ã€ŠMy Memories of a Flareã€‹


 Chapter 1: Beneath the White Pines

    Her name was Flare, a bit of an unconventional name, but I had always found it charming. Perhaps it was the redness of her hair and the way it danced in the occasional updraft: vivid, much like her namesake. In any case, her name bespoke of passion, and that was certainly appropriate.

    I don''t remember when we first met. It must have been when I was quite young as I can''t remember ever being separate from her. However, my first memory was from the summer of ''02. It was the warmest day of the decade¡ªI loved to explore and still stayed indoors. Such was the extent of the heat.

    Flare knocked on my door at noon, drenched in sweat and giving my mother a shock. I remember Flare marched right through the den and planted her ruby eyes before mine.

    "Aren''t you bored?"

    I was indeed.

    "I''ve found something amazing."

    "What is it?" I put down my book.

    "Magic... You need to see!"

    "Magic?"

    "Yes, it''s magic! I can''t explain it¡ªyou need to see."

    "But my mother says there''s no such thing."

    "There isn''t." My mother had appeared at the doorway. "And Orson isn''t going out in this heat. Neither should you."

    "It''s summer," the little Flare responded. "It''s supposed to be warm."

    "Look at you. You''re halfway to a heat stroke."

    "I''m fine!"

    My mother was a strict woman and wouldn''t have any of it. "Sit put. I''ll be calling your parents." She swept through the kitchen and produced a glass of lemonade.

    "But I''m fine!" Flare whined but flopped onto the lounge and drank.

    My mother left after that, probably to make the call, and the moment she was out of earshot, Flare''s pouting went back to excitement.

    "C''mon, Orson." She gave a smile. "I want to show you."

    "But you heard my mother."

    Flare pointed down the hallway, past the kitchen, and at the unguarded front door. "No one''ll catch us. Let''s go on an adventure."

    I had always been an obedient child. I went to bed on time, did the chores, and got good grades. So, I was surprised when I found myself following her into the forty-degree summer. There was something about her that drew¡ªalways drew¡ªme in.

    My youth was spent in the countryside of Fitzroy Harbour and this day was no different. We crossed Canon Smith Drive and meandered alongside the Carp River. Within fifteen minutes, we were amongst the white pines of the Ottawa Valley.

    Flare dragged me with her sweaty little hand to our usual stomping grounds.

    It was a clearing maybe fifteen meters in diameter. Lined with river stones, Morson''s Creek coursed through, and it was where we''d dip our feet or capture tadpoles. That day, where a pillar of sunlight broke through the trees, a sphere could be seen resting on a stump.

    "What is that?" I wiped the sweat off my brow.

    "It''s our magic sphere!" Flare piped.

    Upon closer inspection, I found the sphere to be lacklustre. It was a plastic 2L bottle fashioned like a football, a knickknack for the FIFA World Cup that year. And I told her as much.

    "But it''s magic," she insisted.

    "No, it''s not. It''s just a bottle."

    "Look." She picked it up and cradled it as if reading the label.

    I craned closer. "What are you doi¡ª"

    Where the sunlight pierced the water, the rays moved... converged out through the other side, and focused onto a leaf. It was smoking.

    "What..."

    The leaf puffed into ash and visible flame.

    "Oh, shoot." Flare stamped it out beneath her shoe.

    I gawked. "How... d-did you?"

    Flare met my gaze with a brilliant smile; she brushed a red lock out of her red eyes. "Magic."

    I later found out that it was not magic, but rather an optical phenomenon wherein a spherical lens acts as a magnifying glass. In fact, the manufacturer eventually faced legal repercussions.

    However, thinking back on it, I feel compelled to agree with the little Flare, regardless of the physical facts. There had been a spark of magic.

    I recalled we spent the rest of that day in the creek, setting countless leaves and the occasional ant ablaze. I went home with quite a few spot burns. Flare did too, although she never seemed to mind the heat.

    We hid our magic sphere from our parents; we spent that summer, and many more, casting magic until the bottle could hold no water. By that time, we had found substitutes in regular magnifying glasses although we still mourned the loss.

    Of course, Flare and I were inseparable even during the school term. The other children mocked us like children often do, but I didn''t care.

    We went to Stonecrest Elementary, a fifteen-minute bus ride down the street. An L-shaped building built on an intersection, the school was where we spent eight years of our childhood. I was fond of the teachers, in particular, Miss Abien, the young immigrant teacher with a passion for instruction.

    Flare and I had her during fourth grade and her best subject was Art.

    With a studio in the southwestern wing, the classes were always well-prepared and enthusiastic. Miss Abien pushed us to be passionate but also wanted us to have technical skills, encouraging the use of references and perspective in our works.

    I remember an assignment about colours.

    "What do colours make you feel?" Miss Abien had asked. "For instance," She beckoned to the sun outside. "What emotion does yellowy sunlight invoke?"

    The class came to a quick consensus. "Happiness?" a boy answered.

    Miss Abien nodded. "That''s the usual feeling. And how about the blueish bounce light?." The room had windows on both sides and a blue cast was prominent from the northern face.

    The class took more time with this response. When the answers did come out, there was more variation: calmness and sadness were common.

    Abien nodded again. "Colours are often associated with feelings," she stated. "It''s a great tool to add feelings into your work. For instance, an artist might see this classroom and paint about the variation of emotion that people may experience at different times."

    Rightfully, this flew over the heads of most of the class, but Abien seemed to find that acceptable. She then shared various works that exemplified colour use. She ended with a red painting.

    "And what does a reddish-orange make you feel?" she asked the class.

    Someone gave the obvious answer. "Warmth."

    "Appropriate. Anything else?"

    To no one''s surprise, the ever-active Flare raised her hand. However, her answer was more surprising.

    "Friendship."

    The response drew some thought. Miss Abien then spoke: "Well, that''s somewhat unconventional. But I can see how that might be the case..." She bit her lip. "Regardless, I''m glad you shared."

    I remained silent.

    Abien proceeded to give the week''s assignment. It was a free-ended painting exercise: exaggerate colours to induce emotion into a subject of choice. Many students choose to reference classroom items, and I had planned to do the same until Flare beckoned to me.

    "What is it?"

    "Come," she urged.

    "But why?"

    "You''ll see."

    We drew up to the front of the class where Miss Abien was rifling through papers. She noticed us. "Ah, Flare and Orson. How can I help you?

    "It''s about the assignment," Flare answered. "I was wondering if we could be a group."

    "It was supposed to be individual," Abien started. She bit her lip. "Oh, why not. I''m sure the two of you have some plans."

    Flare beamed.

    Abien exchanged her gaze between us. "By chance, were you two going to choose a red composition?"

    "Yes''m!"

    "Well, I''d love to see how reds may represent friendship." Abien seemed to say that to me.

    I was still confused by the whole situation, but I trusted Flare. I gave a nod.

    Miss Abien dismissed us, and returning to our seats, I shifted my desk against Flare''s. "Do we have a plan? What are we going to paint?"

    Flare displayed an enchanting smirk.

    She gave no reply but rather had us slather the canvas with an ivy-green wash. We had been taught that underpainting was often used to set a foundation. Burnt sienna was a common choice for painting skin tones, but I was stumped about the green.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

    The answer came when we were returned home that spring afternoon. It was on the bus when Flare told me to meet her at the usual spot. So, I devoured my supper and double-timed it down Canon Smith.

    I found her crossed-legged on a stool in the middle of our clearing. Another stool and an easel were already prepared, and Flare had donned a beret.

    I snatched the seat beside her. "So, what are we going to paint?"

    "Take a guess, Orson," she chirped.

    "A nature scene?" We were in the middle of a forest after all. But there were no autumn leaves that would possess the reds we had promised to employ.

    Flare shrugged. "More or less."

    She mixed a palette of warm tones and passed it to me. She sprang from her seat and approached a single leaf that had been fastened upright. A lens emerged from her pocket.

    "Do your best," Flare encouraged.

    With that, Flare lit the leaf ablaze and I struggled to capture the fleeting moment. And it was damn hard. How were a couple of fourth graders supposed to paint something like fire? But we tried... many times.

    "A bit to the left."

    "You sure?"

    "Yes. More... and light it!"

    It took several dozen leaves and a lot of switching of roles, but the two of us managed something half-decent.

    I was more adept with the details: I understood the values and worked the smoky details with the bristles of the brush. Flare had the passion: each of her strokes dripped with emotion and laid out the colours of the greater painting. I still remember the red strokes, spirited, like the red of her eyes.

    The result was beautiful beyond our years, a depiction of a burning leaf, contrasted against the peace of the white pines.

    Miss Abien must have thought the same, as she showered us with praise, insisting it was magic. She hung the original in the school''s atrium and even submitted a copy to the school newsletter who put a modest article in their next issue.

    But the whole time she kept nagging us: "How did you mean for the flames to portray friendship?"

    Flare would always respond with her mysterious smile, and when Abien turned to me, I couldn''t do much better. The painting did represent Flare and me, but it was a subtle, unconscious thing.

    In a way, Miss Abien had hit the nail on the head: it was magic.

    Anyhow, that painting was the first of many, the majority of which retained our fondness for fire. Our reputation preceded us in the upper years at Stonecrest, and all the teachers gave us freedom in their art classes.

    This freedom was perhaps a shortcoming in sixth grade.

    It was the week after our EQAO standardized exams. Unlike me, Flare had a poor academic aptitude and was notably sullen. To cheer her up, our teacher gave us special permission to the teacher''s lounge.

    It was enormous for the school''s size and came with a fireplace that was¡ªfor whatever reason¡ªleft on year-round. Mr. Taker had thought we''d enjoy painting it and he was right.

    We set up an easel adjacent to the hearth and got to work. Flare and I were practiced by that time and our work drew the appreciation of on-break teachers. We painted into recess, and when the chimes of the clock came, so did Miss Abien.

    "My, what mastery!" she said from behind us.

    We both spun. "Miss Abien!" We had seldom seen her in the past years.

    "It''s Mrs. Scout now." She grinned, rubbing her tummy.

    I was confused, but Flare was quicker on the uptake. "Congratulations, Mrs. Scout!"

    "Many thanks." Scout looked back at our work. "But let''s look at this painting of yours, you''ve gotten so good."

    Flare blushed. "Thank you. Orson and I do our best."

    "It shows."

    "And it''s due to your class. You taught us so much," I added.

    Mrs. Scout laughed. "All my colleagues say I go into too much theory with the pupils. I''m glad that it was interesting for you two."

    "And you gave us feedback. That was always so helpful," Flare said. "It would be great if you could give this piece a look."

    With a nod, Mrs. Scout dissected our work. She loved the feeling and detail we captured. At the same time, she pointed out points of improvement like the colour variation of the floorboards under the firelight.

    She concluded with some kind words. "I hope your friendship lasts and maybe even strengthens." She was rubbing her belly again.

    Flare blushed like a tomato.

    I was confused at the time. Flare seemed to have understood, although I recalled sex ed started in eighth grade.

    Giggling, Mrs. Scout deposited some belongings on the coffee table and left us alone in the staff room.

    We continued our work, but as I added paint splatters, I noticed Flare''s distraction. "What are you looking at?"

    Following the line of her gaze, my eyes came upon Mrs. Scout''s trinkets. Amongst them were a pack of cigarettes, some white packets, and a lighter. I later learnt that the packets were nicotine patches, and that beautiful individuals still have their struggles.

    But at that moment, Flare was transfixed on the lighter.

    We knew what it was, but our households were strict on substance abuse, and we''d never seen one up close.

    Flare snatched it before I could object.

    "What are you doing?" I hissed.

    "Relax, Orson. I just want to try it."

    "Ahhh..."

    She flicked the spark wheel and depressed the fork. A wisp of flame jumped out, blue at the base and orange near the apex.

    "Why is it blue?" Flare tilted her head.

    I shook mine in response.

    Flare scanned the room, and making sure the coast was clear, she whispered: "Maybe it''s magic."

    Of course, she wouldn''t have believed those words at that age. Regardless, her teasing was enough to loosen my nerves.

    She played with the mechanism several times, flicking the flame on and off. She then passed it to me, and her excitement surged when I discovered the adjustment valve.

    We switched the lighter to the max, sat closer, and compared it with our painting. It struck us how different the colours and vorticity had been.

    But the shock was far greater when the two flames became one...

    "Oh shoot." In her concentration, Flare had ignited the canvas.

    We leapt from our seats as the fire consumed our painting and blackened the easel. The smoke detectors began to sound, and Mrs. Scout appeared in the doorway.

    "Flare! Orson!"

    But we were frozen in the middle of the room, in awe of the heat and fire. Scout was forced to rush through the room and extricate us with great difficulty.

    Flare and I spent the afternoon sitting side by side on the football pitch. She had gripped my hand in our flight and refused to relent. It wasn''t of shock but of the mischievousness between partners in crime.

    The fire was extinguished by Mr. Peters with little damage and the whole thing was deemed a freak accident, something about a spark igniting some papers. Mr. Taker was put on paid leave for a month, and the two of us were later offered counselling which we declined.

    When the bus came to take us home, Flare and I were laughing. The day had been exhilarating¡ªand I''m sure Flare enjoyed it more than I did¡ªall without so much as a reprimand.

    Well, we weren''t entirely unscathed. Flare sustained a minor burn across her forearm.

    The blemish faded as we entered eighth grade. So too did our youthful purity. Eighth grade brought about our teenage years and the oddity called puberty.

