When the Bohemian and I moved an armoire that had come with the house that we rent, we discovered a secret shelf inside. Apparently, past residents had created an inner shelf, that upon first glance looked like the bottom of the cabinet. In reality, the wood base was removable, and beneath it were about 20 paperback novels, holding up the base.
The titles were all fiction, mostly published in the Eighties. Everything about them indicated discard, clearly having been unimportant to their original owners. Now, their covers and inner pages emitted an odor (not that soulful, book-kind you may inhale in libraries or used book stores) that reeked of mold.
Books are special, but these begged to be burned.
The Bohemian got a good fire going in the outdoor pit, and we had our first book burning. Not something I ever thought I’d do.
That was last month.
The other night, we found ourselves back around the fire. To our surprise, we found a single remnant of our book-burning inferno, something that just wouldn’t burn. What could have possibly withstood the flames?
The inset of Stephen King’s “The Eyes of the Dragon.”
Guess that mythical creature felt right at home in the blaze.