formed out of the smoking blackness.
"Your wish, Sire, is my desire to fulfill," Mark heard a voice speak in his mind. A burly, dark figure with red eyes formed before him. It stood in the fire. Mark could see flames inside its mouth when it spoke.
"Holy Jesus!" Mark exclaimed.
"I have seen this Jesus you speak of, Sire; he is truly powerful in the minds of men." The voice inside Mark's head was as soothing as it was alien.
“I must be hallucinating,” Mark thought. He closed his eyes, counting to ten and opened them to see the entity smiling at him.
"The Wishmaster selects carefully. You have been chosen, Sire."
"Chosen? Why?" Mark asked the incongruous image.
"You are in need of a wish, Sire, and that being as insignificant as it sounds is the opposite. As you have heard many times in life, be careful what you wish for; it just might come true. The Wishmaster's own words, Sire."
Mark stepped back from the figure hovering over the dryer drum. The heat was becoming unbearable. "How much time do I have to decide on a wish?"
"Sire, you do not remember? You have made your selection. The power is yours; use it wisely."
"What power?"
"You must discover that on your own, Sire, the Wishmaster is crafty as well as generous. The Wishmaster asks one favor in return."
“Here's the catch,” thought Mark. "What might that be?"
"First, be aware that every time you use your wish-power it will distort the reality around you. What you perceive as real, may not be so. You must choose wisely when the time arises.
"And the favor?" Mark asked
"Payment is due when the Wishmaster decrees it.” The figure folded its arms and tilted its dark head back.
"Payment?"
"Oh yes, a small price to pay for such a vast power. Payment is in direct proportion to your actions. Do you concur, Sire?"
Mark stood thinking about the consequences of direct proportion. If he rid the world of noisy trucks, what could payment be? It couldn't be that bad. "Would you consider my payment to be good or bad for me?"
"That depends on you, Sire, and your perception of good and bad. What is good for the Wishmaster, will be good for you."
Always having been greedy and selfish by nature, Mark made his decision. "Tell your Wishmaster, I, uh, concur."
"As you wish, Sire." The figure shrunk in size and dissipated. Mark stood deep in thought, looking at the small fire that remained. He wasn't sure if he should tell his wife of this experience or not. He decided not to until he found out what his power was, if any. He giggled to himself. The Maytag man had spoken. He heard that people got delirious within the grip of power, that eventually the power gripped them; it would be different with him.
"Honey, breakfast is ready," Mark's wife Jan called down.
"Coming." Mark took one last look at the dwindling fire, shoved the fire-stick into its accustomed hole, and walked up the grassy slope.
* * *
Mark spent the better part of the day mulling over what his new power might be. He was feeling kind of ridiculous. He slapped himself and felt pain. "Nope, I'm not the man of steel. I can't stop trucks with my bare hands." He tried levitating objects with his index finger like 'Uncle Martin.’ Nothing happened.
He decided to sit on the front porch, sip a beer, and relax for awhile. Jan left for her usual Saturday shopping expedition. Their housecat, Gray, slept soundly in an upstairs windowsill.
Mark could hear a large truck approaching. The eighteen wheels spinning against the pavement produced a cacophonous, ominous sound. Mark could feel the concrete humming under his sandals. The crescendo doubling and doubling again until it seemed impossibly loud. The truck drivers (most likely frustrated race car drivers) enjoyed treating the two-lane highway as a road course, pushing the massive vehicles past the limits of safety for them and the residents. Mark could see the smirk on their sunglassed faces when they whipped by. He watched the silver flatbed take the curve at the top of the hill and approach the house. They usually came by so fast; the suction ripped flower heads off their stems. This truck was going faster than most because it was empty. Mark concentrated on the large vehicle. He pictured it falling out of the sky toward the center of Bell Lake.
"Make it so," he said in his best Captain Picard impression.
The sound of the truck abruptly stopped, and then the truck vanished. The beer can fell out of Mark's hand, rolling off the porch, leaving behind a wet design.
