Let the Flames Begin.

There's a lighter in my hand. 

I flick it a couple times, watching the spark... the flame.  I passed a fallen gas truck a while ago.  I don't know what happened exactly, but it was leaking a steady stream of fluid in the general direction of the ocean.  I was almost tempted to find some way the bring that much fuel for my purposes.  While the thought is amusing in a macabre sort of way, I know better than to entertain destruction of that magnitude.  I probably wouldn't survive the blast.

The bridge where I stand hangs between two cliffs - the mainland and the island.  The waters between are treacherous.  The bridge is the only way from here to there, and I could cross if I wanted to.  It's a rickety, dangerous thing - ropes and wooden planks.  It's not like the planks are rotten or anything - no, they're all in quite good condition.  But, somehow, some of them just aren't tied down.  Maybe they were just never put right in the first place, or maybe someone pulled them up and didn't bother to fix it all the way.  I'll never know.

I sit at the edge of the bridge, looking at the other gorgeous side.  Warm, sunny, white sands.  There's a little shack there with boogie boards, swim wear and even a plastic shovel and bucket shaped like a sand castle's turrets.  I'd had a fun visit.

Fun, yes.  But the island only had one coconut tree, and the sandwich I brought only lasted so long.  I'd had to cross that awful bridge to get back.  I remember the fun times, and it is tempting.  But no, I'm not stupid enough to cross that bridge again, no matter how fun it was on the other side.

I flick the lighter, running it along one of the boards.  The wood is surprisingly dry, and ignites quickly.  I watch the flame spread, consuming the first board.  It's nearly to the ropes now.

A spray shoots up as a wave crashes against the cliff beneath.  It drenches the board, putting out the flame.  The bridge is still in tact.  It's crossable, and the barren island looks so warm and inviting.

The ropes are still dry.  I could still burn it down if I really, honestly wanted to.

I flick the lighter.  The flame dances in front of my face.  It's a little flame, but all it would take is one quick brush against the brittle strands of those dry ropes.