There Are Those Who Worship Fire

There are those who worship fire,

the devil mistress that sneers at fate,

that burns the corpse upon the pyre

and boils anger into hate.

There are those who worship fire

-but no! not the same that brings despair.

Above the base there is a higher;

among the common there is the rare.

For both bad and good can be the blaze,

used to destroy but also make.

A force to build as well as raze,

a thing that gives and not just takes.

The blacksmith’s forge glows with the heat

that transforms iron into steel.

And on the anvil the hammer beats

to create the sword with every peal.

But just as soon could it form a tool

that like Prometheus gives mind to man,

and over opponents he could rule

with not metal - but fire - at his command.

There are those who use this flame,

you can see it shining in their eyes.

Immolated they embrace the pain

knowing from the ashes they again will rise.

And like the phoenix born anew

with a trial passed to make them stronger,

they’ll return once more with the few

to the coals to stand, a little longer.

Slowly their muscles begin to burn

and the black smoke stings their eyes and lungs.

But all things great must first be earned,

any worthy victory is not lost but won.

With one small spark the heart explodes

from the kindled tinder of their desire.

Although it’s water on which they row,

they are the ones who worship fire.

A Marriage

There once was a young man and girl

who fell deeply into love.

Soon they thought that they should wed

to give glory to God above.

So one fine day the bride-to-be turned

and asked a question to her groom.

“Do you love me?” she asked of him,

“And for how long will this be true?”

Smiling, he said as he gazed at her,

“You know, you have a certain beauty

that never has there been before

and never again will be.

And do I even need to mention

your clever and witty mind?

Another girl with equal smarts

I don’t think I’ll ever find!

Then there is the way you move,

the way you love to dance.

I cannot take my eyes off you,

my heart never stands a chance.

Finally, there’s your ability to care

with the passion you possess.

I know you’ll do many kind deeds

and this puts you above the rest.

So I hope that I have answered you

and quieted all your fears.

For I love you now, and I’ll love you tomorrow,

and I’ll love you in 60 years.”

And so the bride and groom set off

and became a man and wife.

They bought a house and raised their kids,

and together they built a life.

The seasons changed, the clock ticked on,

soon 10 years had quietly passed.

Then 20, and then 30 more,

until 60 had gone at last.

So on this day the wife awoke

with a feeling that she had lost it all,

and with creaking knees and tender steps

walked to the mirror hanging on the wall.

Her hair was now gray, her face was now worn

with the work of 60 years.

And when she saw this her wrinkled eyes

began to fill with tears.

Her husband, who without fail

had stood there by her side,

did just that now and, standing close,

held her as she cried.

But when she asked, “Do you still love me?

Just like 60 years ago?”

He looked at her and closed his eyes

and softly he answered, ‘…No.’

“The mirror shows that you have changed

since that fine day I married you.

I cannot argue with this fact,

I cannot change the truth.

See, years ago your face was young,

now it’s aged and lined.

Where once your brain was sharp and quick,

now you’ve often an absent-mind.

There was a time when you could really cut a rug,

now it’s tough to move around.

And your caring heart has been all worn out,

your passion has been run down.

The mirror on the wall reflects all this,

these things you cannot change.

But what you see and what I see

are not at all the same:

It’s true, you were pretty then, but now you’re elegant

and the twinkle’s still in your eyes.

And though your mind was sharp and quick,

you’re now more experienced and more wise.

And though now you don’t dance to the beat,

my heart still skips a few when I see you.

And your caring heart could not get smaller;

I know it only grew and grew.

So when you ask ‘Do you still love me?

Just like 60 years before?’

I shake my head and answer ‘No, I don’t.

I love you even more.’”