"Holy crap!" He stood up and walked down the road. "Oh my Jesus God, well I'll be..."
* * *
A large silver truck fell into the center of Bell Lake. The driver was knocked unconscious upon impact. It sank without fanfare in ten short minutes. A few bubbles broke the surface. Concentric circles atop the lake continued getting larger and slower as they expanded. The lake was closed for the season. A couple driving by in an old Scout reported seeing a silver UFO plunging out of the sky. Local folks dismissed the claim. It was never investigated.
* * *
Mark had ambiguous feelings about his power. He was glad to rid the highway of one driving menace, but he didn't intend for the driver to be killed. To his relief, he read in Sunday's paper that a babbling man whose clothes were soaked was found next to Bell Lake Road on Saturday night. Mark would find a way to exorcise the highway of these driving menaces without actually harming the driver, and the only logical way to accomplish this was to go to the source, the truck stop. He decided to follow the next offender and deal with just the vehicle after the driver stopped for fuel or eats.
"Jan, will you go down to the Mall and pick up some underwear for me?" Mark asked.
Jan looked up from her magazine. She hoisted her eyebrows. "Really...underwear?"
"Yes, I'll hang around here and finish up the laundry. I might take a ride later...down to see Bill." He held his hands out in a pleading gesture. He didn't want Jan finding out about his power. At least not yet.
Jan felt he was acting a little bit strange, like he had something on his mind that was bothering him. "Oh, I get it. NASCAR is driving the circles today and you want to pick up Bill so you guys can watch it here and have a couple beers."
"Hey, guilty as charged." He smiled broadly. Jan gathered her keys and bag. She pecked Mark on the cheek.
"Don't get into any trouble, 'kay?"
"Me?" Mark held his hands out, palms up.
"See ya' later." Jan exited out the side door to her car.
Mark positioned his car in the driveway. He decided to tail the first truck going east because of the Interstate rest stop five miles down. He didn't have to wait long. He heard the rumbling of the tires over the next hill. He started his car. He felt like a state trooper ready for the chase. A large red tanker sped by. Mark dropped in behind it. He had a tough time matching speed and keeping up with the truck. It was doing between sixty-five and seventy on the winding road.
The tanker followed the blacktop into city limits and pulled into Marge's Truck Stop. It was advertised as being the last stop on the Interstate for fifty miles. The business kept this end of town alive. Mark parked near the restaurant where he could get a clear view of the truck parking lot. The driver swung the tanker into the first available slot. It sat twelve spaces back. Mark watched the driver enter the restaurant; he drove slowly behind the line of trucks. Mark concentrated on the red tanker. He visualized it shrinking down to two feet long.
"Make it so."
The truck shimmered. A red fog enveloped it. When the breeze blew the fog clear, there sat a miniature red tanker. Mark thumbed his trunk button, got out of his car, scooped up the toy truck, and deposited it in his trunk. He was feeling giddy with power. He hopped back in the driver's seat chuckling to himself.
Looking in his rearview mirror while driving out he said, "Wait'll that guy comes looking, he'll report it stolen. No muss, no fuss...just us." He winked at himself.
Mark pulled into his driveway and popped the trunk. He carried the small truck down to the fire can.
"Time to get rid of the evidence."
He shook the truck. The tanker part still had gas in it. He tilted it back and forth deciding how to get the fuel out when he thought he heard a tiny voice. He wondered briefly if this was what the Wishmaster meant by distortion of reality. Maybe he was supposed to recognize it as such and ignore it as an illusion. He held the cab up to his ear.
"Help me, help me," A woman's voice screamed.
Mark looked inside the small window and saw a miniature woman staring back at him.
"I was in the sleeper, am I still dreaming?" Her voice sounded like The Fly from the old black and white movie.
Mark studied her and decided she was part of the illusion the Wishmaster had referred to. Maybe this was a test. He went to the tool shed and returned wielding a cutter maddox, a large funnel, a glass bowl, and an empty five-gallon gas can. He punctured the tanker and held it over the gas can. The fuel poured out. The woman in the cab jostled from window to window screaming during the entire process.