    It was when I really started to notice Flare, and not just as a friend. She grew taller, even overcoming my height for a bit, and well... fuller. She shed the plumpness of her cheeks and took on sharper features that played with the vibrance of her hair.

    Flare was still cute, always had been to some extent, but there was something more.

    I changed too, and not in such a pleasant way. I had always been somewhat reclusive, and I became aware of her at all times, awkward, leading to discomfort despite our extended friendship.

    This caused plenty of unfocused paint strokes and misread conversations. But still, I enjoyed our time together.

    We painted from imagination: stylized scenes of landscapes and characters and great fires. We frequented the woods of Fitzroy: the clearing had become something of a campsite; we erected fires and played for long hours.

    In fact, we probably spent more time in the forest than we ever had before. It was not without good reason. Our time at Stonecrest was drawing short and secondary school could not guarantee we would be in the same class.

    And so, our last year as children were spent being the biggest children we could. We were reckless, we played, and we made the best paintings we had yet made.

    The graduation ceremony only proved our achievement.

    I remember it as an ordeal, dreary and full of pomp. Stonecrest Elementary had appropriated the local theatre for the ceremony and the pupils¡ªdolled up in too-big suits and dresses¡ªwere sequentially summoned onstage.

    "Why aren''t we with the others?" Flare asked.

    We were in a smaller group, offside from the greater class, most of which had already taken their turn.

    I poked her in the side. "Maybe you''re special."

    "Maybe, I am." A smug grin sat on her lips.

    As it turned out, the notion wasn''t far from the truth.

    The first of our group, Abel Thorsten, was called forth. His anxiety only dissipated when the teachers presented an award for mathematic achievement. Next was Connor Mai for being most likely to be successful. The ceremony continued as such until a familiar name was called.

    "Flare Andelion¡ª"

    I watched as she rose up the stage''s steps. Although many of the students'' clothes were poorly fitted, the same could not be said for Flare. I still recall her sleeveless gown, well-tailored and dyed in pink-red.

    But my appreciation soon turned to surprise.

    "And Orson Timberland... Please come to the stage."

    I remember walking on shaking knees, watched by hundreds of adults. The principal gave little mind to my trembling. "To these bright youngsters, I present the award for artistic mastery."

    As applause thundered, Flare visibly radiated.

    But the principal was not finished. "¡ªfor two recipients, two awards are only fitting. Flare and Orson were also voted the most likely to change the world..." He smiled at the crowd. "For better or for worse."

    The applause was joined by laughter, and Flare grabbed my quivering hand, raising it into the air.

    How was Flare so charismatic?

    After an eternity of my embarrassment, we were allowed to withdraw. Retrospectively, the whole graduation ceremony was not all that special. It was the standard, overdone ceremony, complete with questionable awards... that somehow stayed with me for years.

    The dull event was followed by a dull field trip to end the year. I usually loved field trips, but this one was to Parliament Hill. It was an hour''s drive from Fitzroy Harbour, a great big building with a bell tower¡ªthe Peace Tower, it was called¡ªat its heart.

    I was never one for architecture, patriotism, nor politics. And so, I was horribly bored by the guided tour.

    "The House of Commons is the lower chamber of the Canadian Parliament. It... Errr..." The fifty-some-year-old guide seemed equally disinterested as he drawled on and on.

    I yawned and joked with some of my friends. I was so inattentive that I jumped when someone put their hand on my shoulder.

    It was Emily, a classmate. "Hey, Orson."

    "Yeah?"

    "Come with us."

    I noticed that there were two other girls from our graduating year. I frowned. "What''s going on?"

    "Flare wanted you to come with us," one of them answered.

    "But where would we be going? We''re stuck here in this tour."

    Emily approached closer and whispered. "Flare asked: ''Aren''t you bored?''"

    It turned out that Flare had started feeling under the weather. A teacher had taken her outside for some fresh air. However, I had little doubt it was a ruse: Flare hated politics more than I did and her message was far from subtle.

    I followed the group out through one of the side exits and emerged into the courtyard. A cold spell had befallen the city that day, and frost was present on the lawns.

    "She''s by the fire." Emily pointed. "See her?"

    I nodded and the girls left to rejoin the class.

    Parliament was a collection of buildings shaped like a box, open on one side to Elgin Street. The Centennial Flame, some sort of memorial, could be found near the road. Flare and Mr. Unger were warming around it.

    "Orson?" Unger called as I neared. "You''re Flare''s close good friend, right?"

    "Yeah. What happened?"

    "She''s feeling sick. Nausea, fatigue, sweating. I''ve called her parents already."

    I nodded and took a seat. We waited for a reaction, but Flare remained hunched over. There was another moment''s silence until Unger''s phone rang and he left to answer.

    When Mr. Unger returned, he bore a sheepish look. "Will you guys be fine alone?"

    "What do you mean?"

    "Emily scratched a window or something. Mrs. Liddleton''s having trouble dealing with it."

    "Oh."

    "I''ll only be a minute. Just keep an eye on her." With that, Unger left his overcoat to shield us against the chill and ran across the yard. I later thought about how irresponsible Unger had been. Mr. Taker had been disciplined just years ago for something similar.

    Anyhow, that left me alone with Flare, and she was immediately reinvigorated. "How can someone be so boring?" she exclaimed, referring to the tour guide.

    I chuckled.

    "He couldn''t have been slower if he tried! Weren''t you bored?"

    "Damn right I was!"

    Flare mustn''t have expected the outburst because she roared in laughter.

    I remember it as if the cold day had warmed. It wasn''t just the warmth of the Centennial Flame; it wasn''t the overcoat that draped over our shoulders. It wasn''t even the body heat that we shared¡ªalthough that was great in its own right.

    Mr. Unger eventually reappeared at the front steps and Flare''s next move was magical.

    A gust of wind ran through the Centennial Flame, and it flared. Veiled by the red of the blaze, Flare stole a peck across my cheek. She recoiled, tickling my nose with strands of hair.

    "I..."

    "F-Forget that... Please."

    Mr. Unger was none the wiser as he relieved me of my stewardship. I returned to the tour on reluctant feet, and although passed, the scene replayed throughout the rest of the trip.

    Parliament Hill seemed a little less drab.

    That day, Flare and I spent our first overnight in the clearing. My mother hadn''t allowed it before, but we were able to persuade her with the occasion of our graduation. But there was a condition, she would be supervising us.

    Although we had an uninvited guest, we still enjoyed ourselves. We had prepared tons of food, which Flare and I burnt. We played games and fooled around with Flare''s guitar. Then, we found something really fun.

    "What''s that?" Flare asked as my mother kicked something across the ground.

    "Oh, it''s just a pinecone." My mother picked it up and handed it over.

    "I see." Flare fingered it, lost interest, and tossed it into the fire...

    It exploded as if hit by a magic spell.

    "What?"

    My mother shrugged. "Pinecones do that."

    I remember that Flare threw another one in, and we eyed each other after it popped. We spent a couple of hours gathering pinecones afterwards.

    At bedtime, Flare and I entered adjacent tents¡ªno way my mother would have allowed us to share¡ªand slept by the warmth of the bonfire.

    That summer, we proved my mother wrong: the overnight excursion would not be a one-time thing. By my persistence, we were permitted to spend many nights in the forest.

    It wasn''t always great. It was hot, sometimes it rained, and the mosquitos were voracious. But I still loved the late nights enjoying each other''s company¡ªand yes, decimating Fitzroy''s population of pinecones.

 Chapter 2: Unfamiliar Territory

    As children became teenagers, so too did summer become fall. High school had started, and my fears became reality.

    We attended West Carleton Secondary School, and it was in Dunrobin, a short drive from Fitzroy. It was also big, modern, and far more populated than Stonecrest had ever been.

    I remember the first day as an overwhelming mess. I couldn''t find my classes, couldn''t find my locker, and couldn''t find any peace of mind. On top of all that, the class structure changed when you entered high school: students each had their individual schedules that often differed between friends.

    This was doubly true for Flare and me.

    My parents wanted me to pursue academics, and I was enrolled in enriched mathematics and French immersion. Flare was more attuned with the arts, and I was left alone to make new friends.

    At the time, I was in the midst of my growth and acne had erupted like mushrooms after rainfall. It was imaginable that I would be bullied, but that wasn''t the case. School was never that overt. Few were cruel, but many were indifferent.

    I didn''t perform poorly, top of the class, actually. But it was uncomfortable when classmates asked for help more than for a simple conversation. Much of the day became of longing for the bell''s final chime.

    My one solace was the compulsory arts elective where I was fortunate enough to be slotted with Flare. Even then, I was shocked to discover it was Studio Arts, which included photography, sculpting and ceramics. I had no aversion to these subjects, but it sapped time from what Flare and I really enjoyed.

    What''s more, the teacher was disimpassioned and strict. Mrs. Kidde felt no love for her work and never permitted our collaboration.

    My ineptitude was in contrast to Flare. To her, time was generous. School favoured the bold and beautiful. Flare was nothing if not bold and she only grew prettier by the day.

    Maybe, I felt a bit jealous.

    However, when we returned to the forest, the fire equalized us. I relaxed whenever we set pinecones and twigs ablaze, and it was into the second semester when I felt comfortable enough to open up.

    "What''s up, Orson?" Flare prodded the burning shell of a pinecone.

    I drummed my fingers against my leg. "I just wanted to talk."

    She looked up.

    "I-II... Look, I don''t really know. About the whole high school thing."

    "Sorry, I''m not sure what you mean."

    "It''s just, you know... I mean you know right; you see it right?" I stammered and froze when she cocked her head.

    "You''ll have to explain," she said.

    That was my damn problem, always was. I was a stubborn, dumb kid who had never faced an ounce of adversity. I was the idiot who expected others to read my thoughts and respond appropriately, angering when nothing went my way.

    "Let me start again," I said.

    She blinked with her red eyes. "Go on."

    We sat against a snowy log, hands warmed by the fire, as I told her everything. I''ll never forget the unfaltering focus of her gaze. Flare was the kind of person that would always smile or joke, but to me, she was more thoughtful than anyone.

    "And... That''s it."

    She bit her lip. "Thanks for letting me know."

    I exhaled. "Thanks for listening."

    We continued with our little shenanigans through the night and into the weekend. I had desperately needed an ear, and I felt that the next week would be bearable. I thought nothing would come of the conversation.

    That belief was shattered during Tuesday''s science class when Mr. Kinins introduced a new student. "Alright, class, we have a new student joining us from the Applied course. Go ahead, introduce yourself."

    I had been working on the nomenclature exercise and looked up.

    "Hello everyone!" Flare gave a polite curtsey. "My name is Flare Andelion. Nice to meet you all."

    To that, the class erupted into chatter and Mr. Kinnins was forced to hush them. Under the commotion, Flare snuck into the empty seat beside me.

    "What are you doing?" I hissed.

    "I am..." She noticed the sheet of inorganic naming conventions. Flare looked at me. "Learning some science things."

    "But why are you here?"

    "Cause I... Err¡ªlike science?"

    "But what about your parents? What about regulation?"

    Flare shrugged. "It''s only the third week, we can still drop and change courses."

    "But..." I sighed. "Interest aside, are you sure you can keep up?"

    Flare stared to the side. "Well, I was hoping you could help me..."

    And so, I did.

    I would help her with the homework or reteach key concepts. I had helped many peers with their studies, but this was different. Flare put in genuine effort and cared more for the act than the knowledge.

    It took away time from our forest adventures, but I found that I didn''t mind. It was sufficient to spend time with her.

    In the end, her success was limited. But Flare was not dumb; she just cared little for the subject. Regardless, I was grateful that she had joined the class. It was someone to talk to, not to mention the countless glances I stole.

    Tenth grade was much of the same. Flare still joined me in the Academic-level science course, and I looked forward to it every day.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    We had another common course in Civics and Careers, a pair of half-credit courses that felt half-assed. The teacher cared little for discipline, and we cared little for the content. In a tacit agreement, the class was spent at the back of the room talking about whatever Flare and I felt like.

    This was also the year I adapted to high school.

    It may have been the confidence that Flare gave me, but I pushed myself out of my shell. I made a few good friends in Ron and Jason who were as apprehensive as I was. We had come together, common in our parental pressure.

    This meant enrollment in academic level and higher-year courses. Eleventh-grade computer science and precalculus became our homerooms, and I remember we were the gurus who convened in the back of the room, topping the class with next-to-zero effort.

    Perhaps it wasn''t the most desirable clique, but things were... actually kind of nice that year, by far the best of my high school career.

    However, there was a side-effect. My course load did not permit Studio Arts. Although it had never lived up to my hopes, it was still time that I lost with Flare.

    That precious time further scarcened throughout the year.

    We were encumbered by schoolwork and extracurriculars¡ªFlare partook in lifeguarding and tennis. When we did visit the clearing, we mostly talked and burnt whatever lay around, tired by the commitments of every day.

    This status quo continued until summer. Summer was always the best, where desert became a forest, a white pine forest. It was two months where we did whatever we damn well pleased.

    It was just the two of us, and I could not believe how pretty Flare had become.

    She dressed simply, favouring T-shirts and shorts cut a hand''s length above the knee. She never wore make-up and was often sweaty. Despite this, something was maddening about the twin reds of her hair and eyes, about her unfaltering smirk as we kindled our campfires.