The Burning Planet

            The hull of the Galaxy Ship has created two long shadows that split the shrill monotony of the Oyamic Desert landscape. One of these shadows is caused by the rising sun Putnam II and as if sentient of the next few hours’ coming heat, it is slowly receding like a pool of water from the dry and barren desert to the oasis of the concrete landing pad. On nearly the opposite side of the ship the shadow created by the setting sun Galelius is creeping its way from the base of the triple engines and across the landing pad, beyond which it disappears somewhere among the grains of windswept desert sand. Hours pass but the only movement in the area is the waxing and waning of the shadows and the progress of their respective sources in the sky. These twin suns, Putnam II and Galelius, take turns in dominating the planet, alternating every half-day on their circular journeys, one disappearing to rule over the Underworld while the other takes its place on the firmament throne to watch over this side of Hell. And Hell it is. There is no night on this planet, only times of extreme heat and of less extreme heat, but never darkness or a respite from the suns. Accordingly, no plant or animal inhabits it. The air is too dry and the heat too much. It never rains. Clouds do not exist. The planet is dead, simply another rock hurtling through the vacuum of space in an anonymous galaxy forty light years away from Earth. The planet is distant, obscure, and inhospitable to life. And this is why I live here.

            I was sent here nearly twenty years ago with 50,000 other convicts to populate this penal colony. We were murderers, rapists, child molesters, originally sentenced to death on Earth. Unfortunately, a forward-thinking rookie Senator managed to pass a law that snatched us from the cozy cradle of our graves to this prison without walls. The move served to encourage people that the Earth’s coalition government was indeed humane after its image had been tarnished by a series of ethnic cleansings. It was a successful publicity move and the Senator was elected to the Prime Ministry the very next year.

Twenty years later and this uninhabitable planet is filled with pathetic excuses for lives. Of course, Putnam II and Galelius saw to it that the scum of the earth wouldn’t live on the surface of this planet. We were swept underground, in a labyrinthine city of concrete and steel that was built just for us to call home. The government didn’t give us any instructions or oversight, or put us with any guards. They simply left us here like how moving trains of antiquity would dump the contents of their lavatories on the tracks. Order of the most primitive kind was established. In twenty years, despots and tyrants have risen and been murdered, factions have been established and disbanded, and each year brings a new wave of fresh-faced convicts to replace the ones that died or were killed. We can’t murder each other fast enough to combat population inflation. The planet’s underground city, originally designed for 50,000 to live in the most Spartan manner, now holds 200,000.

Today, nearly twenty years after I crossed the Acheron, that rookie-Senator-now-Prime Minister is visiting for the very first time the creation to which he owes his power. The Galaxy Ship is his. I assume his visit is just a ploy to rekindle old support. Regrettably for the Prime Minister, however, his visit is not going as he planned. The planet’s convicts stormed the convention hall in which he was giving his Inter-galaxy broadcasted speech in order to let him know that they would have preferred execution to this- his- more “humane” solution. The broadcast was turned off before the entire United Galaxies could see 200,000 criminals tear Earth’s leading politician limb from limb.

Well, actually 199,999. I did not go to the convention hall with the others. Instead I am running in the opposite direction of where the mob is, in the direction of the landing pad. I’m escaping this planet.

It doesn’t take me long to exit the underground city and reach the planet’s surface. I am immediately suffocated with hot, unbreathable air. The tangible heat rising from the concrete landing pad creates a shimmering mirage and physically blocks my view of the Galaxy Ship and its entrance hatch. I have no idea if it’s open or closed but I know that I’d rather die than go back to the city so I move forward. Slowly my melting legs make their way across the scorching concrete. I feel like I’ve drunk gasoline and swallowed a match. I try to hold my breath. My legs are giving out but I am close enough to now see the craft through my watering eyes. I follow the length of the ship’s body from the landing gear to the engines to the entrance hatch- it’s closed. I have no Plan B and my brain is now boiling. My eyes shut and my mind goes blank as I collapse.

I awake to the sound of thunder. It’s hot, still very hot but not as unbearable as before. I take a look at my surroundings and realize that I must have passed out and fallen into the compartment that houses the landing gear. I thank the heavens. I did it, I’m coming home! Back to Earth! Back to life being rule by the Coalition Government instead of countless dictators and tyrants! Back to real humanity! The engines of the late Prime Minister’s Galaxy Ship are rumbling near me and as we begin to lift-off I take a look out of the service window. Below me the landing pad is slowly shrinking from sight, the hot desert is becoming a memory, and as I picture my return to Earth and the rest of civilization I know that I am only trading one hell for another.

