I'M A TERRIBLE PYROMANIAC

That night I went out with an entire box of wooden matches, a little yellow bottle of lighter fluid, a road flare, and my camcorder.  The old shack was right there on the side of the desolate dirt road.  Abandoned for years, decades, and generations.  I knew that it was another place that nobody would miss, the perfect place to unleash that flickering mass of oranges and reds and yellows I have come to love.  But I didn't plan for the wet weather.  It had rained all day, the wetness penetrating through the many cracks in the walls, the gaps in the roof.  And weakening the planks of the floor.  I hadn't gotten two steps in when the damp and soggy floorboards gave way, a jagged splinter of wood as long as my leg piercing me through the stomach and suspending me above the darkness of the cellar.  The bleeding has slowed to a trickle, which should worry me more than it does.  The shack should have exploded into a shower of glory, a ran of sparks and flames and beauty.  Instead I hang here, lighting match after match as I slowly bleed to death.