    That damn smile spawned no small number of indecent thoughts, and at midsummer, I finally understood it¡ªI was in love.

    It made me terrified.

    How would she react if she found out? What would happen to our friendship if she rejected me? I thought about the kiss she had planted on my cheek... and thrice as much about the words that had followed.

    Forget that.

    In hindsight, it was obvious that she had liked me too. A girl doesn''t kiss you for no good reason. But at the time, I stuffed my feelings as deep as I could, horrified something might slip.

    It was perhaps my dumbest decision, and little did I know, the eleventh grade would make me regret everything.

    It was a year of crossroads.

    The first decision was about science class. Grade eleven would split science into Physics, Chemistry and Biology. Despite our efforts, I knew Pre-AP would be unsustainable.

    "I can handle it," Flare insisted.

    "Maybe you can. But at what cost?"

    Her stare wavered.

    "Flare, it''s three courses, all Pre-AP. Three times the material, all with higher difficulty."

    Her eyes shimmered.

    I tightened my jaw. "You''re busy with lifeguarding. You have your other courses, and we still want to spend time together. How hard will you need to work for this new addition?"

    Flare''s red eyes watered, and she turned away.

    I put an arm around her. "It''s not your strength."

    "I-I know it isn''t." Flare sniffled. "It''s not about that... I''m worried for you."

    I nearly laughed out in relief. I had tried to persuade her for her own good, only for her worry about my own.

    "Flare, you need to be a little more selfish." I smiled. "It''s not like I''m going to war. And I''m not going alone. Jason and Ron have it just as bad as I do."

    But Flare wasn''t convinced: she shook her head. "And I''m worried about us..."

    At that moment, I realized. Flare was just as anxious I was. High school had built her up to be so perfect. Bold, popular, and gorgeous¡ªall along, Flare Andelion was actually worried about something so simple.

    Flare was wiping her eyes, and I remember she looked so honest I could bite.

    In the end, we came to a compromise. I persuaded my mother to let me take college-level Chemistry, something that Flare would be able to endure with some hard work. My mother didn''t like it, but she eventually obliged when I feigned a stress overload.

    "Ready?"

    "What''s there to be ready for?"

    On the first day of eleventh grade, Flare and I entered the chemistry room together. The class turned out to be a lot better than we had hoped.

    Captained by Mrs. Elrod, the class covered chemical bonding, solutions, and gases. She was a driven teacher who helped digest theoretical concepts, supplementing them with practical demonstrations: brilliant crystallizations or fluorescent solutions.

    And we were allowed to participate directly.

    It was half-classroom, half-lab, with beakers and test tubes and Bunsen burners¡ªFlare and I were enthralled by that last item. A month into the class, Mrs. Elrod felt we were sufficiently trained to run a fun experiment.

    She handed out trays, each topped with three samples of unlabelled salts. "Does each group have one?"

    The students, grouped in pairs before Bunsen burners, all nodded.

    Mrs. Elrod returned to the whiteboard. "Alright, we''ll be doing flame tests today." She drew out a set of concentric rings. "A quick reminder on the theory. When metallic ions are excited by heat, their electrons may jump to higher energy levels. The return of these electrons to the ground state can release light, the magnitude of the drop correlating to the colour."

    Most of the class nodded again.

    "This colour can sometimes be used to identify the cation." She pointed at a chart. "So, I thought we''d play a game. Each group has three random salts from this chart, which you all have a copy of. The goal is to identify the cation in each of the three salts."

    I turned to my partner who was obviously Flare. I remember how sharp she looked, wearing goggles, hair tucked into a bun.

    Elrod kicked us off. "And as an extra challenge, you can try to completely identify one of your salts. You may begin."

    "Ready?" I asked.

    Flare gave a modest smile. "If you are."

    We began by noting our observations. I remember two white salts, one of them flaky, and a blue salt, likely a copper compound.

    Flare then turned the gas valve.

    "Quickly," I reminded.

    Flare fumbled the striker and took a few seconds to light it.

    "Oh shoot."

    Some gas had built up and it burst into a small fireball. It was nothing dangerous, and we stared at each other wide-eyed, trying not to laugh. I adjusted the air hole before anyone could notice.

    "What''s next?" Flare asked.

    "Solutions."

    We poured a finger of water into three tests tubes. Adding in the salts gave two colourless solutions, the copper salt forming a cyan blue. I rinsed a nichrome loop with hydrochloric acid and handed it to her.

    "Do the honours," I said.

    For a moment, her ruby eyes met mine. "Thank you."

    She dipped the wire into the blue solution and thrust it into the flame.

    And... All I remember afterwards was laughter.

    Flare and I laughed like absolute lunatics. It was blue-green! It was magical! We had played with more fire than anyone else, but we could not stop revelling; we drew the attention of the class, but we could not care less.

    Flare did it several times and got the idea to try another salt.

    And it was purple! To us, it was sorcery, burning a lilac as deep as the nastiest bruise. In truth, it was a well-documented phenomenon, but it might as well have been arcane devilry.

    "Orson!" Flare tugged at my lab coat. "You do the last one."

    I accepted the nichrome and, rinsing it in acid, I tried the last salt.

    This one was far more subtle: it burnt reddish-orange, not too different from a wood fire. However, in the flame of the Bunsen burner, it felt uncanny.

    I performed the test a few more times and turned to Flare.

    I remember that some of the classroom lights were dimmed to better reveal the flames. In that murkiness, the periodic red of the flame test splashed across Flare''s wide-mouthed grin.

    "Shall we pick this?" I asked.

    Flare was still mesmerized.

    "Flare?"

    She snapped out of it. "Oh shoot, sorry."

    "This one? I mean to completely identify?" I thrust the nichrome back into the burner.

    The red puffed up again and Flare answered: "... Let''s."

    Reddish-orange belonged to the calcium cation.

    The chart of salts was short, and calcium chloride seemed to be the most likely answer. I was able to confirm it by knocking out the chloride with dilute silver nitrate. We were then able to verify a dihydrate through an action of heat test.

    "Calcium chloride dihydrate," Flare finally muttered.

    "Looks to be."

    Flare stuck out her tongue. "What a stupid name."

    However, I knew that she had etched it into her mind.

    We spent the rest of the period performing flame tests. Reds, purples, greens, yellows: we sampled solutions from other groups and burnt them fanatically.

    In the end, we were the only group to fully identify a salt, and Elrod gave us each a bonus mark. However, she kept asking us a question: "Why aren''t you doing Pre-AP Chem?"

    Each time, Flare and I would laugh in response.

 Chapter 3: Red Warmth In Winter WInds

    Our fun continued throughout the rest of the chemistry course.

    It wasn''t entirely my work either. Flare turned out to be a physical learner. Unlike the theoretical courses of yesteryear, she adapted well to hands-on chemistry. She had a deftness in her hands and excelled in lab techniques.

    Then, another crossroad reared its ugly head.

    I first noticed it during our titration experiment. The usually bright Flare worked the burette with unusual lethargy.

    "Are you feeling alright?"

    "Ehhh."

    I turned away from the readings. "Sick? Don''t tell me you ingested something."

    "No." Flare forced a grin. "It''s nothing like that."

    I frowned. In truth, she had been dejected for a few days and I had only now brought it up. "Do you want to talk about it?"

    "Not at the moment."

    I nudged her on the shoulder. "Don''t forget how you always listen to my problems. I''m all ears."

    There was a moment of silence until she returned to our work. The phenolphthalein turned a vibrant pink and we were occupied with the rest of the experiment.

    I went home with mixed feelings.

    The year was coming to an end and Christmas was fast approaching. The skies were ashen on the ride home, and snowfall broke as I cozied up to work through some math problems. A single text changed all that.

    At the usual place ¨C F.

    I booked it through the knee-deep banks and found Flare sliding across Morson''s frozen Creek.

    She beckoned me onto the moonlit ice. I met her where the creek widened and we half-skated, half-slid. Our embrace drew us astray and we veered into a snowbank.

    The collision knocked the air out of my lungs, and I found Flare on top of me. "What are w¡ª"

    She hushed me with an index across the lips.

    "But Flare..."

    Her arms were on my shoulders, pinning me into the snow. "Just relax."

    "Flar¡ª"

    She pressed down and ran her lips across mine.

    I remember it clearly: the chill of exposed lip on lip, her fatal scent that enveloped me. I had never been more stunned than on that December night.

    Flare retreated and her eyes seemed to glow in an otherwise monochrome winter. "Orson..."

    It was perfect, so damn perfect¡ªand all the while, grossly uncomfortable. Caught between the crossroad of passion and reason, I couldn''t help but cover my face and cry out. "Flare, what the hell are you doing!"

    "O-O-rsss-on." Her eyes began to moisten.

    No, that wasn''t right¡ªthey had been wet since the beginning.

    Flare tried to approach for another kiss, but I shoved her off. She collapsed into the snow beside me and balled up, whimpering.

    I stared her down. "What happened, Flare?" I demanded.

    She lay there and her red hair stood out in the gently falling snowflakes.

    "You are my shoulder; let me be yours."

    Flare finally spoke.

    It turned out that her father had been promoted. He was an engineer with Hydro One who serviced Fitzroy, Dunrobin, and much of the Kanata region. Fitzroy Harbor often flooded in the spring and someone up high must have noticed Martin Andelion''s consistent success.

    In short, Flare would be moving at year''s end... To Toronto, some four hundred kilometres away.

    I had no words.

    Flare was just as conflicted. "I, I-I, d-did not know. Kn-ow what to say."

    I remember that confusion turned to sudden rage.

    Things had been going so well. I was still performing in school, and I had finally found a place. I had friends, enjoyed chemistry class, and was mustering the courage to confess.

    And then... and then... This.

    Flare was in the snow, head sideways, gaze averted.

    For a moment, my rage came upon her. It was her damn fault, wasn''t it? Why didn''t she just speak up, say something about the move? My fist came rose, but my hatred was soon deflected.

    No, it wasn''t her fault. I ground my teeth so hard they could have chipped.

    Seething for another target, my spear point bore down on Martin Andelion. It was his fault after all. He was the one who had to move, who had to get that promotion.

    "O-Orson."

    I refocused on her, and I realized my idiocy. Had I really wished misfortune upon her father?

    This moment was a crossroad, a moment that would build my future. Who did I want to be? Was that the man I wanted to be, resentful towards the innocent?

    "Orson..." Flare did not meet my gaze.

    Two weeks...

    It really hit me that I would only have two weeks. That timeline was set in stone, and I could spend it cursing the honest worker or making the greatest memories of my youth.

    "Flare."

    She slowly turned.

    "Let''s make these next two weeks the best we''ve ever had."

    "Whatever you want." Tears still ran down her cheek, but her eyes were closed, and lips, parted.

    My heart thrummed, though it was promptly stabilized by rationale. I swooped Flare into a great bear hug and swept her from the snow.

    "Ahhh!"

    I stood her upright and placed her at arm''s length. "Never again."

    "What do yo¡ª"

    "The Flare I know is strong: she tackles challenges head-on, she knows what she wants, has the conviction to see it to an end, and will never let down a friend." I squeezed her shoulders." Promise me. Be true to yourself."

    Flare''s breath was visible in the cold air as she coughed in acknowledgement.

    I nodded back.

    We stood there exchanging our stares. It must have been a whole minute of awkward staring in the cold winter winds, and it was so prolonged we found smiles creeping up our faces.

    It felt so ridiculous that laughter followed.

    "I had thought for sure you''d make a move. Am I really so unattractive?" Flare teased.

    That made my howls escalate. "Flare, if I were a little less careful, you''d be half-naked by now."

    "What are you..." Flare cheeks became somehow rosier. "Saying?"

    I leaned closer, not willing to be the only one teased. "I''m saying that..." I mouthed the next three words.

    Flare''s eyes widened, as bright as a burning calcium ion.

    I gave her no time to recover. "See you tomorrow!" I said, taking off.

    "Wait! Wait! Orson, wait!"

    However, I didn''t even look back. I pushed through the deep snow like a plow¡ªI had to make plans, I had to make this year special.

    School ended three days later. It went flawlessly, with Flare back to her usual self, and we handed in the titration assignment with Elrod''s seal of approval.

    We then began a week and a half of freedom. When other students went on vacations across the tropics, Flare and I drifted a few hundred meters down the street.

    I remember it was cold that year, and the snowfall was heavy. The first day was spent clearing the campsite. From the snow, we constructed a fortress of solitude, walls two meters tall and twice as thick. At its center, a bonfire came to life.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    Into flame, we roasted entire packs of hot dogs and sacrificed miniature snowmen, laughing like maniacs the whole time. At night, we retreated to quinzhees we had dug into the snowbanks¡ªwhich had once collapsed when we tried to light a fire within.

    Winter vacation flew past, and December 29th arrived. It would be a normal day for anyone but ourselves. My plan began at dusk that day.

    "Are you ready?" Flare asked.

    "Final preparations," I called from within the snow fort''s walls.

    "What is it even?"

    "It''s a surprise!" I finished and left the fort.

    "Ready?" Flare was wearing a peacoat that compliment her crimson locks. It was perhaps thin for the weather, but she had insisted on something nice for the occasion.

    We entered the fort where I had lain out empty plastic bottles, a pile of shredded aluminum foil and a jar containing a white powder. Across the clearing, papers and textbooks were piled up.

    Flare tilted her head. "What''s this?" She approached the stationery. "Is this why you wanted my old notes?"

