In the Fire of his Eyes: Flash Fiction

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I could even recall with perfect clarity the satisfying crack it made when he missed and broke it in half against the edge of the table. Finally, after several tries, I came up with something that would at least approximate the original piece enough for my brothers and me to have a good laugh over it. Especially once it was glazed brown.

Probably way less abrasive. The first few months, everything I made—pencil holders, mugs, ash trays, whatever—came out looking like a bong. Each crackle and pop, I decided, must surely be the death knell of a clumsy spoon rest. As soon as the kiln was cool enough to fully open, David reached in with a blackened oven mitt and pulled out one of his figures.

Flash Fiction: Fire & Ash

Even filmed over with ash, it was expressive in a weird, misshapen way. Painting and glazing are two entirely different beasts. Since everything turns some shade of brown in that old stove, I figured glazing would be the least of my worries. At least until I saw what color my best spoon rest turned out.

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He set my masterpiece on a cooling rack, sidled up against me, slipped his arms around my waist and pressed his lips to my ear. Brilliant as usual JCP, thank you so much for all the ongoing stories! Like Like. Thanks so much for asking, Georgina! You are commenting using your WordPress. You are commenting using your Google account. You are commenting using your Twitter account. You are commenting using your Facebook account.

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Something about that helped me move forward. But to do what?

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My planning mind was frozen. So I played with scale. If I watched on Twitter, on my iPhone, I could reduce the size of the new leader to an inch. Beyond that, I was in panic mode, blood pressure spiking.

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I was walking down Flatbush in a bitter wind. The sidewalk to my right was interrupted, the basement level storage next to the Hungry Ghost open, that set of doors to the underworld open wide. Thinking about what almost happened. He could see my body falling down into darkness. I could tell from his eyes.

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We grabbed each other and a third guy on the sidewalk and there was a moment of peace and humility and connection, Brooklyn style. Then off he rushed. Then he surprised me. The history.

Once we had the oldest library in the world, 3 million maybe 3. All open to all the people. Even the strangers. He made me think. Millions of books, in one location. At Greenlight, it was more like, what? And the place is full of passion and conversation. You see the water from every place. You just go north and south, the water within view. Not Cairo. Too much people. See, here, I have a video. Waterfront everywhere. We parked outside the entrance of Greenlight, in the center of thriving Fort Greene, and he showed me photographs on his iPhone from his visit that summer.

Soaking Worship // With Fire In Your Eyes Theme // Com Fogo Em Teus Olhos theme

Glittering sunlight. I could imagine the millions of books, from centuries ago. How far away Alexandria seemed. How far he had come. He showed me the video he had taken walking through Alexandria, and a digital image of a painting of the great library of Alexandria burning. Julius Caesar, the Emperor from Rome, cut the money to the scholars.

I could see my friends gathering inside, some on the stage to read from books they had written, some in the folding chairs to listen.

I stayed in the car a while longer, watching his videos, hearing his stories about that great library with millions of books, free for any scholar in the world. And how the Roman emperor brought it down. Jane Ciabattari is the author of two short story collections: California Tales and Stealing the Fire.

She has been honored with three Pushcart Prize special mentions, O.