Written in Fire by Len Kuntz

We watched the monks burn, one after another. Awash in fire, they sat so still that I thought they were fake. Flames rippled off their heads like molten hair. Each explosion caught me unaware, and I’d jerk my beer can. The grainy, black-and-white crowds on screen didn’t seem scared or surprised one bit. “Why would anybody do something like that?” My roommate laughed. He’d found the clips online while researching for a term paper. “They were protesting the Vietnamese regime back in the ‘60’s.” When I stood, the room swiveled. “Don’t go. The best one’s coming up.” I barely made it. I retched hard. When I was done, I started packing. *** After that, my paintings were all infernos or burnt-out pits of ash. My fiancé got nervous and ended us. I lost friends. My father came to see me. He said, “It’s obvious you have issues. I mean, all these strange paintings. And look at you. You’re about to explode.” That was the point, of course. I’d led a privileged life, with slick cars and cashmere socks. I’d had so much, but nothing I cared about. That night I took a gas can with me. I sat in the middle of the outdoor mall, ready to make myself explode. But first I tried to tell them. I’d made a sign denouncing war. I gripped the wood handle and squeezed till my eyes bled. People passed by. Some giggled, some tossed coins. It took flames to get their attention.

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