BLUE FIRE

Even as the needle punctured Ilya’s skin, he felt the blue fire in his brain. His connection must be deepening.  The Alchemist warned of this, especially after the fifty hour meditation session.  Only those from the session were given the syringe.

He could erase the lines of time.  Time was a social construction. It could be Transcended, the Alchemist said.  As the dashes around the clock on the wall dissolved, Ilya grinned.  The hands shattered on the floor and the clock began to unwind into a line.  As he reached out, one of the ends floated towards him.  Of course it was not a full line, an eternal line was the same as a segment cut from an eternal circle. He grasped the clock and snapped it like a whip in the air.

The syringe was empty.  He put down the whip and pulled at the plastic.  It seemed he sat there for a long time as the needle stretched longer and longer. He was struck by it’s resemblance to a droopy-faced hummingbird.  

Ilya stood up.  The blue fire had reached his eyes.  

He couldn’t remember what color his door was, but it was turquoise right now.  The paneling looked like a face.  A mouth opened and began to speak to him in what was certainly German.

“Buenas días Señor.  Es el tiempo para acostarse.”

“Niecht.”  Ilya blinked.  The tones of blue flashed.  

“Pero senor.  El reloj ha dicho que--”

“Clocks are irrelevant.” Ilya giggled.  He watched as his curtains lifted in parallel with the ceiling, floating not two inches beneath it, fluttering slightly and deepening to a shade of navy.  As he approached the window, and gazed into the night, a hummingbird with milliliter marks on it’s back and a long beak buzzed near his shoulder.  By the time he reached the sill, he was no longer touching the floor.  

“Señor.  No hay ninguna persona que pueda sobrevivir cayendo esa distancia.” Though he did not turn to face the door, Ilya could see it’s paneling jittering.

“Fear is mortal quality, Herr Puerta.”

“Usted es mortal, no?”   Ilya swung his head back and forth.  With each swing he said niecht.  Niecht, niecht, niecht, nein?--and cracks on the ceiling split into faces to join him.  “Niecht, niecht, nein,” they said together as he lifted his arms and felt stardust bursting out of them.   The universe seemed a straight line.  It seemed an eternal line that was the same as a segment cut from an eternal circle.  If he could leave the line the Alchemist said that he’d know.

“El esta tratando matarle.”

“No, Herr Puerta.  Why he kill me?”

“Son unos que no necesiten una razón para matar.”

“Believe me I know.” Ilya spat, and it hit the far wall.  “The Alchemist has answers Herr Puerta.  Answers that could set you on fire.”  The word “answers” resonated in his ears. He slammed his hands into the door’s eyes, but the panels drifted apart.  He tried to catch them, but they were too fast.

“Cuidado Senor.”

“You are only being here right now because of the Alchemist.”

“Siempre he existido.  Que van a pensar su familia?”

Ilya pointed to the door and a flame burst through it.  Herr Puerta was quiet.  For a second, Ilya saw photographs of his family curling into blue flame. He saw his twin brother smiling wide with his mother clutching at his shoulder.  His father had forgotten to tie his tie. Ilya watched the photo disappear once more. The flame was beautiful.  

Ilya looked out the window, and with his fingers, cast fishhooks and line onto the streetlamp.  He pulled it up, up to his window.  It thinned and dipped like chewing gum.   When he put his hand out, his fingers were webbed with suction cup tips. Funny, that was just what he had needed.  Despite the begging of Herr Puerta, Ilya climbed out the window to the darkness below.  The gum snapped back and he flew through the air.  He seemed to see other faces floating around him, eyes rimmed in blue flame suspended along the same trajectory. He was ready for descent.  

The traffic was stopped in the street, people with mouths half-open and steps half-formed.  Despite the brightness, he could see clouds of stars in the sky.  With his index finger he wrote his name in their dust, pushing them aside to fit the characters. A few seconds later, the stars returned.  He saw other names appear after his, so many.  The ground was coming soon.

The Alchemist appeared.  He stood atop a taxi cab and wore a fluffy white hat and checkered pants.  He was pouring steaming tea into a shot glass. It was overflowing.  The drops didn’t hit the car, but split into wasps that then surrounded the Alchemist before bursting into droplets of flame.

“Don’t forget dear Ilya.  We’re Transcending.”  

Ilya was one of five-hundred in the city posthumously convicted of arson.

tsarina