    I nodded. The pile of papers were the notes Flare and I had taken for the past two years.

    "And what''s this?" Flare pointed to the other items.

    "Well, I wanted to end it with a bang."

    Flare smiled at that.

    We began by melting some snow over the bonfire. One cup water to one tablespoon of powder, we mixed.

    "Sodium Hydroxide?" Flare asked after some thought.

    "Exactly."

    We then added the lye water into a plastic bottle which we had previously filled with aluminum shreds. It reacted immediately, heating up and foaming.

    "Cap it." I urged.

    Flare twisted the cap onto the bottle. It bulged under the formation of gas but soon held fast. I had her hold the bottle as I lit a match and set it beside the papers.

    I returned to her side. "Throw it."

    Flare ran her hands over the bottle which must have been warm despite her gloves. "Is this what I think it is?"

    "To be honest, I can never tell what''s going on in that mind of yours."

    Flare smiled.

    I mirrored the grin. "Go ahead."

    Flare drew back her arm and threw with all her might. Her red hair cascaded with the motion, dancing in the air.

    The flames replied in kind.

    The bottle traced a parabolic path and crashed beside the match. The plastic failed, releasing the gas within¡ªhydrogen gas.

    The whole contraption deflagrated, rising into a fireball five meters high. Within its radius, everything caught ablaze, our schoolwork included. There was nothing like it, greedily eating through all in its path.

    And it was strangely cathartic, watching it burn¡ªwatching the source of prior hardship rise up in smoke.

    That was even truer when I looked to my right, to Flare who was alight with elation. Her euphoria only heightened as we took turns lobbing the rest of the devices.

    By the time we reached the final bottle, the papers had become a smouldering mess. I handed Flare the last one which she accepted with trembling fingers. Then, she launched it heavenwards.

    Perhaps she had been too excited because her aim was wide.

    "Oh shoot."

    It landed atop her tent and exploded. Flare and I rushed to extinguish the fire, but the damage had already been done, ravaging the greater half of the fabric.

    Flare bit down. "Sorry, that''s my bad."

    Night soon bore down and with it, came unusual cold. Winds buffeted the fort and forced us to huddle by the fire. Eventually, it was time to go to bed and we knew we should be heading back home. The chill was too great to sleep in a quinzhee, and Flare''s tent was in ashes.

    "I''ll see you off in the morning," I told Flare as she gathered the remains of her tent.

    "Are you heading off too?"

    "I plan to. Just want to clean up and take a moment."

    Flare nodded. She helped me gather the debris and extinguish the bonfire. Soon, we were left in the forest''s silence and the moonlight''s kiss.

    "Goodnight," I told her.

    "Goodnight." Flare''s teeth shone through the night. "And thank you for everything."

    Without a further word, she retired, treading the snowbanks that led to Canon Smith. Her figure of black and red was so alluring that I had to give up the act.

    I cupped my hands and shouted. "You know¡ª"

    Flare turned back.

    "¡ªI suppose I can spare some room in my tent!"

    Although we were separated by fifty meters of howling gales, I could hear her laughing.

    I remember it was awfully cold that night. My tent was a one-man, cold-weather tent that was hard-pressed against the winds. The two of us crowded into the tiny thing and did our best to keep warm.

    There was a simple solution.

    We just needed to light a fire. The bonfire was out, we had already thrown the last bottle¡ªand we''d be damned if we tried to light a campfire inside a tent.

    But well...

    It was warm, and also really awkward.

    Firstly, we had two sleeping bags, neither of which would fit two. In the narrow confines, we stripped down to undergarments and formed a ball of sleeping bags and clothing.

    Laid nearly bare, we locked eyes. I remember it as a scene of reveries. It was her curvaceous figure, her skin made of the finest porcelain, and her nigh predatory smirk.

    Then came the next problem: we were inexperienced teenagers who didn''t know the first thing about adulthood. Flare was pressed mere centimetres from me, but I had no idea what to do. Flare must have felt the same.

    When she approached for a kiss, it was with poor balance.

    "Sorry!"

    "All good."

    Flare approached from the side the next time and hesitated. She froze and ultimately retreated. "What am I supposed to do?"

    My heart had been beating like an overheating engine, and her words make me sputter.

    "Don''t laugh." Flare pouted. "I''m serious."

    "Didn''t you seduce me the other day?"

    Flare cheeks blazed in red. "Then you tell me, what did I do so well?"

    I couldn''t answer that question for the life of me: it was like trying to explain magic.

    Flare laughed and it was my turn to flush. She rested her cheek against mine. "Well, it looks like we''ll have to figure that out."

    It took a while, but there''s a damn good reason I could never forget that moment.

    It started when we rolled across the tent. I found Flare straddling me, bare-breasted and silhouetted against lamplight. My hand ran along the small of her back, appreciating her every shudder and moan. I traced around the scapula and latched onto where neck met hair.

    Flare came down like a meteor.

    With that, I was engulfed. It was her everything: her hair like the reddest veil, her aroma like the sweetest perfume, her lips like¡ªlike the deadliest invader. They pushed their way into my deepest crevices and tore them asunder.

    Gasping, I countered, biting a trail up her neck. She yelped in pleasure when I arrived at her ear.

    Flare paused, heat in the red of her eyes. "I''ll get you back for that."

    "Do it."

    Play became battle, cold war became hot, and the subtle became overt. We collided, warm flesh on warm flesh. I remember the push of twin mounds against my chest and her thighs which enwrapped mine. I remember the eternal eye contact even as Flare''s fingers ventured southwards.

    Flare plunged somehow deeper, and her spark lit me aflame. It was a very warm night indeed.

    And when all was done, we lay side by side, exultant and uncertain. We realized how much of a leap we had taken.

    "Was that..." Flare lay her head across my chest. "Perhaps too fast?"

    "Undoubtedly."

    But we realized something else.

    "Then why don''t I feel any regret?" Flare mused.

    I couldn''t answer that question. I was equally afflicted.

    We fell asleep that night, embraced by a mountain of puff and warmed by the union of kindred souls.

    And in the morning, Flare departed with the rising sun. She left me with two unforgettable words.

    After Graduation.

    I won''t lie. I was devastated.

    I moped and cried and let it all out. Flare and I still kept in touch, with the nightly exchange of texts and occasional video calls, but it just wasn''t the same. The rest of the winter break and much of the second semester were like that. It even impacted classes that I should have completed without much thought.

    I eventually got over it though it took longer than I''d care to admit. A person cannot be perpetually depressed, and there was mounting pressure to perform.

    I remember the message that was drilled into my head, that I would soon be an adult, that this was a pivotal moment in life, that the path was to success was paved here. It was perhaps a harsh message, but I knew that my parents only wanted the best for me.

    I suppressed my heartache and entered twelfth grade headfirst.

    Wherever possible, classes were AP¡ªEnglish, Functions, Calculus, Physics, Biology, Chemistry. For each, the goal was not success, but perfection. Moreover, I registered in every coding or science or math competition that I could.

    Then, there were extracurriculars and volunteering. I always had a lean build with no particular affinity for sport, but I played badminton and ran track semi-competitively. My mother found volunteering opportunities with Byward Clinic and the City of Ottawa; I raised diabetes awareness and organized municipal events.

    It was one of the busiest times of my life, with late hours and constant stress.

    Many might have found it suffocating, but like most things, I neither liked nor hated it. If anything, it was numbing. It was good to be busy, to have a simple goal to work towards, without the complexity of teenaged emotion.

    I wasn''t alone either. With Ron and Jason, I soldiered through.

    Under parental scrutiny, we lost most of the laxness of previous years, fighting for those last few percentage points. We still joked and laughed, but our relationship became centred around working together through schoolwork.

    All for that oh-so-important university admission.

    Of course, this also meant applications, lots of applications.

    I was allowed freedom in my major¡ªgiven that my choice could be considered "successful"¡ª and I settled on computing.

    I applied to the big Canadian schools: UoT, Waterloo, and to what must have been every Ivy League and half the big names down south. I remember heading to downtown Ottawa on a brisk Saturday morning with Ron. We took our SATs in a musty university classroom, passing with near-perfect scores.

    Everything was smooth until the essays.

    The blank page was an impasse. I knew how to write an essay, and my writing was passable. I just need a subject, some damn thing to impress the admissions officer.

    "What do people write about?" I asked Jason.

    "Just something fun they''ve done. You know, that shows interest or character."

    I stared him down and didn''t know what to make of his words.

    "I dunno, man. I just wrote about that game I made."

    I was forced to acknowledge it then. Jason and I treated university completely differently, I had always thought of us as similar, united by common hardship, but Jason actually liked his work, and his parents spurred him on.

    Right then, I realized that he would be twice the programmer I would ever be.

    And that made me realize my overwhelming indifference. Barring filial duty and my teenage pride, I couldn''t care less for the outcome of the applications.

    This was reflected in the results. Jason went to his dream school; Ron accepted a generous offer¡ªand I was left with a handful of acceptance letters.

    My parents took it well. Their pressure had always been strong but loving. They knew I had reached my capabilities, and not for lack of effort. So, from the acceptances, I was given free choice.

    I recalled staring at the outdated OUAC website on a May evening. As little as I felt towards each option, I knew that I had better take it seriously. I was deep in consideration until a familiar chime took me away.

    I stared down at my phone, cracked a smile, and¡ªwithout an ounce of hesitation¡ªaccepted the offer to the University of Toronto.

    The rest of the year flew by.

    It wasn''t quite like the other students. Many high schoolers dropped their guard after admissions. All they need to do was maintain a minimum grade; might as well enjoy themselves.

    Our trio still ran at full steam. We had AP exams, which were fairly trivial when graded on a 1-5 scale. But on top of that, we prepared for university courses, learning much of undergraduate calculus, data structures, and algorithms.

    Graduation came soon enough. It was all too similar to middle school.

    Admittedly, the students were better dressed and the whole thing had adopted an even greater ceremony. The rows of the Kanata auditorium were packed with parents whose applause grew more and more forced as the whole thing dragged on.

    Well, there was something that had changed.

    Again, I was called last, but when I stood on the stage, I was more tired than nervous. There was a polite smattering of claps as I received a silver medal and some nondescript awards.

    Summer came and I retreated to the confines of the study. My parents weren''t quite as forceful, but there was still a certain expectation. I would sit by the window gazing at the trees which harboured the clearing.

    So strong was my longing, that I almost didn''t believe who appeared at June''s closure.

    "Orson, can you get the door?"

    I went down the stairs, wondering if it was a courier or a salesman. Instead, behind the mottled glass of the door was an attractive figure in a pink sundress. I nearly kicked down the door.

    Flare jumped back in surprise. "Hullo?"

    "Flare... What are you doing here?" I glimpsed around her to see her father backing out of the driveway, a mad wink in his eye.

    "Didn''t I say I''d come?" Flare asked.

    "Err... did you?" It had never been explicit, but yes, she had. I was the salaryman who had forgotten about payday.

    Flare smirked. "Aren''t you glad to see me?"

    "Well... I-I.,"

    Flare was even prettier than before. Her reds had somehow intensified, and I felt as if I gazed upon the rising sun, so bright it hurt.

    But a rising sun does not kiss you on the lips.

    "How about now?"

    I heard my mother squeal from the den, and I blushed furiously.

    Flare paid my mother no mind. She simply leaned forward, hands behind her back. "Let''s go on an adventure."

 Chapter 4: Kindling

    It turned out that the whole had been planned: our parents had conspired behind my back. We would be going on a trip for two weeks, crossing over to the waterways of Central Qu¨¦bec.

    In light of our coming of age just months ago, my mother had made a rare concession. We were allowed to go alone, just the two of us, to the great expanses of the Canadian wilderness.

    At dawn, Flare and I set off in my family''s battered SUV, Montr¨¦al-bound for a small layover.

    I was never one for that sort of thing, but the city had an antiquated charm: the European styles of Old Montr¨¦al, and the biodome, the expo centre, St. Joseph Cathedral. Taking a wrong turn or two, we found ourselves drifting along the city docks, jostled by hordes of pseudo-Frenchmen.

    When we made it to the hotel, it was already late. I remember my embarrassment and Flare''s laughter when I checked us into the single room.

    That feeling soon faded. Dinner might have been takeout from across the street, but dessert was of a heavenly variant.

    We hit the road around noon and was six hours of driving until we reached the shores of Lac Saint-Jean. I recall the moment when the vista broke through the trees, like an ocean I had never known.

    Driving along Rivi¨¨re Saguenay, we reached the city of Saguenay where the river met the St Lawrence Estuary. The city had a romantic, cozy air. It wasn''t small although everyone seemed to take things a little slower.

    That did not apply to us.

    We were the novice canoemen who tried to row across the whole lake; the wayfarers who spent more time off the trails than on them; the rascals who splashed across the beach or built sandcastles; and the lovers who couldn''t keep their hands off each other for a single night.

    As the joyous days passed, Flare had a brilliant idea.

    Rivi¨¨re Saguenay met with the lake as a fjord, sheer walls of granite topped by a sporadic treeline. Reminiscent of the Gates of Hercules, Flare couldn''t advert her awestruck gaze.

    "What are you looking at?" I asked her.

    "Just a cliff," Flare hummed.

    But I knew what that meant. "Shall we climb it?"

    "I''m game if you are."

