Flames That Would Create.

June 22, 2009

Private Residence

Chevy Chase turned the lighter over in his hand and thought of how quickly the flame, when beckoned by the caress of ridged silver, would appear to replace the dark, to usher it into a place of temporary repose. There were flames that would destroy, he knew that, as everyone did, and there were flames that would create, like the ashes born from a bonfire. Then there were flames that brought out what lay dormant, like the flame that revealed the horrible beauty that blooms from the popcorn kernel, or the one that lay bare the black cancer that engorged the veins of the marshmallow. He passed his palm over the top of the bright outcropping of gas, thinking of the pain that Laraine Newman had inflicted upon him with a single flick of the telephone receiver. He enacted that flick with the vial of flame he now clutched, and it extinguished as his life would also expire, either sooner or later. He glanced around the campsite, rubbing his knee with his other hand, until his gaze fell on Dan Aykroyd, standing on a log in front of him. He wore a coonskin cap and a leather jacket, and breathed heavily as his eyes widened to encompass the specimen in front of him. He licked his lips, forming his hands into fists. He bared his teeth before whispering, “I own you.”

Chevy Chase nodded. That was what he had forgotten. We all have things, he decided, that we were desperate to leave behind, until the flame reappeared to dole out our measure of shame, to reveal our latent cancers. Dan Aykroyd screamed and began to remove his jacket before Chevy Chase awoke, thankful beyond all degree for the darkness that fell across his poster for Foul Play. The clock radio read 3:23.

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