California has always been a hot locale. Lodged between temperate Mexico and arid Arizona, besides a tepid weather, media and musical buzz in Hollywood and Los Angeles draw tourists, and residents, to Beverly Hills, the various beaches, and quiet suburban footholds. We’ve also been hot for our tastes in fashion, but more importantly, our inclination towards devastating fires.

Little shrub fires, kindled by dry weather, small flames sparked by arsonists in little towns, great, sweeping citywide wildfires spurred by both- these past few years have heralded more and more burning brush and hotter halcyon days.

Before this year, I only ever encoutnered a “megafire.” The ashes began to fall in fifth grade, and all outdoor physical activities were immediately cancelled. Now last year’s Southern California wildfire, and this year’s greater ones shroud the past’ in even more smoke.

The damages are not piling, but the number of threatened structures is increasing. Urbanization slowly pushes against the border of nature, building homes and houses in otherwise dry desert. The fires aren’t creeping towards us; rather, Californians are to it.

Besides property damage, the fires release particulates deadly to the asthmatic and elderly, and those that engage in outdoor sports and activities.

Rising temperatures have been attributed to the growth of said spontaneous kindles. And, judging by California’s bleak regard for its dry bushland, these kindles are sure to burgeon to hellstorms.