    So, the next day, we backpacked up Manitou Mountain Trail and broke off near the top. The forest was easily navigable, and we soon came to a plateau near the Fjord''s mouth. It was where we decided to spend the night.

    "You think it''s fine?" I said as I piled up some kindling.

    Flare stretched an arm across my shoulder. "It''s fine."

    "Might be against park regulation."

    She smiled. "We can put it out before dark. Just a small one."

    I eventually conceded and Flare struck the flint. Under her care, the spark soon became a modest campfire.

    I don''t remember much after that, memories muddled by the delicious absurdity of it all. It was the shared sweat from hours of climbing, the perversion of open-air copulation, and the signal flame that seemed to proclaim it all to the dusky world.

    And the next morning, we headed to Fitzroy with the satisfaction of weary travellers. Our parents wouldn''t be expecting us for a day which gave us time for a detour.

    We arrived at our clearing.

    It was overgrown from a year of disuse, but we didn''t mind. We set up the tent, battered after weeks of continued use. The creek had receded with summer''s heat, and we waded through the shallows like days bygone.

    Then, the skies broke, and lightning interrupted our romp.

    "Oh shoot," Flare called as marble-sized droplets soaked us through. However, her smile only magnified.

    I unrolled my pant legs and emerged from the water. "You''re happy about this, aren''t you?"

    "Why would I be?"

    "Is it another one of your crazy fantasies?"

    Flare''s laughter shook the water out of her red hair. "Sex in the sopping rain. That doesn''t sound half bad."

    I looked her over.

    Flare licked her lips. "I''m game if you are."

    We shared a chuckle at the little joke.

    "Well, what''s your actual idea?" I asked.

    "Here, I''ll show you." Flare brought me away from the clearing and to the side road where we had parked.

    She drove us to the gas station up the road. I had an inkling of her thoughts when she filled up the jerry can from the SUV''s trunk.

    We returned to the clearing.

    She handed me the can, and I felt its unexpected weight. "Well, what is it?" I asked.

    "You see..."

    The whole thing stemmed from an offhand comment Flare had overheard from my father. He was old friends with the Ronsons who owned the four acres that contained our clearing. It was for this reason that we had always been allowed to utilize the area.

    It turned out that Mr. Ronson was planning to tear down the old outhouse that had been built in the forest decades ago.

    And it just so happened to be within lugging distance of the clearing.

    "So." Flare''s eyes narrowed. "Let''s do the job for Mr. Ronson."

    "Flare..." I was just the tiniest bit from agreeing and I stammered.

    "That''s why I wanted to do it today." Flare pointed skywards. "It won''t spread, and they''ll blame it on the lightning."

    I wiped the hair out of my eyes and focused on Flare''s redness through the overcast air.

    "It''s just some fun, a little magic like old times." Flare took me by the hand.

    I felt the softness of her palm and the water that coursed between our intertwined fingers. "...Alright."

    It wasn''t easy toting around that jerry can. Filled to the brink with gasoline, Flare and I had to share the burden as we pushed through rainfall like a vertical flood.

    We soon found the shed, in its own little clearing. It was an old thing, half-collapsed and ramshackle.

    I scanned it through the rain. "So, how did you want to do this?"

    "I thought you''d know."

    I sputtered. "This whole thing was your idea."

    "Well." Her expression shrunk. "Perhaps we should just douse it."

    That''s what we did in the end. In the absolute downpour, we took turns heaving the can, washing the walls in petrol. Its iridescence flowed with the rain and drowned the building in a chemical fume.Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

    The whole time, butterflies fluttered in my stomach¡ªand not due to the unleaded stench.

    Flare must have noticed. "Are you nervous?"

    "A bit."

    "Want me to light it?"

    "Yeah." I passed the matches to her.

    The unknown feeling welled up as Flare struck a match, cupped against the rain. It nearly came out as she cast the match...

    Then it was gone, as quick as a dismissed child.

    The outhouse caught alight.

    And it was the biggest fire I had yet seen.

    Twenty litres of gasoline must have been quite a bit for such a small building, as the conflagration guzzled the walls in the blink of an eye. The wood might have been wet, but months of Canadian summer had baked the inside dry, forming a ball of hell-orange in the downpour.

    My jaw dropped completely open. I probably shouldn''t have been laughing but I could make no other reaction than a hysteric fit¡ªrivalled only by the roars from the girl to my left.

    Flare laughs formed into words. "You were right!" Her ruby eyes were as animated as the flames which lit them. "Maybe it''s a bit of a crazy fantasy."

    Before I could respond, Flare''s open mouth met mine.

    The next morning, Flare and I arrived at my house, filthy and slightly worse for wear.

    When Mrs. Ronson popped by, excited by a lightning strike that had incinerated the old outhouse, no one suspected our involvement. Across the breakfast table, we shared mischievous stares like the incident from sixth grade.

    The next time I saw Flare was at summer''s end. Her family help me move into the Trinity College Student Residence.

    St. George''s campus of the University of Toronto was where the engineering, arts, and science folks amassed. If not for hordes of dreary-eyed students, it would have been a sanctuary within Toronto''s bustling downtown.

    Here, students were designated into one of seven colleges¡ªthe remnants of some sort of religious segregation. I had applied to Trinity on a whim, mostly because it was the hardest to get into. They had these odd traditions like formal banquets in Strachan Hall, where we had to wear gowns¡ªI found it uninspiring.

    I remember arriving on move-in day, running behind the allotted timeslot. The residence was this great construction of towers and masonry¡ªJacobethan style apparently. I remember struggling through the smallish hallways, trying to outfit my new abode.

    Classes were about as expected. There were two hundred some students in a section, all packed into an auditorium that had the air conditioning turned far too cold. Professors were hit or miss when it came to teaching, especially the statistics courses.

    But regardless of the material, I was in the back of the class with half a mind to pay attention. I was hundreds of kilometres from my parents and had enrolled in the bare minimum for my year. I had learnt most of it already and ended up bored out of my mind.

    As for Flare, she lived in a small apartment on the corner of Yonge and Bloor. She studied Visual Arts and seemed to love it. I must have too because I would finish my schoolwork at my best speed, and run over to partake in whatever she was working on.

    We also started painting again although it was digitally. Flare had gotten this drawing tablet for her coursework, and we mess around on Photoshop, reviving our middle school legacy.

    I was like abused dishware, caught in a cycle of hot and cold. Days were monotonous, sitting in lecture halls and classrooms with little conscious thought; the nights were rejuvenating, sharing both Flare''s passion for her study and her wonderful presence.

    Weekends were like extended nights. We''d get away from the city in her little sub-compact to visit whatever campground we could find.

    Then, during reading week, we headed to Algonquin Park.

    It was this network of waterways cutting through swaths of pine and poplar. And it was the perfect escape, with a maze-like array of canoe routes and backcountry campsites.

    We launched from Openega, canoed northwards, and covered a dozen kilometres towards the lake''s north arm. The next few days were spent snaking up Proulx and Big Crow Lakes. This involved a fair bit of portaging and camping, but we soon made it to Hogan Lake, an S-shaped body in Algonquin''s heart.

    The late October weather was marking the end of the backcountry season, and we only saw two other watercraft the entire day. In this perfect isolation, we set up camp.

    I shook Flare awake on the morning of the third day.

    She groaned. "Www-hat timee?"

    I flashed my watch. "A bit before seven."

    "Ssoo early?"

    "I thought you''d want to see the sunrise."

    Flare slapped me on the chest. "And I thought you''d want to sleep."

    I pushed open the tent flap, causing the bare-skinned Flare to shiver. "See you by the waterside."

    Dawn within the Canadian deciduous woodlands had a quiet charm. Autumn was also nearing its end, and I treaded through mounds of leaves that started to glow. At the campsite cooktop, I heated two cups of coffee¡ªFlare liked two cream, one sugar¡ªand descended the steps to the waterline.

    An outcropping extended a dozen meters into the lake atop which I made myself comfortable. Flare soon lumbered over, looking quite lovable with her messy red hair.

    "Good morning," she yawned.

    I passed her a cup.

    "Thanks." She sipped and buried her cheek into my jacket.

    We watched as sunlight stirred Lake Hogan from its slumber.

    I remember the land became of vehement warmth, of reds and oranges that dotted the trees like a benign wildfire. So too did the waters, inheriting the blush of morning sun.

    But I remember something far prettier.

    "What are you doing?"

    "Nothing," Flare chirped. That could not be further from the truth. She was taking off her jacket, then her sports bra, leaving.... nothing.

    It took me a moment to realize her plan. "I thought we said it would be too cold to swim. That''s why we didn''t bring any swimwear."

    "Oh, it''s fine." Flare dropped into the waist-deep water. She waded across the rocks, shivering but otherwise unfazed.

    I stripped down and followed after her. The water might have been as bright as lava, but it was downright glacial. By the time I made it to her side, twenty meters from the shore, my teeth were chattering.

    "Doing alright?" she asked.

    I latched onto her and relished her heat. I exhaled: "Could be better."

    Flare laughed. "We can huddle for a minute."

    And we did for so long that I actually felt decent.

    Then, Flare had another idea. "Shall try swimming?"

    For whatever reason, I nodded, and we kicked off, swimming along the shoreline. It must have been the movement, but I remember I felt quite a bit warmer as I chased after her toe tips.

    Afterwards, we returned to the camp, dripping wet and shivering up a storm. We crashed by the remnants of the cookfire and huddled together, trying our best to warm up. The swim had been an idiotic impulse.

    It wasn''t the day''s only impulse.

    Our swim had taken us by a minor tributary. It made an easy path deeper into the forest and we were determined to follow it upstream. With warm clothes on our backs and food in our bellies, we returned to the point where the brook met the lake.

    The journey started out calm, but the path soon wound uphill. It became rocky and we reached the hills of Hogan''s southern face. Here, by the granite cliffs, the brook became a modest waterfall.

    Flare and I appreciated the scene and were about to return when I noticed something. There was a depression in the ground, with sheer drops on three sides.

    I was focused on the hole''s contents. "What''s that down there?"

    Flare peered over the edge. "Just some dry leaves, and some black stuf¡ª"

    "You see it?"

    "That''s a bear?"

    Indeed, it was the carcass of a great black bear sprawled on a bed of leaves and covered by a blanket of ravens.

    "Hey!" Flare shooed away the feasting birds. "That''s so awful."

    "Yeah."

    We stared for a moment, and I eventually went to gather our things.

    Flare was still stunned.

    I gave her a second but soon called to her. "We should be going back."

    But when she looked up, I knew it wouldn''t be so simple. Her eyes met mine, and I knew I would not be able to resist.

    "Can''t we do anything?" she whispered. "At least give him a proper send-off."

    I don''t even remember agreeing. I just remember following along with giddy excitement in my heart. It was a thoughtless thing, like how I had followed her into the lake that morning.

    Under her direction, we spent a few hours tearing apart the forest floor. That fall had been particularly dry, and it made our goal easier. We pooled our spoils¡ªthe driest of twigs and branches and leaves¡ªinto the pit.

    "Think that''s enough?"

    "I''d think so."

    By the time we were done, the weather had taken a turn for the colder. However, our work had already made the depression into a makeshift crematorium. Flare raised a fire on the depression''s edge.

    "Want to?" Flare asked.

    I nodded. With bated breath, I kicked the cinders over the edge.

    I half-expected it to erupt, but of course, a natural fire would never be that extreme. Instead, the leaves caught alight first, followed by the twigs and finally, a few of the logs.

    We watched in quiet marvel.

    Soon, the carcass caught alight and the smell of roasting meat filled the air. This was a different kind of flame than the one that had consumed Ronson''s outhouse. This was a purifying, magical flame that warmed rather than burnt.

    I grabbed Flare by the hand and, pulling her close, we shared a round of laughter. I had been a bit nervous the whole time, but now, it was reminiscent of the nights in the clearing.

    Then, something shifted in the fire pit, in the corner, behind a fork-shaped branch. At first, I thought that the bear might have been still alive...

    I froze. "Flare!"

    She saw it too. "Oh shoot!"

    A pair of cubs were whimpering in the granite hearth. They must have been hidden beneath the leaves, in mourning of their departed. Now, trapped beneath a burning blanket of foliage, they were part of the ceremony.

    I dashed to the edge and a wave of heat pushed me back¡ªit had not been so hot before. Black smoke filled my eyes, but I still tried to advance.

    Flare was on me in an instant. "Orson! No!" Her arms wrapped around me and pulled me back. "It''s too late! You''re going to hurt yourself!"

    Flare was right¡ªthe conclusion had been written the moment I kicked those cinders. I let her drag me back and we collapsed, surrounded by the heat of the fire.

    Flare''s face was pressed into mine. "Orson! Orson!" She repeated over and over, her breath tickling my cheek.

    However, her words only seemed to mesh together, forming an incomprehensible mess. It might have been the heat and the smoke that got to my head, or maybe the ursine squeals that overpowered the crackling blaze.

    In that state, I realized.

    I really didn''t care¡ªI had acted because it''s what I should do, not what I wanted to do.

    Rather, I was transfixed on something else¡ªFlare was just so damn beautiful, in the smoke that served to mystify; in the firelight that served to carnalize; in the heat that awoke all the wrong feelings.

    I could swear she was smiling, as simply as if we had burnt another leaf.

    "Orson..." I saw the grin become increasingly seductive.

    It was all so blurry. I thought that her lips came against mine and... had she been laughing?

