The smell of oil and accelerant alone don't quite tug on the memories and nostalgia like they do when mixed. The work added another layer of familiarity; Packing a tinderbox just so, making sure the first licks of flame would find oxygen and have a place to eat and grow, consuming and rising like the bonfires of his youth. If oil and accelerants were nostalgia, burning wood and the scent of clean smoke were a stroll into another time in mind at least, if not also body.
"Clean smoke." Was there such a thing? The clouds coughed out of the manufactories and the ironworks certainly made it feel like there was. Nature propagated fire on its own; Brushfires and dry patches and the seemingly-random bolt of lightning. Plenty of ways for things to go up in glorious flame. Mankind had been managing fire for eras and eras; and it was still one of the most dangerous creatures that sometimes walked the world. It could be harnessed or manipulated but never tamed, never controlled. The whole damned world nearly ended in fire a few short years ago, and that would have been okay. If the world had to go up in smoke, it would be best to do it literally.
First, smoke. Tiny warnings of building heat, the first sign things were going right. Then moments later, moments that took an eternity to pass sometimes, the soft sound of cracking twigs and popping air pockets. A small effigy to unending hunger and then the box is engulfed and the table it was set upon, the piled papers doused with chemicals designed to spread faster than oxygen alone would allow. Over the floor and up the walls, and moments ago there was only the smallest hint of smoke, the first tantalizing scent of woody smoke and now you have to be getting out, the flash of heat sometimes was so strong you wondered if you'd been bitten by the snake you just birthed into the world. From silence, a dull roar of the world eating itself. From darkness, a bonfire visible in the sky even blocks away. From order, a small bit of chaos that always did the same thing.
You know, the way it was supposed to be.
"Clean smoke." Was there such a thing? The clouds coughed out of the manufactories and the ironworks certainly made it feel like there was. Nature propagated fire on its own; Brushfires and dry patches and the seemingly-random bolt of lightning. Plenty of ways for things to go up in glorious flame. Mankind had been managing fire for eras and eras; and it was still one of the most dangerous creatures that sometimes walked the world. It could be harnessed or manipulated but never tamed, never controlled. The whole damned world nearly ended in fire a few short years ago, and that would have been okay. If the world had to go up in smoke, it would be best to do it literally.
First, smoke. Tiny warnings of building heat, the first sign things were going right. Then moments later, moments that took an eternity to pass sometimes, the soft sound of cracking twigs and popping air pockets. A small effigy to unending hunger and then the box is engulfed and the table it was set upon, the piled papers doused with chemicals designed to spread faster than oxygen alone would allow. Over the floor and up the walls, and moments ago there was only the smallest hint of smoke, the first tantalizing scent of woody smoke and now you have to be getting out, the flash of heat sometimes was so strong you wondered if you'd been bitten by the snake you just birthed into the world. From silence, a dull roar of the world eating itself. From darkness, a bonfire visible in the sky even blocks away. From order, a small bit of chaos that always did the same thing.
You know, the way it was supposed to be.
![[Image: yEROfKO.png]](http://i.imgur.com/yEROfKO.png)
