Candle, Flame And Clay

• Alana Cincotta, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2022

Stiff with the years of elegant form. Perfect curvature of every sweeping line and shape that hugged the silhouette of a figure sculpted by the hands of the heavenly Father himself. Never broken, never tarnished; she lay, percolating with sublimity from every atom of her being.
She was quintessential.
Eyes blue, like morning dew that lay across plains and fields as the sun carved its way into the sky.
My Dear Angel was the stars in the sky and the waves of the ocean, crashing into my life with a light that would blind me forever.
Nothing could deface such a site, such a mould. I tasted the ecstasy that was her spectre only once before, and I have been addicted to it since. Nothing could soften the wings of an angel carved of wax.
Nothing, but flame.
Burning with passion and with consequence. He was everything perfect with the warmness of Sunday morning sun shining through the panes of stained glass; and everything wicked with the destruction of heat levelling the planes of a countryside forest.
But she did not see. She was blind to the burn marks he left upon her hands, to the wilt of her wings and the sink of her posture.
Her wax was melting. And his fire was spreading.
She was either oblivious to his blaze or addicted to his heat; perhaps a fusion of the two.
Sitting upon the dusty shelves, we all pondered how such a treasure of fine sculpted honeycomb could possibly love the ashes of Lucifer that tore down her nature.
Yet, submitted to this fact, I lay sleepless as the arrow within my heart dug deeper with every glance that they shared, suffocating me completely until I could not find any more tears to shed when begging for my breath. He set her heart ablaze with the soothing touch of his words that fell like dense honey through her skin. He had carved a place within her heart without her permission and would not leave unless her form was dissolved completely and all that was left was the wick of memories and the pain of the loved ones that had watched her melt.
Both sculpted into models, I had always presumed that we were destined. One of terracotta and the other of ivory melts. The well that we met, like Moses and Jethro’s lass, would shape the stars to align in the formation of our love.
I love her.
Of course I love her. I had put my faith in God to do his bidding. I deserved this, had I not?
But in fact, the hands of Hades sent upon his flame, to coax her into the underworld.
And that, he did.
She did not care for the consequences, or where this would lead her. She would follow him through the fires of hell if it meant she could feel the warm heat of his hand in hers.