Free A Life On Fire by Chris Bowsman

of them would go find his abandoned car and try to get it back on the road. How long could it take to say “I quit,” anyway?
       Gerald drove into town, lost in thought about what he was ready to do. Even with all the other stuff going on, quitting a job, especially when he didn’t have another one lined up, was serious shit. God, why the hell was he going to quit? The job was easy, he made decent money, it was relatively secure . . .
       “Because I hate it, that’s why,” he said aloud. “Because people who hate their jobs either need to do something about it or shut the fuck up. I’m doing something about it.” Somehow, the words gave him the conviction to know what he was doing was the right thing.
       After he’d been driving more than half an hour, Gerald felt disoriented. He didn’t recognize anything around him. At the same moment, realization dawned on him. “Not again,” he said. He stopped the car in the middle of the road and got out. He looked around and watched the trees and grass on either side of the road melt and morph into a desert. The daylight faded to a purplish dusk and a lone figure strode toward him.
       “I thought I was doing the right thing,” Gerald said.
       “So much for the pleasantries, then,” Mr. Holman said. As usual, he removed his glasses and polished them.
       “Am I not supposed to quit my job? Is that what’s going on? Every time I’m about to fuck up, is there some cosmic force stopping me?”
       Mr. Holman smiled a humorless smile. “I thought we were past this, Gerald.” He put his glasses back on, straightened them, and his expression grew more serious. “Regardless, now is not the time. You should return home.”
       “How am I supposed to go back home? I’m in the middle of nowhere.”
       “Have you tried?”
       “Of course I haven’t.”
       “Perhaps you should,” Mr. Holman said, and faded away. Gerald stood, trying not to be angry. He took a deep breath, got back in the car, and did a U-turn, heading back toward his house. Or at least what he thought was back toward his house.
       “No,” he said. “Not what I think.” He did his best to drive on instinct, turning whenever a road appeared. The scenery did not change back, but in the distance, he saw his house at the end of the road. Along with his house, he saw a column of black smoke pouring from it, and as he drew nearer, he could see flames. Without thinking, Gerald’s right foot pushed the accelerator to the floor, and in impossible seconds, he covered the distance to his house. He jumped from the car and ran toward the home, past the green pickup truck in his driveway. The Confederate flag flying in the back was ablaze, flames leaping from the previously blue and red X fabric. In the window, he saw someone slump against the glass and collapse to the floor.
       “Oh my god, WILSON!” he screamed. Gerald looked around for something to break the window, but there was nothing. The only items were half a dozen plastic gas cans, lying on their sides, the contents apparently drained onto his house. He advanced, ready to punch or kick the glass, but flames erupted toward him. He ran to the front door, but again was stopped by the flames. No matter where he tried to gain entrance, the flames billowed like hellfire.
       Unable to give up, he continued trying each of the entrances, choking on the smoke, sobbing for his friend. He looked into the window again, saw Wilson attempt to stagger to his feet, then collapse. Seemingly in response, the flames died back from the door for a moment, and Gerald threw himself against it, crashing through.
       What remained of Wilson was little more than a smoldering heap, black and charred. Gerald stared at his lifeless friend then ran to the kitchen cabinet that housed Tracy’s urn. The cabinet door was charred, but Gerald threw it open, burning himself on the handle. He knew he couldn’t take Wilson with