    I might have been hallucinating because before I knew it, I was on my feet and I was running.

    The early winter enveloped me, as cold as the waters of the lake. The wind picked up from behind, sounding like laughter. I reached the tent, dove under the sheets, and grasped for warmth.

    Flare had not given chase.

 Chapter 5: Encroaching Heat

    When she returned just before dusk, we ate a meagre supper and retreated to the tent. Sleeping back to back, I did not look at her.

    We seldom talked about the trip. When I did approach her, her expression was always confused, as if the whole thing had never happened. For the longest time, I deemed it to be a fever dream.

    Even so, for several weeks, I couldn''t look at Flare the same. Or maybe, I looked at her as too much of the same, of her sensational boldness and her unrestrained passion and her buoyant redness.

    I never quite got over it, even as the rest of the year went by uneventfully.

    My room''s heater was broken for most of January and I would cower in bed. At that time, I caught the bug and had horrible chills. I had to spend several days in Flare''s apartment as she nursed me with warmth.

    Exams were about as expected, and I ended somewhere in the top quarter of the class. Then, at the end of April, I bid farewell to my dorm room and returned to Fitzroy Harbour.

    I had once longed for summer; now, without her, it was miserable.

    For four months, I hid in my bedroom, browsing the internet and napping. My parents didn''t like that I didn''t get any sunshine but praised me for the studying I didn''t do.

    In this boredom, I got into reading.

    It started with an offhand message to Ron.

    What are you up to?

    Reading.

    What book?

    It wasn''t a traditional book, but rather a web novel. These were fun stories that anyone could post, most with questionable quality.

    Despite that, I was hooked.

    Maybe it was the low barrier to entry, the process of a story being constructed, or the direct connection with an aspiring novelist. Either way, it was the distraction I needed, and I resolved to try it sooner or later.

    In the new term, I took this newfound hobby to the back of the lecture hall. When most students took notes, I hunkered down and stared at my phone screen. I escaped with nonsensical plots and illogical characters who could have been written by the girl across the aisle¡ªand that was all the more wonderful for it.

    Sophomore year also came with another escape.

    I had to find housing, and I knew the perfect place. To my surprise, my mother consented even though Flare''s apartment was a single bedroom. With that, Flare helped me move in on a fateful Sunday morning.

    It went without saying that it was quite a warm year.

    Additionally, our little adventures into the campgrounds became increasingly bold. We made another pilgrimage into Algonquin during reading week, travelling all the way to Burntroot Lake. That name was quite fitting because we may have caused a minor bushfire that was quickly stifled by the rains.

    We continued throughout the first semester and into winter.

    I remember that on New Year''s Eve, I was reading on the couch when Flare returned. She seemed out of breath and paused to give me a quick kiss.

    "What have you got there?" I asked.

    Flare had been struggling with a dolly of boxes. "Something for tonight."

    I set the packages on the floor. They were marked with Chinese characters and must have been over twenty kilos in gross weight. "Where did you get this?"

    She waved a hand. "Oh, that''s not important."

    When the sky darkened, we crowded into the car and drove along to 401 to Oshawa, a town that felt like an industrial suburb of Toronto. We passed the GM plant and came to an abandoned industrial park on the town''s edge.

    Our destination was a long-defunct cereal plant, not exactly the typical place to spend New Year''s.

    But were feeling excited and eagerly separated the thirty sets of fireworks. We first set up half of the rockets across the parking lot. We left the rest of our belongings on a bench bolted by the plant''s entrance.

    "Here you are." Flare passed me a mug of cocoa.

    I savoured it. "You make a damn good hot chocolate."

    "Why thank you." Flare took a sip from the mug.

    "So how do you want to do this?"

    "One at a time?"

    "Sure."

    Flare jogged through the snow and lit the first of the firework sets. We settled on the bench and covered ourselves in blankets.

    I had lit fireworks before, but these were different. These weren''t boxes, more like crates: heavy, large, and quite possibly illegal. The first firework shot into the sky, becoming red lighting and mighty thunder.

    I jumped in my seat, drawing giggles from Flare.

    Her giggling was silenced by the whistle of the next rockets. Violets, crimsons, silvers; golden flowers, and emerald showers: these foreign fireworks were overwhelming¡ªno, alive¡ªat the thirty paces we watched from.

    My eyes were filled with spots by the time the last Roman Candle went off.

    Flare''s eyes were filled with gleams instead. "Goddamn!"

    I coughed. "Goddamn, indeed."

    Flare gave me a smile which I reciprocated. She hopped to her feet and ran off shouting: "I''ll light the next one!"

    When she returned, we cowered under the covers and gawked at the spectacle of pyrotechnic wizardry. And when that was done, she''d run off like a puppy, light another, and return to my side.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    It was a pretty fun cycle.

    That was truer on the tenth set when we got frisky. This time, Flare did not run off when the fireworks ended. Rather, she only stood when our mouths were feeling quite satisfied. She dragged me to my feet as well.

    "Here." Flare tapped me on my nose. "I want you to do the next one."

    "But how could I? You were having so much fun."

    "I can''t hog it all." She placed the lighter into my hand.

    I turned it in my hand.

    "Tell you what," Flare said. "Let''s light it together."

    She brought me before the bundle of fuses, and I flicked on the lighter. I remember it was such a small flame to initiate such a large explosion.

    Flare''s hands were cupped around mine; her face was beside mine. She whispered: "Light them all!"

    Together, we ran the lighter through the array, stopping at each of the remaining fuses. After the last one, Flare''s hands flew off. "We''d better get moving!"

    She ran off towards the bench and I chased after her through the snow.

    We were sprawled across the bench when the rockets when off. The display was so bright that I could feel its warmth, radiating downward and mixing with the warmth of our bodies.

    I remember that when the silence returned, we couldn''t see a single thing: we were flash blinded for a solid five minutes.

    There was a certain thrill to complete sightlessness, our hands probing when our eyes could not. I remember that when my vision returned, Flare was far less clothed than she had been. However, she soon stopped.

    I paused too. "What''s wrong?"

    Flare slid off me and onto the ground. She fastened her coat and slipped on her boots.

    "What is it?"

    "You see, Orson. We still have half our fireworks." But she did not head towards the remaining boxes. Instead, she led me into the old factory.

    The entrance was secured with a chain. However, one of the windows had been blown out and we entered into an office space.

    "What are we doing here?"

    "Just a little expedition."

    Using our phones for light, we passed through rows of abandoned cubicles and entered the production area. It was a huge indoor space full of disassembled conveyors and the shells of industrial ovens. Looming in the far corner were three massive silos.

    Flare pointed at the center of the plant, a small open area between two driers. "You thinking what I''m thinking?"

    "I have some idea."

    "Then shall we?" She planted another kiss on my cheek and returned whence we came.

    I touched the spot where her lips had made contact. I turned and followed.

    Together, we pulled the dolly across the parking lot. We passed the boxes through the broken window. Afterwards, it took eight trips to haul it all onto the production floor.

    When I arrived with the final box, Flare had already prepared the fuse¡ªfourteen individual fuses bound into one. She took the last box and added it with the others, arranged into a flower.

    Flare handed me the lighter and stared at me with her ruby eyes. Barring the glow of our cellphones, it was the only thing I could see.

    Despite my yearning, I hesitated. "You sure it''s a good idea?"

    "Positive," she purred.

    "You sure this is fine?"

    "Oh, go ahead." Flare must have noticed my trembling fingers because she added: "Don''t worry, I''m with you." She reached to take my hand.

    At that moment, a winter draft entered the room from the office. I don''t know what got into me but it was so cold that it spurred me to act.

    I had lit the fuse.

    "Looks like you don''t need help!" Flare exclaimed.

    I couldn''t quite believe what I''d done.

    "C''mon. Let''s go!" Flare pulled me along.

    Still watching at the fuse, I let myself be pulled. Flare was laughing, and¡ªwith nothing else to feel¡ªI soon mimicked her boundless rapture.

    We burst into the plant''s operations room and slammed the door. A mesh wire window overlooked the production floor. Crowding around it, we watched the spark creep forward.

    It ignited, and everything was drowned in light.

    However, I didn''t have the opportunity to see much more. Flare had her arms around my neck. Like a predator, she pulled me onto the ground where her clothes lay, discarded. The burst of the rockets deafened all sound, but I still understood her every word.

    Eyes on me!

    She twisted on top, and her figure was thrust into the light. Everything was unbelievably red. I remember that the fireworks were multi-coloured but all I could see was red, from her hair to her eyes to the light.

    Something special! Something we haven''t tried!

    It was increasingly hot inside that tiny room. This heat was only magnified the moment Flare pressed herself forward and relaxed her legs. Then up, then down; tension, relaxation: Flare bounced almost in tune with the ebb and flow of the pyrotechnic sequence.

    And between each crescendo was the melody of everything else: of wandering fingers, of curious tongues, and of irrepressible voices. With every pulse, I felt the warmth of Flare''s vulnerability, her intensity, and her tightening clench, all building up to...

    Something exploded.

    We exhaled and collapsed on the dusty floor that we were far too triumphant to care about.

    "That was¡ª" Flare massaged a sore bottom. "¡ªactually crazy."

    "... Yeah."

    It was two simple comments, but we giggled as if it were the funniest joke we''d ever heard. The fireworks died down and we nuzzled up in the darkening operations room.

    There was another explosion, then another one.

    But no... it wasn''t us.

    The red glow had returned, and it was far more subdued yet menacing. I peered through the window and saw it. There must have been some leftovers combustibles because a silo had burst, wreathing the floor in grain fire.

    "Oh shoot!" Flare had risen beside me. She was laughing in a nervous manner.

    "Flare, we gotta go!"

    "Yeah..." She coughed. "Maybe we should."

    We fled from the room.

    In the plant, a wave of hot air crashed into us, and we stumbled down the stairs to the floor. A foul industrial smoke filled the air, ravaging our throats and eyes.

    We could barely navigate the walkways.

    When we arrived at the office, my lungs were screaming for fresh air and sweat had permeated my brow. In our exhaustion, we staggered through the broken window, and only stopped fifty paces from the plant.

    Behind us, the flame was visible through the various windows. It appeared as if it were contained¡ªuntil a gout of red erupted through one of the vents. Another silo had burst, spreading its flames like winter spread its snows.

    "O-o-rson."

    I turned to Flare who was naked in the snow. In our haste, she must have left her clothes. She was balled up, arms between her legs, making hiccup-like sounds.

    I draped my coat over her. "You alright?"

    I remember taking a closer look and seeing something odd.

    Flare seemed alright, more than aright, even. The hiccups were laughs¡ªthe nervous laugh of a maiden who had just discovered something very naughty and couldn''t quite believe it herself.

    "Flare?"

    "I-I''m good."

    "You sure? You''re breathing funny."

    "It''s just¡ª" Her teeth chattered. "¡ªthe excitement."

    I thought I must have misheard. I simply nodded and helped her to the car. We drove off before the authorities could apprehend our trail.

    When we were back on the 401, Flare spoke: "That''s was really crazy."

    "Yeah..."

    Flare gushed. "The brightness of the fireworks! And when that silo burst!"

    I nodded.

    "I did not think it would burn that fast. You''d have thought it was an oil refinery instead of a cereal factory!"

    "It exploded."

    "And it was a big explosion."

    There was a moment''s silence; I scratched my head. "I''m just worried that we might get found out. I mean, wasn''t that arson?"

    "Oh, don''t worry about it. They probably haven''t even arrived yet." She leaned forward and gave me a kiss on the cheek. "Think about something else."

    The gesture filled me with mixed emotions.

    Flare continued: "The only regret is that it interrupted our little special something."

    I remember that with my head full of turbulence, with her still bare figure, I found it impossible to concentrate on the road.

    In the morning, after a long night, we shared a brunch of omelettes and coffee.

    The news playing in the background described a fire attack by some unknown delinquents. I couldn''t keep my eyes off the screen although Flare seemed more preoccupied with the swirls in her coffee.

    My thoughts were still rampant when I arrived for my first class of the year. Instead of reading, I sat stared dead ahead, almost as if I were paying attention to the lecture.

    I only managed to forget it when I returned home and entered her embrace. Relief came when we painted, or when we just chatted, but especially when we took full advantage of our youth.

    Then, like a switch had been flipped, I would head to campus and the thoughts would flood me. I could not part with that scene: the flame, the smoke, and the smile across Flare''s face. And I was unsure if there hadn''t been one across mine as well.

    Like two sides of a flipping coin, my head flipped back and forth, so much that I became dizzy. The toss must have been very high because this went on through the second semester and into the summer.

    This summer was miserable. Every day was dreary without Flare''s company. It was boring, it was repetitive, and the whole thing was too damn long. Maybe I was sick or maybe I was desensitized, but I couldn''t feel an ounce of excitement.

    My only respite was at midsummer when Flare paid me a quick visit.

 Chapter 6: Turbulent Thoughts

    I remember I was so excited when Flare arrived that nearly pounced on her. Seeing that, my mother had flushed, shooting accusations of indecency.

    Flare and I spent an afternoon wandering through the woods and returned just before dark. Instead of sharing a bed or a tent, we hopped into the car.

    Flare drove us to a disused strip mall on the edge of Carp township. I was so muddled that I barely remembered the trip there. I just remember making out in the parking lot that was really more of a junkyard.

    So great was my thirst that I didn''t even mind the smell emanating from the jerry cans at our feet.

