Flames belch forth from the stained stone hearth. I poke at the chunks of splintered wood and wonder how long it will take for the fire to devour them.
Bitter wind shrieks as it sucks heat from the cabin through cracks in the broken window.
My eyes are dry, their sticky lenses brittle. The smoky heat and burning cold slowly steal my sight, and when I am painfully blind, trapped and alone, I realize it is too late to escape.
Weary, I sat in front of the fireplace, gazing into the flames when I felt a warm hand on my shoulder.
“Here.”
The branch offered was whittled to a sharp point and on the end, a hot-dog was ready for roasting. “Thank you, dear husband,” I said and took his offering.
The kids crowded in, smelling the dog’s as they sizzled, each one with a huge grin.
I sighed, and felt… my heart at the center of our hearth.
There's a reason home is where the hearth is: leaving it is entering the cold. Warmth decays inversely with the square of the distance, despite the road seeming adventurous at first.
We’re warm-blooded beasts, and we embrace the calor of hunkering down in the coziness of love. As I distance myself from home—my hearth—I chill in unnatural ways. When going hearthless I am growing heartless. Linguistic ironies arise from merely one letter's difference. Thus, it is a spell.
The hearth crackled, embers glowing like distant memories.
Townsfolk searched the woods and river.
Only Thomas knew the truth.
Each night, he whispered to the flames, as if her ashes could hear. The police questioned him, their eyes sharp with suspicion, but the hearth kept its secret.
"Rest now, my love," he murmured, stirring the coals. Outside, the search continued. Inside, she was home—forever part of the warmth they’d once shared.
We were at the Nevada Smithsonian for an exhibit on the world before the great warmup. The Washington Smithsonian was under water, so this was built at what used to be 5000 feet above sea level. We were looking at a model house from 2025 when the kids pointed, confused, to one end of the living room. I said when it was cold a family would build a fire there inside the house for comfort. They called it a hearth.
Thomas Lincoln worked daily and diligently to maintain the family hearth. Young Abraham earned his keep within the family handling an axe supplying firewood. During his White House days, Abe insisted all hearths be inspected and replenished with firewood daily. With the exhaustive and relentless duties brought by the Civil War, Lincoln often escaped and chopped wood for the White House. He could clear his head and wrestle with unimaginable pressures and decisions. He found a balanced strength to wrestle the war’s wicked weight simply by chopping wood..
The spirit swam in the fires of the blazing hearth. The heat of the flames distorted it, its white hot eyes vibrating as it floated above the searing logs.
Charles watched it, mesmerized by its beauty. The spirit beckoned to him, drawing him ever closer. He didn’t resist, didn’t stop when the heat dried his eyes, didn’t stop when his eyebrows burned away and his skin blistered and his jacket ignited.
He didn’t stop until he was no more, and his screams were replaced by the gentle crackling of the flames.
Weary, I sat in front of the fireplace, gazing into the flames when I felt a warm hand on my shoulder.
“Here.”
The branch offered was whittled to a sharp point and on the end, a hot-dog was ready for roasting. “Thank you, dear husband,” I said and took his offering.
The kids crowded in, smelling the dog’s as they sizzled, each one with a huge grin.
I sighed, and felt… my heart at the center of our hearth.
The cold hearth drove the Wyterringet, and Merphou caring pairs into searching. Their search for burnables started nearby, but unlike in ages past, the land there was picked clean. Worries burned their precious energy. A Wyterringet, his osyu faltering from worry, nearly tumbled into death. Supported by one of the Merphou, they visited a nearby town. There, they felt some heat from a person, skin matching charcoal. This charcoal skinned fellow shivered. Hope blossomed. Perhaps an alternative source could suffice.
I left the hearth not with certainty but with ash still on my skin. My heart stuttered, hungry for more than warmth—craving shape, craving truth. What cracked open wasn’t just walls but silence. I carried the ember. Rebuilt not with brick, but breath. A hearth can be mobile. A heart can hold fire. And when both collapse, I learn again: home is not a place. It’s pulse. It’s rhythm. It’s the light I refuse to snuff out, even in exile
Voices through the years intoned a great appreciation for the 300 year old hearth. Despite absorbing and reflecting intense heat, time and time again it demonstrated the beauty of its intent, to keep a house warm. It celebrated Christmases, warmed New Years, and protected against intense cold fronts. In its early incarnation it provided the heat for cooking foods all year round.
Now it stood alone, in an open field. Occasionally picnicking families used it as a place of comfort.
I'd left long ago, but now I'd made my fortune and was ready to come home. How proud my father would be of my great accomplishments! How pleased my mother would be to see the fine man her boy had grown into!
But when I finally found the place where our house belonged, everything and everyone were gone. Only an old, cracked, blackened granite hearthstone gave testament to where the old homestead once stood. I'd returned home far too late.
Flames belch forth from the stained stone hearth. I poke at the chunks of splintered wood and wonder how long it will take for the fire to devour them.
Bitter wind shrieks as it sucks heat from the cabin through cracks in the broken window.
My eyes are dry, their sticky lenses brittle. The smoky heat and burning cold slowly steal my sight, and when I am painfully blind, trapped and alone, I realize it is too late to escape.
Weary, I sat in front of the fireplace, gazing into the flames when I felt a warm hand on my shoulder.
“Here.”
The branch offered was whittled to a sharp point and on the end, a hot-dog was ready for roasting. “Thank you, dear husband,” I said and took his offering.
The kids crowded in, smelling the dog’s as they sizzled, each one with a huge grin.
I sighed, and felt… my heart at the center of our hearth.
