Burning

The day had been sweltering and nightfall did not provide much relief. Thunderheads to the west pledged a night of fireworks.

I drove up to the house after an exhausting day at a family reunion. Jonah’s car was parked by the barn and the front door stood ajar. I walked into the house closing the screen door behind me. The house was quiet except the hum of box fans in every window.

“Jonah,” I called. No response.

The living room floor was a disarray of books, torn paper, and broken pencils. In the kitchen, the back door was stood open. I heard crackling and hissing from the back yard. I ran outside. Jonah was standing over the flaming burn barrel, tears streaming.

“What happened?” I asked.

Jonah looked away from the fire. “I checked the mail today.”

“Okay?”

“I haven’t checked it in two weeks.”

“And?”

“All of my envelopes were returned.”

Jonah had sent out several portfolios to publishers.

“All of them?”

“Seven returned envelopes, four rejection letters.”

“That’s okay. You hear all these stories about writers who could paper their walls with reject slips.”

“I’m done. I don’t have time to collect rejection letters,” he said squirting lighter fluid into the barrel. The flame danced higher.

I could see envelope corners poking up amongst the flames.

“What are you burning?” I asked anger heating my ears.

“All of it.”

“Everything you got in the mail today?”

“All of it, I don’t want to look at it anymore. Just another failed dream.”

“That was stupid,” I said heading into the house.

Jonah’s makeshift studio he’d set up in a spare bedroom was barren. Posters had been stripped from the walls. Piles of sketch pads were missing. Jars once holding pencils, pens, and markers were sat empty. The drafting table was folded up and stuck in the closet next to the story boards that once hung around the room like a wallpaper border. Shelves of art texts were empty except for a small stack of favourite novels.

I ran into the living room, gathered several of my journals off the shelf, and headed out to the fire.

“What are you doing?” Jonah asked as I tossed two of the small books into the fire. He didn’t know that they were empty. I grabbed the lighter fluid from his hand and sprayed the fire.

“Stop it,” he said.

I pitched another empty volume into the barrel, dropped the rest on the ground, and began skipping around the fire.

“What are you doing?” he screamed.

I stopped skipping. “What the fuck are you doing? Why are you giving up?”

“I’m not giving up. I’m … starting over,” he said.

Photo: LexxyThirteen