    I was reaching for the buttons on her shorts when she nibbled on my lip. I moved to return the gesture when she pulled back.

    Flare stopped a meter away and wagged a finger. "Not just yet."

    I remember the curve of her figure in the car''s headlights and her attire that had gotten a fair bit more revealing since the summers of our childhood.

    "After we finish..." Flare smiled.

    For a moment, I was uncertain. She was sharp because her next words washed it all away.

    "Anything."

    "Pardon?"

    "Anything."

    "What do you mean?"

    She drew comfortably close and whispered, her lips brushing my ear. "I''m all yours; anything you want."

    We worked together to lug the two jerry cans across to the mall.

    It was several units long with an old Blockbuster, a crumbling convenience store, and trash everywhere. Our target was the rundown Greenside bowling alley which had a set of stairs leading directly into the basement.

    Heading down, we discovered a retro-style establishment complete with nostalgic tiles, fake leather booths, and vintage trims. The eight lanes were filled with mouldy ceiling tiles and there wasn''t a bowling ball in sight.

    "I was thinking that we''d start at the back and work this way."

    "Alright..."

    We each took a can and marched down the lanes, sprinkling gasoline like we were watering a lawn. The waiting area was then doused, followed by the receptionist''s desk, the staff rooms, the kitchens.

    Flare ended it with a trail of gas up to the top of the stairs where we regrouped and shared eye contact.

    "Go ahead," she said.

    "You don''t want to?"

    "I''d love to." But she pressed the matchbox into my hand. "But I''d love it more if you did."

    I clutched it with shaking fingers. "Maybe we should... Flare, I really don''t kn¡ª"

    "For me," Flare said. She thrust against me, caught me in her carmine veil. Her fingers were moving with the confidence that mine lacked. "As I am for you."

    I couldn''t do anything else. I struck the match and cast it into the depths in a single motion. The abyss roared in return.

    "Go! Go! Go!"

    We bolted across the parking lot, just in time to see flames envelop the structure. Two cans of gas may not have been enough to cause a fireball, but it was sufficient to paint everything in brilliant red-orange.

    "Oh shoot!" Flare hollered.

    The rest of the building followed with the bowling alley. There was enough fire to blow off the windows and collapse the roof. There was enough heat to cause sweat to pour down my face from thirty paces.

    I was completely flabbergasted.

    That was even more so when Flare turned onto me, gasping in uncontrollable glee. Soon I was too¡ªshe had tantalizing immorality that could have ruined the most just of men.

    In comparison, the rest of summer was horribly cold. It was the hottest season, but it felt like I was trudging through the Antarctic sheets. It was so frigid that I actually longed for school.

    When the first day came, I returned to Flare where I felt the first warm in two months.

    Junior year was an exciting one.

    The night at the bowling alley had emboldened us. There were countless disused districts around the greater Toronto area, and Flare must have known them like the back of her hand.

    The whole thing became a weekly affair.

    I''d return home after a boring Friday in classes that I still couldn''t care less about. Flare would return, all excited about some topic she was studying, and we''d spend a couple of hours working on our latest painting.

    We''d make a simple dinner or get takeout from the nice Japanese restaurant a block down. Cuddling on the couch with satisfied bellies, we would watch a movie and get to know each other a bit better.

    But instead of retreating to the bedroom like a normal couple, we would climb into her car that was filled with the perpetual stench of petrol.

    While many might find the smell of gasoline irritating, I remember it as downright aphrodisiacal. I cannot forget the steamy nights in the car, inundated by the perfume of benzene that mixed with the Flare''s own aroma¡ªall while parked by a soon-to-be blazing building.

    We went on so many magical excursions that we found methods to the beauty.

    One of our favourite techniques was to fill milk jugs with gasoline. We''d take our garments that we were too aroused to wear, soak them in gas and use it as a wick. The plastic would hold for twenty minutes during which we''d skip away and await the beautiful eruption.

    On another occasion, Flare discovered a formula for a flaming gel from who-knows-where.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    In a trash can, we infused gasoline with Styrofoam¡ªplates worked best; the coarser stuff didn''t dissolve well. I remember painting the paste over a wooden utility pole on the outskirts of Pickering, laughing as both the pole and our indulgences went to the ground.

    The whole experience was absolutely amazing.

    But in many ways, my third year of university exaggerated everything, both the pleasures and the pain. When the weekend was over, I''d waddle to class, feeling like a lifetime convict.

    I had reached the limits of my previous years of preparation. I was so far behind the material that on the occasions I did look up, the professor might as well have taught in Mandarin.

    Instead of catching up like a responsible adult, I redoubled my sloth. I honestly could not bring myself to care. So, what if I did poorly? I loathed this crap; all the better if I didn''t excel in it.

    I came to realize that the only damn reason I still put up with it, the only reason I tortured myself in those stupid lecture hall seats, was to go home to her. School was the perfect excuse to stay by Flare''s side.

    So, I slouched deeper in my seat and kicked up my feet on the row below. When the again-broken A/C cast the room in an unbearable chill, I brought my own blanket and cushion.

    Perhaps it was this disdain that drew the ire of Professor Stearn.

    He was this balding, middle-aged Spaniard who kept himself in too-good shape, resembling a martial artist more than a professor. He was known as a scrupulous instructor who was also considerate towards each member of his CSC301H1 software engineering course.

    Although he was an enthusiastic lecturer, he was also a stickler for discipline, and I was not surprised when his rough voice addressed me one day.

    "Orson?"

    It was after the lecture on agile development, as I had been scurrying from the lecture hall. I hadn''t expected him to know my name. "Professor?"

    "You''ll see me in the next office hour, won''t you?" It was more of a command than a question.

    "I don''t think I''d need to."

    "I think you would." His gruffness sounded almost threatening.

    Professor Stearn''s office hours were on Monday afternoon, right after my last class of the day. I would have to stay after school and so, I had no plans to heed his recommendation.

    Despite that, when I passed by the Sandford Fleming Building on my way to the apartment, I hesitated. Maybe it was the vestiges of my childhood obedience.

    I found myself navigating to the third floor. Following directions from a friendly assistant professor, I arrived at Stearn''s door. I knocked.

    "Come in."

    I pushed inwards.

    It was the standard office you''d expect of a professor, with a mahogany desk topped by too many books. In a straight-backed chair next to the professor was a smiling woman in office attire. An open window let in a cold breeze.

    I took the chair across from them.

    "Orson." Professor Stearn beckoned me to shift closer. "I hadn''t thought you''d show up."

    I hadn''t thought I would either.

    "Do you know why I requested this meeting?"

    It had been more of a demand than a request. "No idea."

    "You must have some idea," he said. "You can''t be that oblivious."

    I said nothing.

    Professor Stearn scowled. "Well, it has to do something with your performance."

    I rolled my eyes. He was going to reprimand me for my academic negligence: I couldn''t care less about that. I had heard it all too often. Maybe he''d give me a scolding. Professors seemed to like doing that.

    But the next words were unexpected, coming from the woman. "We''ve looked through your records."

    "What?"

    "I''m one of your academic advisors, Paula," she explained. "Professor Stearn thought we might be able to help you."

    "... I see."

    Paula was scrolling through her laptop. "You were one of the more promising applicants of your year. Good grades in every course, and a perfect SAT." She stopped at a video file which she double-clicked.

    On the screen was me, filmed with a dollar-store webcam and looking a lot younger. I cringed as I gave a monologue, full of stutter and disingenuity.

    "You know what this is?"

    "It''s my video response. When I first applied."

    Professor Stearn nodded, and we were quiet until the video finished playing. I expected them to make a comment, but they seemed satisfied that I had seen it.

    Paula then pulled up some academic records next.

    "Decent grades in the first-year courses. Top of the class in the CSCA48 and MAT137, you had learnt some of it before?"

    "Yes."

    "But then something happened in the second semester, didn''t it?" She pointed at the right half of the screen.

    I didn''t respond this time.

    Paula did not press the matter. "We don''t have to get into it yet." She simply scrolled onto the next page. This included the second-year marks which left much to be desired; the second semester of that year was even worse.

    The whole time, I sat quietly fuming. I did my best to be reserved, but I was absolutely infuriated.

    Although they were presenting nothing about the facts, they did not have to shove it in my face. It was one thing to know that I was incapable, that I couldn''t perform. It was quite another to be mocked¡ªridiculed for something that was torturing me every day.

    Paula pressed forward. "Orson."

    I must have adverted my gaze at some point. I looked up, doing my best not to cry in rage.

    "As of this week, you are on academic probation. You may be dismissed if there is no change."

    I didn''t say anything.

    Paula gave a reassuring smile. "We''re here to talk to you about that. To be honest, I don''t think it''s necessarily a bad thing for you. Maybe this isn''t the path for you and that''s perfectly alright."

    When I didn''t respond again, Stearn came forward with his usual gruffness. "Here, Paula. Let me."

    Paula objected: "Maybe we should take this slo¡ª"

    "Orson, I''m going to be frank with you." Stearn moved from his desk and crouched beside me. "You hate this course, don''t you?"

    I was too bitter to speak.

    "Just nod or shake your head."

    I nodded.

    "I see it all too often. Too many youngsters join this discipline with dreams of wealth or¡ª"

    I had grit my teeth and the old man caught on to it instantly.

    "¡ªwas it parental pressure? Something like that?"

    I nodded.

    "Well, Orson, listen. You should get out of here, as far away as your legs will take you. You''re going to hate yourself every day that you stay."

    My glare was burning. I did not need him to tell me that: I was the one living this frigid hell.

    "I think you''re a smart kid and you can excel in whatever you put your mind into." The professor ran a hand along his bearded face. "Tell me, Orson, what do you like?"

    I shook my head.

    "What does that mean?"

    I shrugged; I swallowed.

    "Words, dammit," the professor snapped.

    "I-I don''t know." I was crying despite myself.

    His next lines were like bullets, fired one after another.

    "Do you like music?"

    "N-No, professor."

    "Are you an athlete?"

    "No, professor."

    "Perhaps a scientist?"

    "No, professor."

    "A dancer, a cinematographer, a chef, an artist or a writer?"

    I needed a moment with all that.

    "Are you?"

    "No, professor."

    "And, do you want to be, do you want to be any of that?"

    I couldn''t answer¡ªit might have been the unbearable indignation, or maybe the snot that coated my mouth.

    "Orson." Stearn extended a finger against my chest. "Forget computer science, forget academics, forget whatever your parents want¡ªyou are at the crossroads of your future. Ask yourself this question: what are you passionate about."

    His words pierced like a falling thunderbolt. And like a lightning, it shocked me into motion. I was out of there as fast as lightning too, ignoring the cries of the academic advisor.

    Stearn might have meant well in his own way, but those words had dug too deep.

    What was I passionate about?

    Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

    I didn''t like music; I didn''t like sport; I didn''t like science. Not math, not film, not history, not anything. I didn''t even love to paint, not really. I only did it because she liked it¡ªbecause she liked it.

    No... there was one thing that I was passionate about although Professor Stearn might not approve.

    And I desperately needed it right then.

    I ran all the way back to the apartment, jaywalked when the light refused to change, and took the stairs when the elevator took forever.

    I crashed through the door.

    "Orson?"

    "F-Flaa-re." I melted into her embrace and buried my face in her chest.

    Flare gasped in surprise.

    Then, I felt the rhythmic pats of her hand on my neck and I relished the familiar aroma on her skin.

    Her voice was creamy: "It''s alright."

    Flare didn''t complain, not about the sudden appearance nor the tears that soaked her blouse. She simply accepted me¡ªshe always accepted me.

    When I felt better and let it all out, she simply listened to me¡ªshe always listened to me.

    If not for her, I doubt I would have seen the next morning''s sun. She stayed beside me, sprawled across the bed, for the whole night. Then, in the morning, she woke me with hot chocolate and homemade French toast.

    I wolfed it down. "Thank you..."

    "My pleasure."

    We didn''t share another word until it was time for classes. It was more than enough to share in each other''s company, warmed by the morning sun through the apartment''s windows.

    We left together and Flare placed a hand on mine. "Tonight. If you''re up to it."

    "For sure."

 Chapter 7: The Wildfire and That Which Followed

    I emerged into the hectic heart of Toronto. It was a cold day, with winter about to make its annual appearance. Despite the chill, I walked towards the campus with a consistent gait.

    That day was odd. I wasn''t quite my usual self.

    I felt okay during the lectures, still sulky, but I was able to pay some attention. I remember eating the lunch that Flare had prepared, feeling a little guilty that I hadn''t helped her make it.

    The afternoon was decent as well. Tuesday afternoons only had two classes. I remember that the database course went decently: Professor Naguin''s murmuring was unusually palatable.

    The last class of the day was software engineering.

    I entered the lecture hall a bit ahead of time and hid in the far corner. I had no idea how I''d react when I heard his gruff voice again.

    I waited for what felt like an eternity.

    I remember checking my phone and seeing that the class should have started five minutes ago. The man was running late, causing my trepidation to bottle up. I was sweating at ten minutes and ready to explode at fifteen.

    The rest of the class also seemed restless until the auditorium door burst open.

    Heart thumping, I turned to the entrance.

    It was not Professor Stearn but the faculty dean, Canmore. His features were tightened.

    "What''s going on?" a student called.

    "Where''s the professor?" said another.

