the sea caught fire

From above, it might have looked like a painting, the oil on canvas glistening in the sunlight from the windows behind a quizzical face; a face whose crows feet would kiss as she contemplated why he could've thought this splattering of red would make an impact on her mind. It did, and she didn't understand why. 

But it wasn't a painting. And the sunlight underneath the glistening oil was the sound of the sea catching fire. 

It was a gentle whooshing of your breath on her skin and your gestures in the reflections of her eyes. 

Children playing on the shore, with the sand sticking on their skin, watched the way the blue turned to blood and the sky sunk into the clouds. 

Fluorescent lights above the universe made the scene seem oddly serene, surreally naturalistic. Like they had always been so meant to be. Like the sand had been born as a barrier to the destruction of the land. Like the waves were always, always ash. Like the gentle breeze off the beach smelled of smoke for a reason. 

Mother Earth smiled as her children wept for one another. She smiled like a ray of sunshine, her elegance illuminating something just beneath the surface. The animals were just deep enough to relish in the warmth. The sky was just far enough away to love the steam against it's face. 

But the most beautiful space in the midst of the disaster was the lick of air between them; the sliver of space where the flames' batting eyes touched the water's cool skin, and they realized that their miraculousness could never be duplicated. They were a once-in-a-lifetime realization of something otherworldly touching down on humanity for long enough to be noted, then -- as well all expected -- to disappear.