Shrunken tongue.
04.19.24 – Bressings
The fire keeps flaring up when least expected. Flames liked to spike and spread, they ate and ate until there was nothing left to feast on. Outbursts occurred at the feet and jumped startlingly upwards sharing the surprise with any in reach. It wasn’t always accompanied by the sharp cheer of snaps sounding off to celebrate the wax and wane of such a feat. The fingers moved silently, danced at the sky, poked towards other sources to consume, fearing nothing. Heat branched out with its own broad limbs. It followed as an aura to the swing chaos of the fire but didn’t always overlap as closely as the movement suggested. The feeling fell over like a lazy shadow, sometimes in-sync, sometimes behind.
Smoke sometimes came along with it. Heavier meals might be laden with that choking gray billowing forth. In the still air it plumed upwards, blossomed a bit before finding a draft to scatter its fragile form out upon the open ocean of the sky. If a breeze fell low it might push that exhalation out among the creatures huddled against the near edges of that fire. Warmth outweighed the need to breathe at times. Heads might lay closer to the earth hoping that the hovering gauze would dissipate quickly so they wouldn’t have to choke through it. It spun in directions somewhat different from its origin. The flames were stuck fast, pivoting only from where they ate, but smoke released itself from such bonds the moment it came into being.
-VGB
That Perfect Gray 