    Canmore ignored the questions. He marched to the lectern, tapped the mic, and spoke: "Professor Stearn has been hospitalized." The dean took a breath. "An incendiary device was planted in his personal vehicle."

    Everybody was on their feet¡ªthe students in clamour and me in shock. Dozens of people swarmed the dean for answers while I fled in the commotion.

    I remember one thought racing through my head as I sprinted home for the second time that week.

    What did you do?

    The apartment was dark when I returned. The living room was empty, and the only light was a flickering light from the bedroom.

    I pushed open the door.

    Flare was convulsing on the bed, fervently pleasuring herself by candlelight. She moaned and turned to me, eyes ablaze in red, cheeks just as red with heat.

    "Orson..."

    "I-I"

    "Come."

    "F-Flare?"

    "Come."

    "F-Flare did... What did yo¡ª"

    "Come!"

    My words were completely gone. So too was my judgement and my mind and my resistance. I could only let her pull me in and mount me like a lioness does her prey.

    Her skin was shiny, breasts and midriff coated in gasoline. The smell was obscene, drilling into my nose. The danger was even more so. One errant thrust into a candle, and we''d become that which we loved.

    I remember being made to lie on my back. I remember staring up at the smile I always knew, at a body that I would soon come to know.

    It was an unbearable warmth, growing as we pushed and pulled; rubbed and collapsed. We locked our flesh, sharing synchronized gasps of the chemical-filled air.

    "Let''s go," Flare whispered between waves of euphoria.

    I was so overloaded that I couldn''t quite understand.

    "Let''s go." She was right beside my ear.

    "W-where?"

    "To solve your problems." Her ruby eyes were millimetres away.

    I realized it then.

    Flare was too perfect, in the memories of my youth, through the turbulence of high school, in her current, flawless touch. She was my drug, my cherry-red ecstasy¡ªand I was the hopeless addict who couldn''t go a day without the needle''s sting.

    My lips were dry when I said it: "Let''s go."

    The greater half of the university campus was closed off. The incendiary device had ignited the professor''s sedan as it had been driving down College Street. He had swerved into a crowd, causing mass panic and later causing much of the school to vacate.

    In the dead of night, we were able to sneak right through the rings of police tape. The streets were deathly quiet as the year''s first snowflakes began to fall. The school must have cut power to the area as the only light was the pale moonlight.

    It was probably a cold night, but all I could remember was the heat. Flare must have been warm as well, as there was nothing beneath her trench coat that would flap in the wind.

    It was so easy, following her into the campus. It was so easy, with no one stopping us even as we manhandled five full drums of gasoline across Kings'' College Road.

    The target was the Sandford Fleming Building, the source of my three years of misery. With a round extension adorned with pillars, the library resembled the south fa?ade of the White House. And like the White House of days long past, the building would soon burn down.

    It was so simple. We entered through one of the side doors. There were no alarms, no security or lights; the cameras might have been rolling, but those would soon be gone.

    We emerged into the main foyer.

    At some point, her coat had been lost. Then, Flare was on bare feet, creeping up the foyer steps fully nude. I followed her crimson, waving hair, heaving a drum across my shoulders.

    I remember we started from the top.

    The upper floor was mostly filled with various engineering reference books. We didn''t spare them. We destroyed the shelves, navigating by flashlight and laying a deadly trail. When we arrived at the computer science texts at the back of the library, we were particularly generous.

    I had come to despise the smell of books through years of reading too many. Now, we replaced the scent with petrol, so much that it dribbled over the edge of the concourse and down to the first floor.

    We raided the offices next, trashing any room that was unlocked.

    Stearn''s office was the principal target. We busted open the door with a fire extinguisher. Once inside, everything was painted in hydrocarbons: the walls, the office chair, the hardwood flooring, and the desk¡ªon top which we enjoyed ourselves.

    I remember how damn good that felt.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

    "What''s next?" Flare gasped, laying on the floor.

    "Ground floor," I tasted the gasoline on my lips. I remember that I quite liked it. "The lounge, and the workstations."

    Flare sighed.

    "What, getting second thoughts?"

    "No..." She made a sound as if tensing. Then, she exhaled: "I''m just thinking how much great this is."

    "Ready then?"

    Her voice filled with conviction. "I''m game if you are."

    On the ground floor, we were a bit more playful.

    We chased each other through the lower hallways like children. It was a game: I''d carry a drum of gasoline and chase after her perfect figure¡ªall the while swamping the building in pools of gas.

    I''d finally catch her, and we''d indulge each other on the nearest couch, repeating until we were down to the last drum. With it, I remember ripping through the library''s thirty computer stations. I kicked monitors, smashed terminals, and saturated it all with petrol.

    It was all a blur, a reverie that was too intense.

    "Orson," Flare murmured.

    Before I knew it, we were standing at the center of the concourse. Flare was standing before me, in a pillar of moonlight which streamed through a window. She appeared magical, shimmering in the gasoline''s iridescence with her redness being the only other colour.

    Flare flicked on the lighter. The wisp was nostalgic, blue at the base and orange near the apex.

    Flare pressed closer, holding it dangerously close to my chest that was also coated in gasoline. Her free hand ran across around my side, and she shifted around me, completing a full circle.

    The flame came to rest right beside my eye. Behind it were her eyes, as red at the flame''s tip.

    "You do it."

    The lighter snapped off. Flare dropped it.

    It fell and I scrambled to catch it, drawing Flare''s laughter. I straighten up and looked her in the eye. "You sure?"

    "Positive."

    I remember that I crouched down with minimal hesitation. But when my thumb reached the spark wheel, I was overcome with unexpected ambivalence. "Is thi¡ª"

    Flare was suddenly crouched beside me. She said nothing.

    Instead, she mouthed three words¡ªthe same three words I had mouthed to her all those years ago in the clearing.

    I found myself back there, in those howling winter winds, on the night Flare had said she''d be leaving for this cursed city. We had stared at each other; we had made our tacit promises. This wasn''t so different.

    Only now, the library''s concourse was the clearing, and the moonlight pierced through windows rather than trees.

    I had lit a flame that night. I did it again.

    The gasoline caught alight.

    I ran for my life.

    I ran and ran, heart pounding, lungs gasping, Flare skipping beside me. I dashed for the exit, racing the flames that I had birthed. In my ears, all I could hear was their roar¡ªthat, and Flare''s neurotic laughter.

    Despite the smoke, the heat, and the sound, my mind became crystal clear. I remembered something else about that night years ago.

    Who do I want to be?

    I had asked myself that question on that night. I had seen a crossroad; I had chosen the man I wanted to be.

    I remembered the question that Professor Stearn had asked.

    What are you passionate about?

    I was passionate about her. There was nothing I loved more than the Flare of my memories: strong and thoughtful; bold and always loyal.

    But what had I told her in the clearing? When my hands had been squeezing her shoulders?

    Be true to yourself.

    This wasn''t the Flare I knew. Or maybe it was too much of the Flare I knew, her characteristics so exaggerated that it had been perverted. Bold to reckless; passionate to obsessive.

    Whatever the verdict, it didn''t really matter.

    I sprinted ahead of her. I burst outside into the winter winds, spun on my toes, and thrust the door closed. I jammed my forearm between the handle and the frame, sealing it.

    Through the glass, I saw Flare approach. She bounced off the door and disbelief filled her eyes. "Orson!"

    I said nothing.

    Flare banged on the glass; she kicked on the door. Neither budged. I didn''t either.

    A noticeable heat was building up. Flare turned around and noticed the fire, creeping forwards, blitzing along the gasoline-soaked carpets.

    "Orson, let me out!" Her fist smashed repeatedly, smearing red across the window. She pulled back and charged the doorway.

    The impact broke a bone somewhere and sent a shock down my body. Despite that, I held fast, not even relenting as the metal began to heat up and sear my flesh.

    It would have been far worse on the other side.

    "Open the door!"

    "Let me out!"

    "Orson!"

    Flare shrieked her lungs out.

    Then, something strange happened¡ªthe shouts twisted and merged and blurred. It became a rapid, almost rabid, gasping that was more joyful than agonizing, and more hysteric than joyful.

    The flames flared.

    A spark caught her skin, still slick with gasoline.

    Flare had never seemed to mind the heat. That is until she became a fireball¡ªher vibrant red hair became the reddest of reds; her sparkling eyes became the brightest of brights.

    I held the door a moment longer, until the smoke and the heat and the pressure became too much.

    She came bursting out, looking more like a dancing puppet than a person. She fell forward, crashed down the stairs, and collapsed, motionless and smouldering.

    I didn''t see anything after that.

    I was also drenched in gasoline and her desperate escape had lit me ablaze. I had never thought that the flames could hurt so much as I rolled in the freshly fallen snow.

    It was all over. I only recall limping through the streets as the fire spread to across the campus.

    I later learnt that three dozen people were injured, with several of them dying. I had somehow made it to one of the school dormitories, mixed with the victims, and escaped suspicion.

    My next clear memory was of clean sheets, on a clean bed, in a clean room.

    They had taken me to the hospital trauma center, where I was treated for third degree-burns across most of my body. It took the surgeons three days to graft hundreds of skins pieces.

    Even then, my right forearm, the one that had held the door, had been amputated from the elbow down. I had suffered nerve damage across most of my upper body, and my fingers now possessed an uncontrollable twitch.

    I would never be the same.

    I spent New Year''s relearning how to move my body and was finally released from occupational therapy at the end of summer the next year.

    After that, I went home and stayed in my room, suffering from chronic aches and neuropathic pains. The fires had taken my warmth and I lay in bed constantly shivering. If not for the warmth of my parents, I would have frozen over.

    It was like that for three months.

    Then, on a misty autumn morning, I got out of bed. I stumbled down the stairs on shaking legs.

    "Orson!" My mother leapt from the kitchen table. She steadied me and her voice softened. "You shouldn''t strain yourself."

    "It''s alright."

    "Are you sure?"

    I nodded.

    She opened her mouth and closed it, ultimately saying nothing. She had seen it.

    "I want to go on a walk."

    "Yeah... that''s." My mother swallowed. "That''s good. That''s really good."

    "It is."

    "Do you want me to come with you?"

    "I would. But I think it''s something I should do alone."

    "Alright."

    My mother helped me dress. I had wallowed in bed for too long and still couldn''t pull a proper shirt over my head. Together, I adorned a clean, collared dress shirt and my father''s black overcoat.

    "Be careful."

    "I will."

    I retrieved my cane¡ªI had to use one to steady myself now¡ªand left the house, the tip tapping against the soft earth of Canon Smith''s roadside.

    The destination was no more than a kilometre away, but it took me half an hour to get there. I retraced a path that had once been worn down, now lush with years of disuse.

    The familiar babbling of Morson''s Creek greeted me.

    It was eerily similar to how it had been in bygone days. The creek widened at the same spot, the spot where I had first confessed; and there was the stump, on which she had shown me that bottle, that magical bottle.

    The only difference was the overgrowth, and amongst it, a solemn gravestone.

    There were signs of visitors, probably some Andelion kinsmen. I followed the footpath they had made and stopped a meter from the headstone''s plaque.

    In memory of a Flare ¡ªwhose passion was only rivalled by her short-livedness.

    I found the inscription quite appropriate. The only impropriety was the burial: Flare would have preferred cremation.

    On my return trip, I was stopped by a car. It swerved in front of me and blared its horn. At first, I was confused. Then, I saw a mass of black in the bush, scampering away.

    There must have been a bear.

    The driver, an attractive woman in her forties, disembarked. She turned to me and gave a sigh of relief. "Wow, I had thought it might attack you."

    I stared at her and she seemed quite familiar. "Mrs. Scout?"

    "Orson?"

    We spent several minutes catching up. Mrs. Scout was now the mother of three beautiful children and had become the sixth-grade teacher at Stonecrest. She seemed shocked by my disfigurement.

    "It''s alright, Mrs. Scout," I assured her.

    "It''s just so..."

    "It was an accident. I''m over it."

    She sighed. "I hope you can recover."

    "I hope so too."

    Scout understood to change the topic. "I still remember the paintings you made when you were at Stonecrest. Did you keep practicing?"

    "No."

    "Oh... I see. And what about Flare?" Scout gave a wink. "Did that go anywhere?"

    "No."

    She was quiet at that. "Well, that''s too bad. I had always thought that you two were perfect."

    I made no reaction.

    Mrs. Scout understood to say no more. She got back into the car and rolled down the window. She gave a final question: "What are you planning on doing now?"

    The autumn air was perfectly fresh as I inhaled. However, I noticed something else, or rather, the absence of something. There was no cigarette stench, not from Scout''s person nor her vehicle.

    I thought about her question.

    What was I going to do now? What did I want to do? I thought back about the question Professor Stearn had asked me.

    A dancer, a cinematographer, a chef, an artist or a writer?

    I remembered the stories I had read during class and the resolution I had made. It felt so fleeting at this time, but...

    "I think I''ll take it slow for a year. Maybe try my hand at writing."

    "Writing?"

    "Yeah."

    Scout bit her lip. "I think that''s wonderful. You''ll have to let me read your works."

    I chuckled. "I doubt you''d like my writing."

    "Pardon?" The joke seemed to surprise her.

    "Ah, never mind."

    Scout smiled, gave her farewells, and drove off.

    I turned back to the brush, where the bear had been. I could sense that it was still there and... I knew it wouldn''t attack.

    I continued my homewards trudge and the morning felt a little warmer¡ªnot hot, but comfortable.