Burn After Reading

Four little flickers were seen in a distance. They were the embers of a dying night. They were like the first sparks of fire that would turn on the cauldron that was the sun. They were four little glimmers suspended in mid-air, forming an arc, as they travelled in a parabolic motion. The flickers weren’t without company. They had owners. The banished gathered around in the dying cold waving those flickers. Was that a sign of protest or a sign of surrender? Were they mourning their loss of right to burn away where they wanted, when they wanted or was that a sign of defiance? The faceless vigilantes were burning their lungs and lighting up the universe. Smoke hung around them with muted admiration. Then, as suddenly as it had started, the congregation came to an end. The lights went out, one after another. Dawn engulfed them, and robbed them of their masks. Heads hung in shame (or thought), a wry grin to boot, and a throaty cough to enunciate, the newspaper men headed back to their truck. The world was going up in flames. At least their fire has been put out.