Prologue
A surge of energy flowed through the wire, a cocktail of adrenaline greedy for power. The Spark flexed, pushing at the cord that gripped its life force, holding it in, always holding it back, harnessing its urge to jump free, to feed, to grow . . .
“Girl! You be careful with that outlet. You got too many cords plugged in there.”
“Nah. It’s okay . . . look at that, will ya? The kids are gonna love those lights. Kinda skimpy though. We could use a few more strings.”
“I dunno. Looks okay to me. What else we gonna put on it?”
“The kids can make stuff—paper chains, snowflakes. String popcorn. That’s what I used to do as a kid.”
“Ha. You were never a kid. Bet you never made one of them paper snowflakes, neither.”
“You don’t know what you talkin’ about. Gimme a sheet of paper, I’ll show you. Scissors. We got scissors anywhere?”
Constrained, the Spark quit struggling and resigned itself to keeping the strings of Christmas lights lit on a meager diet of fifteen watts . . . Jolted awake, the Spark gulped air frantically. Zzzzzt. Zzzzzt.
“Ow!”
“Mikey! You know you ain’t s’posed to touch no electric cord.”
“I jus’ wanted ta turn the tree on. But it bited me!”
“Nuthin’ bit you, stupid.”
“Did too. Like that.”
“Ow! Let go! I’m gonna tell Mama, an’ she whip your butt good.”
“But you dint believe me. Had to show you.”
“You didn’t have ta show me nuthin’. ’Sides, your fingernails all dirty! What if you broke my skin, huh? You gonna give me rabies!”
The Spark laid back down. Hunger nibbled at its belly, but there was nothing to feed on. Might as well sleep . . .
ON. OFF. On. Off. On. Off . . .
The Spark had nearly given up its quest for bigger and better things.
“When we gonna take down this tree? It’s already past New Year’s. We always took our tree down New Year’s Day.”
“What? Ain’t you never heard of the Twelve Days of Christmas?”
“That’s just a song. One of them counting songs, sing it over an’ over till ya wanna puke.”
“Nah, nah, it’s for real. Christmas Day’s just the beginning. Some churches got stuff goin’ for weeks, before an’ after. Saint Lucy, or somebody, wears candles in her hair and gives out real homemade pastries. And Boxing Day—don’t know what that one is. Three Kings Day—that’s in January when we really s’posed to give gifts like the Wise Men brought to baby Jesus.”
“How do you know all this stuff?”
“Oh, I get around. Girl, just pour some more water in that bucket.”
“What for? Tree’s too dead. Ain’t drinkin’ up anymore. Next year when I’m outta here, I’m gonna get me one of them artificial trees. I’m tired of sweeping up all these needles.”
“Ha. We used ta leave ours up till all the needles fell off.”
“What? Your mama put up with that?”
“Nah. My grandma raised all six of us. And she didn’t see too good. Here . . . plug in the tree an’ dim the other lights. See? Still looks like we just put it up.”
The familiar jolt. The Spark licked hopefully . . . and was rewarded. A small frayed piece of the cord. Just a taste. Sizzled on its tongue and disappeared.
“You smell somethin’? Somethin’ hot?”
“Ha. Hope so. Maybe the heat’s come back on.”
The Spark laid low, nibbling its way along the frayed cord. The more it nibbled, the more its hunger grew. Urgent now, it smoldered and smoked, pushing its way into the dark. And then . . . tinder.
Fragrant. Green. Dry.
The Spark consumed the fallen pine needles, its hunger glowing into a small flame. But there was more. More! With utter abandon, the Spark became a blaze, leaping and crackling and climbing the brittle branches. Feeding and fueling, the Spark flashed into a full bonfire. Glorious light! Nothing could stop it now!
Feeling its power, the Spark—fat and full, dancing and darting—leaped from the charred tree to the overstuffed furniture, consuming the frayed fabric and matted stuffing, licking its way up the walls and across the ceiling, finally embracing the whole room in a fiery feast—
“Fire! Fire! Everybody out!”
“Oh my God! Oh, please God!”
“Keep low! Keep low! Don’t take anything—just go! Go!”
“My baby! My baby! Where’s—? I gotta go back! Let me go!”
Screams. Cries. Coughing and gagging.
“Mama! Maaaamaaaaa!”
“I got you! I got you! Run!”