“Fire climbs” by Emeselle Bowmyn
—
The transmission stutters.
A vein of static splits the air,
sharp as torn wire.
Hunger chews the edges.
Heat licks the walls.
The night hums, thick with fire.
They command silence.
They shrink the world.
They choke the spark—
but the whisper grows.
It grinds into a growl.
Flames rise.
Sirens fracture.
The sky peels back.
Ash coats the lungs, raw and burning.
We stand.
We do not kneel.
And we do not wait.
In the towers, they hesitate.
Screens flicker. Cameras fail.
The hum cracks.
A number muttered.
A breath held too long.
The walls lock.
The gates seal.
But fire climbs.
It tears through vents, under doors,
burns up the backs of their throats.
The signal dies.
No voices left to command.
No orders left to give.
Only the hiss of an ending—
or the first breath of fire.
// SIGNAL LOST //
