The Old Fireplace by Foster Trecost

I gave each line a fair start but finished only a few. After the first page, I was eager to sign so I quickly flipped to the second. But in place of continued fine print, my eyes locked with letters so bold they mimicked a thicket, demanding slow and careful steps:

USE OF THE FIREPLACE IS FORBIDDEN

            The lease went on to say any object, ignited or otherwise, placed in the cavity would result in immediate eviction. The passage presented an unwelcome exercise in restraint. Since discipline has never been a strong point, I sought to clarify: Newspapers? Books? Candles? No. Nothing was allowed.

            It wasn’t much to look at. Days of luster, if such days ever existed, elapsed long ago. Where the mantle once hung, a strip of unpainted brick sketched a two-dimensioned mantle shape. Neglect had reduced it to little more than a square hole in the wall. I wondered when it last housed a fire, and hoped it was a fire worth remembering.

            I imagine the summers were difficult. Winter nights, that’s what it wanted, nights when hungry tongues reduced wood to hot coals. Maybe kids stabbed marshmallows with sticks. Or lovers snugged on the hearth. I invented memories until a late fall evening allowed crisp air to creep inside, leaving a chill best answered with a rolling blaze. But that wasn’t an option.

            Or was it?

            Even if I’d gone no further, I broke lease when I prepared the cavity with kindling and wood, but further I went. I tucked crumpled paper into crevices, then, like a bedridden patient who longed to run, I set the fireplace free. It burned with a reckless glow, stealing chill with the skill of a seasoned thief. I smiled and it seemed to smile back. I had no way of knowing what was about to happen, but maybe it knew. When the firefighters finally left, the fireplace stood tall, the last man standing.

            The next morning, I went back to where the house had been. Sunshine would’ve been misplaced, like a light left burning in an empty building. A breeze blew ash from the slab and chased leaves around the lawn. I walked to the fireplace.

“Now that,” I said, “was fire worth remembering.”

If it could talk, I like to think he thought so, too. I drove away wondering, among other things, what I would tell my landlord.

Foster Trecost writes stories that are mostly made up. They tend to follow his attention span: sometimes short, sometimes very short. Recent work appears in Literally Stories, Fabula Argentea, and Halfway Down the Stairs. He lives near New Orleans with his wife and dog.