It was not long before the sun fell down, down, down, murdered by him. Things blackened and changed, twisting and turning to avoid the burn of blood that sat in the sky, a great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world. The tatters and charcoal ruins, eaten and burned in the evening sky, strode to meet their destroyer in a swarm of fireflies. Blazing and burning to bring down history in his fists, his eyes were all orange flame. It was a special pleasure to see his own gorging fire reflected in the eyes of the universe. In his head and his hands were the maps of the cosmos. With this, the hands of symphonies flicked the igniter off. Red. And yellow...And black. To see without a brass nozzle pointing the way came next. The house jumped up with the thought of him. The playing children counted 451 in his symbolic helmet. Their parents shushed them, wary of his new face. Plastered across the heavens and on his stolid head, some numbered hearts all pounded,ignoring the conductor. The blackened things that had been twisting before fell silent, suffocating in what terrible, amazing things he hid under the oiled canvas above. A ripple. So tiny, so small. The canvas twisted and turned, spinning in a million places until the oil gathered on the peaks of those folds. From them, flecks of pure light emerged in the healed wound where the blood had once sat and peered back at the night. With pleasure, he gave them space to breathe.
I took an excerpt from the beginning of Ray Bradbury's book, Fahrenheit 451, and deconstructed it before putting it back together in a new way. The bolded words come from the book, and the nonbolded words are the ones that I added. Thank you for reading!
Here is the excerpt in case you were wondering:
"It was a pleasure to burn. It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed. With the brass nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world, the blood pounded in his head, and his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history. With his symbolic helmet numbered 451 on his stolid head, and his eyes all orange flame with the thought of what came next, he flicked the igniter and the house jumped up in a gorging fire that burned the evening sky red and yellow and black. He strode in a swarm of fireflies."
Citation: Bradbury, Ray, 1920-2012. Fahrenheit 451. New York : Simon and Schuster, 1967.