Burn – Gaden Sousa

BURN

Gaden Sousa

‘As we make our descent, you might start to smell some smoke. No cause for alarm.’

A young boy marvels at what he sees: a sea of faded smokiness, made of dead and dying trees. The off-white ocean below him penetrated by icebergs of pillow white, the clouds an odd and offensive reminder of what normal used to be.

The gentle wafts of wood fire, that remind the boy of gourmet pizza and cold winter nights. Warm memories mixed with a frightful sight as the cool and soothing light of the airplane was replaced with a painful orange as, suddenly, the world changed.

‘If you are in fire-affected areas, it may already be too late to escape.’

It starts with a flicker. Small, a lapping of orange like a chameleon snatching a fly with its tongue. Slowly it spreads. They always say that fires spread out of control quickly, but this one spread slow. A molasses of orange clinging to the ground crawling its way from grass to bush and up the trunks of ancient trees.

For the family of five, their only warning is a slow brightening of the night, as the darkness is replaced by a soft orange glow. Some of them wake up, the mother and father roused by the heat of the house rising. At the door they find it is too late, their world is alight. Seeping in through every crack are the last breaths of dying trees, crawling, contorting, bending their way into the home.

Outside the smoke threatens to never leave as it changes the silver glimmer of the moon to bronze. An apocalypse of nature’s making, ending with all things blackened and alone.

‘There’s a lot of smoke out there, be careful.’

Matilda drives to pick up her sister from a friend’s house. She drives through the quiet country town, past the shops she’s visited every day in the eighteen years she’d been there, past her school, past the parks she played in as a child, and past the town altogether. Family friends’ farms pass by and she attempts to see them past the thick, messy smoke that lay across the whole region like a horrible blanket. A reminder of the danger all around them. This place, her place, once survived many a drought. Years where water fell nowhere, it still fell here, but now even in the winter the rain didn’t come.

The smoke arrived several days ago and would leave occasionally only to be brought back by the winds. It was like an uninvited party guest who stays for too long. Just when you think you’ve gotten rid of them, they come back, louder, thicker, and more annoying than ever.

One dead kangaroo passes by Matilda, then two, three … after five she stops counting. The farms had turned to desert and it was all the kangaroos could do to find nourishment on the side of the road, kept uncharacteristically green, as if a small joke was being played. You can only find food in the most dangerous place. Most of them wound up dead, either starved or hit, lying on the road as a reminder and a warning to those entering the town: stay away. Here lies death. A left turn pulls Matilda off the highway and onto a dirt road. She looks behind her as the parched earth kicks up dust to join the hazy grey all around. Everything is a reminder of the dry, the heat and the flames.

She sits and waits for her sister. While she waits, she pretends she can’t smell the world on fire. Pretends she hasn’t driven past blackened forests and dying livestock. What else is there to do but pretend none of it is happening. That’s what her parents do, her friends do, it’s what everyone does. And so, she sits, and she waits, pretending that the rain might come.

The Club Deakin Writers

The Deakin Writers Club is for those who love to read, write, and create. We hold all sorts of events where you can hone your writing skills, gush about your favourite books, make friends, and create contacts within the writing and publishing community.

Sign up to be a member here: ‘https://www.dusa.org.au/club/deakin-writers/’

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