LJ Idol Survivor: Challenge 13: Making Fire

[flipflop_diva]

The tension in the air is palpable. My nerves feel like they are on fire. One wrong move and I might break into a million pieces.

I try to breathe, to focus, but my stomach has twisted itself into knots, and my entire body is shaking. This is it. The moment I’ve been waiting for.

I hope I don’t pass out or throw up and ruin it.

“On the count of three,” a voice says, and I try not to look at him, try to keep my attention on the little table in front of me — a pile of sticks, a piece of magnesium, a knife, some straw and few bigger pieces of wood.

“One … two … three,” the voice counts, slowly and steadily. “Begin.”

I grab for the pile of straw, make myself a little nest on my table. I can feel my heart pounding in my ears, and my hands are still shaking. I have to adjust the straw a few times to get it exactly how I want it.

I pick up the magnesium and the knife.

Focus, I tell myself, focus. But the memories seep in anyway.

--

I’m up at the cabin my parents own in the mountains above Southern California. They bought it just a few months before, and we spend as many free weekends as we can here now.

This is the first weekend it’s really cold, though. Outside, the beginnings of snow drift down from the sky. Inside, my dad is hunched over the fireplace in the corner, carefully arranging pieces of wood to his satisfaction.

My mom, my sister and I sit on the couch and stare at his back, trying not to fidget.

We don’t have a television up here in the mountains, and it’s long before cell phones and iPads will ever be a thing.

There are a couple decks of cards sitting on the coffee table and a game of Yahtzee, my mother’s favorite. There are also three mugs of hot chocolate and a mug of coffee for my dad. A plate stacked full of fresh-out-of-the-oven peanut butter cookies sit beside the mugs.

If our dad would ever get the fire lit, we could get started on our night of cards and Yahtzee and snacks.

But Dad is still hunched over the fireplace, still arranging wood like it can’t be anything less than the perfect formation, and the matches to actually light the flames remain untouched.

“This is boring,” my sister, Liz, mutters.

My mom shoots her a look, and she sighs extra loudly and extra dramatically, but we go back to watching my dad, waiting for him to finish.

--

“gunwithoutmusic has a small flame!”

A voice cuts through my memories, and I grit my teeth, focusing once again on the magnesium and the knife in my hand.

I keep trying, aiming the knife at the magnesium, drawing it across it in a way that will create sparks.

And there are sparks. Quick little bursts of them. But none are landing on my nest of straw and none are catching.

I feel myself starting to panic.

In the background, Gary is still telling us how gunwithoutmusic’s flame is still there.

I take a quick glance at the two women beside me, but neither murielle or halfshellvenus seem to have made much more progress than me.

I put down the knife and magnesium and add more straw to my nest, also adding a few of the sticks to hopefully make it more substantial.

My mind drifts once again, back to another time.

--

I’m older in this memory, a few years past being able to legally drink. I’m sitting on a lawn chair next to a huge group of friends, everyone facing toward a fire pit in the middle of a campsite.

We’re up in the hills in Central California. It’s freezing. Everyone is bundled up in gloves and scarfs and jackets with blankets across our laps.

Those of us in lawn chairs are sipping our beers, watching those not in lawn chairs try to figure out how to keep the fire lit, despite the winds racing through our campsite every few minutes.

Of course, those trying to figure this out have all been drinking, so it’s hard to say if they are really at their best at this moment. Most likely not.

My friend Amber passes me a bag of chips, and I take a handful. Those gathered around the fire pit decide to take drastic action and dump on a ton of wood and kerosene. Then one of them lights a match.

A burst of flame into the air sends everyone scrambling back.

“At least it’s lit!” someone yells.

I look down at the chips I’ve managed to spill on the ground and scowl. Camping has never been my idea of fun, but my friends convinced me to go.

I take another beer someone passes me and return to my seat. It is warmer now at least, the flames still burning high into the night air.

Someone grabs a stick and shouts, “Time for s’mores.”

I smile despite myself. At least this part of camping is fun.

--

“And flipflop_diva finally has a flame!”

I almost can’t believe it, but Gary’s right! Down in my nest of sticks and straw is a tiny little flame, testing out life.

I drop my knife and magnesium and start blowing on my fire, carefully adding a little straw and another stick to try and make it grow.

Beside me, I can see that both murielle and halfshellvenus also have flames. Over on the far end, gunwithoutmusic is having some troubles with his, but it’s still there, still keeping him in the race.

I bend even further over my flame, caring for it like it’s my child. One last memory sweeps across my mind as I do, and I am once again drawn back in time.

--

I am at my dad’s house in Southern California. It’s not the house my sister and I grew up in; he sold that a couple years back and moved away to what his friends affectionately call “the boonies.”

(“You know when you have to pass a rest area to get to your house that you live in the country!” one of his friends said the first time they visited.)