80-word story challenge—Prompt: “Hearth”
There's a reason home is where the hearth is: leaving it is entering the cold. Warmth decays inversely with the square of the distance, despite the road seeming adventurous at first.
We’re warm-blooded beasts, and we embrace the calor of hunkering down in the coziness of love. As I distance myself from home—my hearth—I chill in unnatural ways. When going hearthless I am growing heartless. Linguistic ironies arise from merely one letter's difference. Thus, it is a spell.
80mg - Hearth
The hearth crackled, embers glowing like distant memories.
Townsfolk searched the woods and river.
Only Thomas knew the truth.
Each night, he whispered to the flames, as if her ashes could hear. The police questioned him, their eyes sharp with suspicion, but the hearth kept its secret.
"Rest now, my love," he murmured, stirring the coals. Outside, the search continued. Inside, she was home—forever part of the warmth they’d once shared.
No one would think of looking in the fire.
80 words on "hearth":
We were at the Nevada Smithsonian for an exhibit on the world before the great warmup. The Washington Smithsonian was under water, so this was built at what used to be 5000 feet above sea level. We were looking at a model house from 2025 when the kids pointed, confused, to one end of the living room. I said when it was cold a family would build a fire there inside the house for comfort. They called it a hearth.
HEARTH
Thomas Lincoln worked daily and diligently to maintain the family hearth. Young Abraham earned his keep within the family handling an axe supplying firewood. During his White House days, Abe insisted all hearths be inspected and replenished with firewood daily. With the exhaustive and relentless duties brought by the Civil War, Lincoln often escaped and chopped wood for the White House. He could clear his head and wrestle with unimaginable pressures and decisions. He found a balanced strength to wrestle the war’s wicked weight simply by chopping wood..
The spirit swam in the fires of the blazing hearth. The heat of the flames distorted it, its white hot eyes vibrating as it floated above the searing logs.
Charles watched it, mesmerized by its beauty. The spirit beckoned to him, drawing him ever closer. He didn’t resist, didn’t stop when the heat dried his eyes, didn’t stop when his eyebrows burned away and his skin blistered and his jacket ignited.
He didn’t stop until he was no more, and his screams were replaced by the gentle crackling of the flames.
Weary, I sat in front of the fireplace, gazing into the flames when I felt a warm hand on my shoulder.
“Here.”
The branch offered was whittled to a sharp point and on the end, a hot-dog was ready for roasting. “Thank you, dear husband,” I said and took his offering.
The kids crowded in, smelling the dog’s as they sizzled, each one with a huge grin.
I sighed, and felt… my heart at the center of our hearth.
Well, that was quite a turn of events. LOVED it
Ha thank you so much!
A small hearth as you enter, with reassuring brick masonry welcoming us into the room even when the fireplace was not in use, whenever we visited.
The cold hearth drove the Wyterringet, and Merphou caring pairs into searching. Their search for burnables started nearby, but unlike in ages past, the land there was picked clean. Worries burned their precious energy. A Wyterringet, his osyu faltering from worry, nearly tumbled into death. Supported by one of the Merphou, they visited a nearby town. There, they felt some heat from a person, skin matching charcoal. This charcoal skinned fellow shivered. Hope blossomed. Perhaps an alternative source could suffice.
Happy Weekend Everybody!
80mg of Hearth(without title word count:80)
Leaving the Hearth, Rebuilding the Heart
I left the hearth not with certainty but with ash still on my skin. My heart stuttered, hungry for more than warmth—craving shape, craving truth. What cracked open wasn’t just walls but silence. I carried the ember. Rebuilt not with brick, but breath. A hearth can be mobile. A heart can hold fire. And when both collapse, I learn again: home is not a place. It’s pulse. It’s rhythm. It’s the light I refuse to snuff out, even in exile
That one is haunting, Miguel.
Voices through the years intoned a great appreciation for the 300 year old hearth. Despite absorbing and reflecting intense heat, time and time again it demonstrated the beauty of its intent, to keep a house warm. It celebrated Christmases, warmed New Years, and protected against intense cold fronts. In its early incarnation it provided the heat for cooking foods all year round.
Now it stood alone, in an open field. Occasionally picnicking families used it as a place of comfort.
Catching up
I'd left long ago, but now I'd made my fortune and was ready to come home. How proud my father would be of my great accomplishments! How pleased my mother would be to see the fine man her boy had grown into!
But when I finally found the place where our house belonged, everything and everyone were gone. Only an old, cracked, blackened granite hearthstone gave testament to where the old homestead once stood. I'd returned home far too late.
POST-humous Warning
Beware of French kisses
And Portuguese sonnets
That war on man to surrender his love
To haughty harlots
Who come on soft-boiled
But burn away your tender bones
And leave you decaying all alone
Give him a star, oh, Lord, on High!
Send your angels through dark skies
Proclaiming man's laws forget Gods
and set on altars golden bods,
pretty pink shells that fade away,
Leaving exposed the snail that waits
To ooze her slime over your soul
And freeze your love before you're cold
Come to my hearth, my heart
Come to my heart, my hearth
Thank you , Miguel
Thank you , Gerard!
Thank you , Ken !
Thank you , Izzibella !
Thank you , Jeannine!
Thank you, Evelyn!
Thank you , Bill !
Thank you , Scott !
This one prompts me to post one of my old poems from 21 years ago. This is from my second collection which is called 'The New'.
--
Tachycardia
--
This world is nothing.
I will rage and rage
And change nothing;
I can’t get far enough away.
-
I can’t move anything,
Wish I was a neutrino,
Or a mass of tachyons,
Pass through any mountain.
-
Pass through the bad earth,
Pass on.
I am soft air, warm hearth;
Attack my raging heart attack my raging heart