I used to drive a rickety old beat-up '66 Beetle.  She had no paint job, had lots of delicious chrome, took regular gasoline, no seat-belts, you sat an inch from the glass -- a real death trap, but I loved her.  And driving has always soothed me, so I would often pick up and go for a drive late, late at night.  I am in love with driving and discovering things along the way -- I love to guess where I am on the planet by the light of distant cities on the horizon.  I went to college in Fort Collins, Colorado and there is literally nothing but canyons, or vast, open land and a power line or two in any directionoutside the city.  I became enchanted by a road that led East.  I was determined to drive wherever this road led -- it was my quest.  So many things kept me from discovering the end of the road: once it was a dangerously low tank of gas, another time I was spooked by a crazy dog, another time, if I had continued, I would have missed an appointment, etc.  Soon it had become an obsession.    The road itself was not particularly interesting other than it just seemed to go on and on.  About 5 miles outside the city limits, the pavement ended.  It was hilly in parts, passed a farmhouse or two every now and then, crossed some railroad tracks, and in parts ran right next to a buzzing powerline.  Sometimes there would be an intersection.  Two dirt roads coming together in the middle of nowhere, and nothing in sight.  I would often stop there and marvel at the sky.  Or I'd stop there to freak myself out -- it's pretty spooky out in the middle of nowhere by yourself...  I once kissed a boy on the warm hood of my 1974 Volvo station wagon there (another dream of car) as we watched a meteor shower, but that's another story. So one night, at about 2 in the morning, I was describing the quest to two of my friends, Will and Courtney, telling them of the road and how I needed to see its end.  They were caught up in it as well, and the three of us hopped in the car.  It was the last days of summer, and the night was cool -- the windows were open and we were free.  We were listening to Ray Bradbury's short stories on cassette, and smoking cigarettes.  We drove maybe for an hour, maybe less, when the road finally came to a halt, intersecting with another road, this one paved.  It was a bit anti-climactic.  I learned that I had come so close to its end so many times, but for one reason or another I had to turn back. But then, I looked North into the distance, and we saw something orange. We drove toward it to investigate. There was a tree on fire, but it was glowing from the inside.  The bark had turned to hot orange scales, and embers were strewn around the roots.  It emanated this intense heat.  As we walked up to the tree, the ashes were ankle-high and the smoke swirled in the breeze.  The fire was INSIDE the tree.  The crackling was like thunder in comparison to the quiet of the middle of nowhere.  Dark orange sparks would fly above it like fire-flies and slowly fade to black.  It was raining ashes.  There was little to explain this burning tree.  No one lived near this tree.  There was an old, dilapidated, cement, barn-like structure about 50 yards away, but there was nothing inside it -- in fact, its contents seemed strewn around the structure -- there was an old sink, a tire or two, what looked like a W.W.II missile, strange artifacts that didn't belong together in any logical way.  And that alone was strange, but this tree was burning from the inside.  Every so often, a piece of bark would fall off the tree, sinking in the ash and revealing and open wound of bright, glowing orange and yellow. The heat was so powerful we would approach, but not touch, the tree and light a cigarette.  We must have been there a long time.  We didn't speak much.  We were in the presence of something terrific and strange, beautiful and sorrowful.  It seemed the tree would never stop burning, but it didn't change its intensity.  It burned slowly and methodically, like an old man walking uphill. The drive back to the city was quiet and the sun was coming up.  We all smelled like fire.  When we parted ways, we were all covered in a film of pale, grey ash that became thicker at our knees.  Parts of our shoes were melted, cuffs of jeans were singed.  We looked like we had been on another planet.  We separated as the city prepared for the day. Newspapers were being delivered, cafes were opening, the sky was periwinkle. Later, we speculated that the tree must have been hit by lightning, because there was no other way to explain a burning tree in the middle of nowhere.  But there had been no lightning storms that we knew of.  In fact, the skies had been calm for months it seemed.  I think Courtney drove back out there a few days later, perhaps to photograph it, but the tree was gone -- just a light grey pile of ash remained. It was probably one of the most magical nights of my life.

FIRES

by Mia Welch

FIRES