Fire In Its Forms A small house and A scarlet room full of fireplaces. Some large, some small. Each unique. A creme frame with delicately carved fluid designs is one, the wood painted over many times. Maintained for appearance. A constant flame that dims rarely. A sturdy red brick and mortar, built and rebuilt over time. A weathered crucifix sitting still on the mantel. Warmth filling the room from its comforting tendrils. A deep purple with splatters of white and yellow. Not your everyday, but still beautiful to see. A piece of art within itself. The deep orange hews change constantly and drasticly. Bright blues to rich reds. The passiom of the flame never ceasing. And then that grey furnace. Small. Unoticed in the room of grandiour. Dead ash lay in the grate. Its been cooled for many years, The fire long gone. But recently a spark there... a deadly flame threatening to grow. The potential of a roaring fire was always there, just left looked over against the others. Its an obvious piece but of little significants. Or so I thought... That dead ash caught the flame, and then burst forth into the room from its grate. It licked at the other fireplaces. It devoured hungrily all it could find. The whole of the room was consumed... and then the whole of the house collapsed in, being also dominated and and ingested by the fire. The onlooker walks by, through the deep forest and all they find is a pile of black ash amognst the charred trees.