By J Brown (copyrighted 2000)

I slept during the day, black, forgotten and seemingly unnecessary. I hang from the edge and scream from the pool of my fuel that I am worthy, that it doesn’t matter how many are like me or how bright it is. There can always be more light.

It’s hard being a candle. You get bought because you’re cute or smell good. You’re wrapped in white paper and stuffed in a bag, all during the galze of the light. You sit on edges and desks, nightstands and in some of the freaky abodes, special long thing stands made of metal. They are rotting iron, corrugated to the pole and sit uncomfortably on spikes, perching potential energy like a pulpit for the deaf.

Then, your time has come. A flash of excitement , of the moment being illuminated by mere realization and not two seconds later matches from some bar across town are yanked from next to the incense holder and American flag-colored Nag Champa box.

Scratch, shift, and kinetic energy bring the mood to one microscopic sun, a star that burns from the hand of the giver. The flame trails the movement to me or you, or us and for a second, the three of us are joy and extended creation. We are forever then, burning my wick until it is ablaze with proof of the mood you wanted.

I am made of wax. I have a material like shoestring as a lifeline and I smell like vanilla. The shorter, stubbier one bought from some fancy store is the color of hell itself and smells like patchouli. I want to ask him/her what the hell patchouli is but then I would have broken the one cardinal rule of being a lit candle. Talking. Any talking or whispering could possibly snuff out the life you were given, a most unpardonable sin. No one wants to relight a candle that has died. It’s thought of as high maintenance and soon it’s never being lit.

So I sit, my head on fire against the shadowed room and smell. Patchouli, I don’t know what it is, and I make another note to ask him next time.

There are three pseudo-brothers that I despise greatly and with confidence. They are the gas lit candles. They have see through bodies and strange shiny caps that hold their hair up. They burn smoothly like machines and they don’t drip. They give the rest of us a bad name. They are recent additions and I’ve seen them lit a few times while me and the brothers sit on the shelf like forgotten toys.

It was rainy one January night when it all went down. Normally the gas candles would not talk to us like they were royality and we were common gutter wax but every candle has one thing in common. We are deathly afraid of water and wind. They extinguish us faster and more cruelly than anything.

We all shuddered when the door opened and the angry violent slap of murderous rain splatted on the patio next to our perches. They sound died away and then the matches were broken. We were excited as any candle would be but also weary because of the rain. It’s true it is ridiculous and we were safe just as you yourself are safe reading this. But still, it was raining.

This particular night, music was put on first, and then incense, all with the lights on. They flickered from the strength of the storm. We never once thought we were ever be needed. Not one candle I know remembers when we were necessary. We’ve been luxury only since electricity and that is what has elevated our status in the world.

Notes soothed into the room. I could not quite see because somehow I had been turned around during the last session. I’d become quite familiar with the paperbacks on the shelf. They were purple and red and blue and white flat flowers compressed so that they might always exist. I do know a little of books because I’m a large enough candle (over a hundred burning hours, thank you very much) that I have been sued for many purposes including romantic showers (yuck) and reading. There was one power outage I remember but I was only used until my owner had found the flashlight and then I had been placed carelessly in the outted dark.

I smelled Nag and knew he was happy. He’s a soothing character, sort of like a massage. I’ve seen his smoke do mageic to moods and so I respected him. We all did, except for those damn gas candles. They were plastic and clear and steady and snooty, and did I mention refillable? I’ve seen many candles come and go, some really special ones that accidentally burned all night against glowing kissed and peaceful sleep. We all had to watch that flower candle melt away into death as our owner slept in the arms of some beast. I saw that one coming a mile away, just by the way her looked at us when she would give us life. It was contempt, just like the gassies had for us until it rained.

And it rained. Smelling good, the jazz was in a piano solo when she came by to me. I had hoped she would notice I was turned around but she didn’t. It felt as if I were being punished for being naughty. Still, I burned true, though a bit unwavering from fear of the wind and rain.

“We should go out in style,” one of the candles said to me.

I was shocked. How could he talk? I could only nod and sag my sides in a drawn out answer but this guy, in his recently refilled essence was able to talk.

“Can’t you talk?” he asked.

I let some burn down one side.

“Oh well, all right, you just listen and tell me what you think.” His flame faltered slightly and he began again from his fiery depths. “This rain will kill us. It will, I’ve seen it before. It’s worse on us, too,” he added, and let his flame traile towards his two plastic companions who stood like sentries at his side.

“We should go out in style,” he repeated feverishly.

I wanted to tell him to calm down but could only melt down one side some more. It didn’t have the desired effect.

“Good, you agree. I want you to follow my lead. I’ve seen you around,” he said casually, “I know you’re one of the oldest. We can’t do this without you. Are you in?”

A new song started and Nag burned sweetly as if a great revolution was in the works under the safe ceiling. I burned the other side.

“Why not?” the gassie whined. “We’re doing this with or without you but we need you. Are you in?”

I burned the other side again but he continued with his instructions.

“We’re going for it. We’re going to jump off this godforsaken bookshelf and make something of ourselves. But we need you. You have to jump with us.”

I was frustrated from not being able to see and it made the moment more urgent, I guess. The flat flowers glowed sleepily, completely oblivious they were about to die.

The fall to the floor was not easy. It required all my strength and sacrfice and as I bounced backwards and then upside down, I heard kamikaze cries coming from one of the gassies. “Gassies and waxies forever!”

I saw one with his head off and his flame was spilling like gossip onto the burning carpet.

She screamed too but she lived. And wouldn’t you know it, as her home burned and became the wax (or gas) of a great and temporary candle, she didn’t even grab one of us. She scooped up her stupid dog who peed on the carpet everytime it got excited.

I melted and died that night and my last thoughts were how things might have turned out if I hadn’t been facing the books.