Incendiary by Adam Szymkowicz

ELISE

I want to stop.  I really do.  I’m trying.  I really am.  But I don’t think you understand.  A fire
is the most beautiful thing ever created.  I dare you to show me a work of art that can rival a
five alarm fire.  You couldn’t do it.  You just couldn’t.  And I like art as much as the next
person but I wonder always when I see a Van Gogh or a Rembrant--I imagine, as I’m sure
you do, what it would look like on fire.  That second before the painting caves in, that would
be . . . it would be . . . incomparable.  But sadly, I don’t think any of us will live to see it.  We
could burn prints, I suppose, cheap gift store prints, but it would just be paper.  No melting
paint, no disintegrating wood.  It’s a waste.

There is nothing in this world like fire.  At first it’s just a match, an idea, a spark, a little
yellow flame, and it need nurturing to grow to an inferno.  Those oranges, those yellows,
those cores of blue don’t just happen by themselves.  They take planning.  They take
skill.  They take love.  I am not some Zippo-flicking fourteen year old—no.  I am an artist.  I
can light a fire so precise all that’s left of the building is dust while the rest of the block is
miraculously untouched.  And of course, me and the boys are always around to come and put
it out in case anything should happen.