This house of my dad’s, though, has some features our childhood house didn’t have — a pool and a fire pit are two of them.

My dad and Sharon, his unofficial fiancée, have just gone inside for the night, leaving the fire burning strong and bright. Sharon’s son, Jon, and I sit on lounge chairs beside it, enjoying the warmth against the cool night air.

I’m staring at the flames, watching them dance into the air and relishing in the warmth it’s casting against my face, when Jon speaks.

“My mom told me they want to get married,” he says.

“They do,” I say, looking at him. “My dad told me too.” It’s not really a secret. Ever since they came back from vacation to St. Thomas a few months before, Sharon has been sporting a diamond ring on her finger.

“We just call it ‘The Ring,’” both my dad and Sharon say whenever they are asked. “It doesn’t mean anything yet.” But I know they both want it to mean something.

“I know my mom wants my blessing,” Jon says to me now. “But I don’t want to tell her it’s okay unless I know you’re okay with it too.”

I feel a warmth explode in my chest that has nothing to do with the flames in front of me. It’s been four years since my mother died. It’s been two since my dad and Sharon first started dating.

It is a little complicated, I know that. Sharon was my mother’s best friend. Sharon was with my mother the day she met my father. They lost touch not long after Jon and I were born; we’re only a few months apart in age.

Sharon moved back to my childhood town when I was in high school, and she and my mom reconnected. Sharon was there when my mom got sick, and she was there for my dad after she died.

Maybe it some ways it’s weird, but I tell Jon the truth when I answer.

“I’m very good with it,” I say. “Your mom makes my dad happy, and she’s good for him. They deserve to be happy. And Liz and I like her a lot too.”

“Okay,” he says. “I think so too. But I needed to make sure.”

I don’t tell him how much it means to me that he asked. Instead, I go back to watching the flames dance.

--

“Who’s going to win this thing?”

Gary’s voice tells me he’s excited, but I can’t spare a moment to look at anyone else. “Everyone’s flame is nearing their ropes!”

I study mine. It has grown a lot taller and gained a lot more strength, but the rope that needs to burn and break, so a flag will raise, signaling the end of the challenge and the winner, still seems so far away.

I want this. Making the final three of Survivor has been a dream for a long time. But I know everyone else wants this too.

“It’s anyone’s game!” Gary calls out, and I know he’s right.

It is anyone’s game — and all I can do is my best.




Fiction and non-fiction. The memories are all real. The Idol Survivor part? Well, I guess we'll see :)




Thank you for reading! This was written for a new adventure in the therealljidol world — Survivor Idol! You can read and vote for all the entries here. Voting ends at 9pm EST Thursday!

We are now fighting for individual immunity, and a place in the finale, so I would really appreciate if you could vote for me if you like my work!

Comments

[alycewilson]

Clever way of blending reality and fiction!

[adoptedwriter]

This was a fabulous blend of 2 realities. Well done!

[brkfastatholly.livejournal.com]

I love this!! You did such a great job blending the Idol drama and the real life memories and it was a lovely take on the theme. Why is it that so many memorable life moments and conversations seem to happen around a fire? I have a lot of fire memories too.
Crossing my fingers you're gonna win this thing! :)

[murielle]

This is wonderful! Absolutely wonderful!

*Hugs*

[gunwithoutmusic]

I gotta admit I got a little JOLT when I saw my screenname because I was not prepared for the direction you were going to take this in! But I love this blend of little vignettes of memories and the fictional Survivor world we're all playing in, really well done. :)

Also you reminded me that if I ever plan to go on real Survivor, I'd better learn how to make fire!

[bleodswean]

An interesting response to the prompt and this version of Idol. The memory of Jon is well told!

Yes, everyone wants to win. Everyone.

[haldoor]

This is great! I love the blend of real-life moments and idol imaginings! ;-)

[goneahead]

love it! great job blending the two :)

[halfshellvenus]

:D I didn't expect you to incorporate the actual challenge Gary mentioned into this!

I think the last memory is my favorite, though the opening is the part that's most familiar. Back in Week 1, I wrote two entries--one was about trying to build fires, and the other was the poem I actually went with.

But the firemaking one included memories of the 8th Grade teacher who had his students study firemaking every year, and build fires in the school basement to earn a letter grade. Just his class. Every single year. The rumors that he might have been kind of a pyro were probably true... In any case, the method I picked was flint, shavings, and charcoal cloth, much like your setup here! It was the most reliable of the bunch, and I'm all about predictability when it comes to grades!

[bluemermaid.livejournal.com]

Aw I love how vividly you’ve written these fire memories! And it was so creative to add the Survivor parts to it, I loved it :)

[mierke]

This was wonderful! I love the tension in the Idol Survivor scenes and the blend with the memories.