Lighting a Fire Spoonerism
I was lighting a fire. The exhilaration of watching the bright, hot licks devour and consume whatever I wanted them to was unbelievable. I was the master. I could destroy and devastate anything from a small leaf to an entire building with just a match stick flame if I chose to.
I spoke to my creation. She came when I summoned her. All I had to do was flick my sleek, shiny white lighter or strike one of my many sacred matches against the matchbox.
And she would appear.
She would begin small and weak and I would feed her. She took my sacrifices with pleasure, and grew. I could hear her soft whispers among the crackling of her feast. She thanked me and praised me. I was her Almighty, and she was mine. She loved me and I desired her. I loved to watch her burn through what I no longer cared about.
She would tell me things. Things I yearned to her. She said I was perfect, just as I said she was. She said I was powerful. She said she was my slave and she would never be as invincible as I.
I never feared her for she could never hurt me.
I inhaled deeply the stench of a freshly lit match, enjoying the hot smoke disappearing into my nostrils. I closed my eyes and relaxed.
The match slowly slipped from my hand. I let it. She wanted to be free. With my eyes still closed, I began to smell rubber burning. I licked my lips in anticipation of what she had begun to consume and I opened my eyes to watch her.
Black smoke immediately stung my eyes and I blinked back tears but secretly I was pleased. I squinted through the smoke to see that the source of my lady's tar-black smoke was the feeding of my shoe. The flames spread up to my ankles and ate my pants away like a starved fox gnawing at a juicy chunk of flesh.
I felt the sting of the burns as the fire rose to meet me. But nothing hurt more than knowing that I had been deceived. My lady had betrayed me.
I finally gave in to the urge to slap away at the flames as they scorched my skin through my clothes. I cried tears of anguish.
I was fighting a liar.