The closest fires were near enough for us to hear the crackling flames and the yells of firemen. Little fires grew into big ones even as we watched. Big ones died down under the firemen's valor only to break out again later.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
My cousin Jerry Lucey and five other firefighters died in a warehouse fire in Worcester, Mass. - my hometown - right in the middle of our old neighborhood downtown when a homeless couple started a fire to keep warm and the entire building went up. My cousin died trying to save homeless people who had already left the building.
When our ancestors crouched about the camp fire at night, they told each other tales of gods and heroes, monsters and marvels, to hold back the terrors of the night. Such tales comforted and entertained, diverted and educated those who listened, and helped shape their sense of the world and their place in it.
There was a time when fire and story would fall asleep in unison. It was dream time.
Ever since we were little, we were so on fire for our dreams. We never let anyone blow our flames out.
The town caught fire in several places, shells crashed and burst, and solid shot rained like hail.
When we got down from the ambulances there were sharp cracks about us as bursts of shrapnel splashed down upon the Town Hall square. Dead soldiers lay outside and I glanced at them coldly. We were in search of the living.
The fire was followed by a period of grieving and then by an incredible lightness, freedom, and mobility.
They were fun days, and we set the town on fire with every movie we did.
You know, I'm no different from a fireman. You got to run into a fire no matter how big the blaze is.
From each one of them rose separate columns of smoke, meeting in a pall overhead, and through the smoke came stabbing flashes of fire as German shells burst with thudding shocks of sound. This was the front line of battle.