Mark hummed to himself, "Waste not, want not." He needed gas for his riding mower.
Mark put some small branches in the fire can and doused them with gas. He lit the material, admiring the roaring result. He put a few more pieces of larger wood on the fire, being careful to leave enough room for the truck to burn. When he was satisfied, he dropped the tanker in the fire and jumped back. The fire flared, almost singeing him. The truck driver's girlfriend screamed. Mark poured a couple ounces of gas into the bowl and tossed it on the fire. The crackling of dry wood and the sizzling of wet wood smothered the woman’s screams. He watched the truck burn for a few minutes, pushing it down into the hot embers with his fire stick.
"Wishmaster, have I done well?" Mark's face glistened with sweat from the intense heat. Drool leaked out the corner of his mouth. His eyes reflected the flames of the burning truck. "Red tanker, fire truck, funeral pyre, flames go higher." He sang in a monotone voice.
Somewhere deep beneath the earth the Wishmaster smiled and nodded.
When Jan returned from shopping, she found Mark asleep on the couch. He reeked of smoke. She picked up the television remote and turned the television off.
“I guess he didn't pick Bill up after all.” She was concerned about Mark; he was acting strange lately. She decided not to wake him; she would discuss it with him later.
Mark slept like the dead he was soon to become. He awoke around three in the morning. He sat up feeling groggy and disoriented.
“Man, oh, man, what is that smell?” He sniffed his tee-shirt. “My God, it's me. I smell like I just crawled out of the fire can.” His bladder was full.
He staggered to the bathroom, closed the door and stood in the dark relieving himself. He finished, zipped up, and turned the cold water on at the sink. He let his hands fill up and splashed water over his face. He could see dim outlines of items in the room from the moonlight sifting through the curtains. He looked at himself in the mirror while drying his face. He looked awful. His image faded. The mirror went black. He could see a light at the bottom of the mirror as if it was transformed into a window. He leaned closer. The light grew brighter. He squinted. A dark swirling mass emanated from the center of the brightness.
"Sire, it is almost time."
Mark jolted back, eyes wide. The dark figure melted into the silvering of the mirror. Mark once more looked at himself. His image was almost as startling as the Dark one's.
Mark exited the bathroom and went outside, closing the door softly behind him. The cool night air felt good, invigorating. He sat on the porch rocker. His mind was cloudy; it was hard to concentrate. He was suddenly terrified of the Dark one. He had sensed the evil behind the smiling politeness. The few short seconds that he saw the figure, he heard painful moans, groans and wailing sifting through his soul, trying to carry him away. He rocked slowly. Mark heard a drone in the distance.
"Nah, it can't be, not at this hour."
As the sound of the wheels on the highway approached, Mark's anger escalated. His head was turned in the direction of the approaching eighteen wheeler, his eyes as red as the Dark one's. He saw the stretch of highway brighten as the truck followed the lights around the curve. Mark couldn't believe how fast this truck was going. He stood up and walked to the center of the eastbound lane. He stood facing the oncoming truck with his hands on his hips. He imagined the truck free falling over the Atlantic Ocean.
He grinned and said, "Make it so."
The truck approached rapidly, bearing down on the defiant man standing in the road. The driver sounded the air horn.
Jan jolted awake, jumped out of bed and ran to the window. She peered through the mini-blinds. She couldn't believe what she was seeing.
"Mark!" She screamed.
The truck's headlights bathed Mark in a harsh glow.
"Make it so!" He pointed his finger at the approaching semi.
The driver applied a little more pressure on the gas pedal. The air horn sounded a continuous peal. The last thing Mark saw was the Dark one behind the steering wheel. The charred corpse of a young woman sat next to him.
The Wishmaster grinned. He had been labeled by other names throughout the centuries, but he preferred Satan. It had a devilish ring to it, a certain panache, yes, a flamboyant fire.