Into Flames

Prose Winner of the Surging Tide Summer Writing Contest
Selected by aureleo sans

The poetics, the lines, the sounds of “Into Flames” are revelatory. The details in this piece dazzle with precision and marvel. The narrative masterfully propels the reader into this world, a place somewhere in between longing and lassitude, pain and beauty.  I know that so many of these brilliantly rendered images and lines will be sticking with me for some time to come. -aureleo sans

I had a habit of categorizing things: the bills, food stamps, and coupons all sorted by deadlines and expiration dates. There was a stack of flattened cardboard tied with string and black garbage bag of plastic bottles and soda cans next to the front door of my family’s rented single bedroom. If it was tangible, I would’ve filed the night the fire quieted in Ally’s house under do not touch, along with everything else I could not afford. Everything became more fragile after an inferno.

It was nearly midnight when Ally’s phone rang. We sat in the driveway of her dad’s almost-mansion, my legs tingling from my stillness. Our faces were pricked numb from the cold and I could see a flush sharpening across her cheeks, her hair capturing the moon’s glow and curtaining her ears like a sleek, silver waterfall. Every room in the house was bright 24/7, the warm light from the windows washing us gamboge with the concrete. Ally liked it that way, said she hoped it made her dad’s wallet hurt. I thought it was a defense, her pitiful attempt at resistance, that she meant for the light to burn anyone who got close enough to crave their small coat of warmth.

I glanced down at my scuffed Converses, the rubber soles peeling at the toes, then at her brand-new, thick-soled, pink Prada sneakers which she absentmindedly scraped against the white gravel. Ally pinched a Royal Release Salomones from her dad’s cigar collection—one of her dad’s favorites—between two fingers and tapped it carelessly against the bump of bone at her wrist to shake off the ash.
Like most days, I wasn’t sure why Ally invited me here since we just sat around doing our own thing. I couldn’t complain—I hoped she kept letting me come back. We didn’t have air conditioning and heating at home.

Exhaling a waft of smoke, she lazily flicked her gaze towards the name of the caller, the screen of her phone jewel-bright. Her stillness reminded me of a cheaply made Jack-in-the-box, the jester lurking just beneath the surface; one tiny push and the wild animal tensed inside will explode out of her flimsy façade like a punch through paper. The ghosts of her lashes fell across her cheekbones the way tree branches spiderwebbed the concrete during high sun in the summer afternoons.

​Ally picked up and her dainty brows creased disdainfully. Dropping the cigar, she crushed it beneath her heel, pretty mouth twisting into a sneer. Like opera face-changing, I thought, watching from the side as she let the animal loose, face contorted, her tongue a whip of pink. She didn’t have her phone on speaker, but I heard the man on the other end of the line letting his animal out too. Her dad. He called her troubled and apathetic for not being glad that he found the woman of his life. Ally told him that he should have a side hustle as a prostitute since so many women made him happy. She hung up. He’s going to need the extra money, she said venomously.

For some reason, I followed her inside, watched as she raised a cherry wood chair and slammed it against the nearest chandelier. A strand of crystal caught a leg and she yanked. I watched as she smashed every light bulb in the house and grounded the shards into the polished floor with the shoes worth a month of rent or more, watched her destroy the place I’d taken for a refuge with her anger. A pang of grief stirred in my chest and I subconsciously lifted my hand towards it, mildly surprised. I could not convince myself that I was grieving for her, but the idea that I felt the loss of her house more than her dad was so absurd I almost laughed.

Afterwards, she slung her arms around my neck. Joyce, Joyce, she sobbed, clutching onto me. In the darkness, I stood like furniture as she called my name over and over like a spell she wanted to contain. She would shatter, fall over like a horse if I touched her, I just knew it. I don’t want him to come home anymore, she said, and I realized that she had been trying to lure her dad back to her, but her dad was a businessman, not an insect. I tried to tell her this, but she cried too hard to listen.
​
Outside, the moon beamed tauntingly. Over Ally’s shoulder, I saw a few moths fluttering in the pale light, spotting the moon like another crater. See, I thought. If you really mattered, he would come to you even if you were yourself, even if you didn’t beg for it. Now every bulb was out; there was no firelight left and her fingers were cold. Still, in this dead space, the thermal pulse of the heater surged over my skin, leaving me hollow and full of cravings.

Back to: Issue Ten

Next: Danielle Emerson 

Sandra Nuochen (诺晨桑璟) is a Chinese American writer from New York. She has been recognized by Hollins University, Rider University, Columbia College Chicago, the Alliance for Art and Writing, and more. Sandra is a student at the University of Pennsylvania. She may be contacted on Instagram @sandranuochen.