Scene Stealers #2

Jason pushed himself up on one elbow, groaned, and fell back to the floor. He tried to get his bearings but couldn’t think past the pounding in his head. He waited–maybe 15 seconds or so—and tried again. The room didn’t spin quite as much this time, so he looked around.

The sun was filtering its way around the edges of the heavy black curtains that hung in front of the windows, providing just enough light to counteract the epileptic effects of the two overhead strobe lights, which were still on. Crushed beer cans and countless red solo cups littered the worn out parquet floor and camouflage sheets, bamboo sticks, and fake leaves hung from all four walls. The jungle juice sat motionless in its giant bowl in the corner.
            Jason stood up and pressed his knuckles into his temples. His vision had returned but his head was filled with a grating buzzing sound. Trying to ignore it, he pulled his jeans from underneath the couch and, hopping around trying to put them on, fell and crashed into one of the enormous floor-standing speakers. The noise stopped. Jason lay still on the ground for a second, pleased to learn that the buzzing had been from the speakers and not from his head but also in pain from crashing into the sound system. As he got to his feet again rubbing his elbow, he noticed numerous bruises on his forearms and a few more on his legs. Evidently his falling skills had not diminished overnight.
            This wasn’t the worst hangover Jason had ever experienced. His body felt as if he had just lost a title fight, his lips were parched, and his stomach rumbled, but apart from the pounding in his head his mind felt clear. He reached into his pocket for his phone. Through the spider web of cracks in the screen was a notification for three missed calls and a voicemail. And it was 11:48am. Shit!
            Jason bolted out the door and down the stairs of the house, his bare feet hardly registering a sound. His shoes he was sure were still in the room he had woken up in, either under the couch or in the piles of cans and cups, but he didn’t have time to look for them. He jumped the last four steps, grabbed his skateboard which thankfully was where he had left it, and kicked open the front door.
            His mind was working to generate an adequate excuse as he kicked his way down Beacon Street. Unfortunately, he wasn’t certain an adequate excuse existed for a situation like this. In less than ten minutes he had reached the Prudential, the massive 52 floor downtown skyscraper. The offices of Robin, Blankstein, & Gray were on the 47th floor. Barefoot and skateboard underarm, Jason sprinted through the lobby and navigated around the Welcome Desk and an open-mouthed concierge. As he reached the elevator lobby his phone beeped.
            Thnx for the awesome party last night. Congratulations again on your new job- 3 years of suffering thru law school and hard wrk and u’ve really earned it! Just don’t fuck up on your first day ;)
            Way too late.

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This post was based off of the following writing prompt: http://writetodone.com/2012/08/04/scene-stealers-how-to-set-a-scene/

Golf Fundraiser Takes an Interesting Turn

            I had already spent ten minutes wandering through the trees looking for the errant golf ball I had hit and I knew Mike and Ryan were getting impatient. One more minute, I told myself, and then I would just accept the one stroke penalty. I flipped over a flat rock with the head of my golf club and then out of the corner of my eye, round and white, I saw the golf ball. I breathed a sigh of relief. When I bent down to pick it up, however, the ball wasn’t there. I looked around confused and then found it again, ten yards to my right. I took a couple of cautious steps forward and then realized my mistake. It was not my golf ball but the round tail of a white rabbit. I cursed under my breath.

            Before I could walk away, however, the rabbit turned around and, in a dignified voice suitable only for a British radio announcer, said “Follow me.” I blinked. “Ahem,” the rabbit said clearing its throat. “If you want your golf ball back, follow me,” and it hopped off further into the woods, with me, not sure whether it was to retrieve my golf ball or simply because the rabbit had said anything at all, following as close as I could.

            After a while we came to a clearing in the woods, with a small stream on one side and the trees shaping the rest of the border. Here were gathered deer, owls, foxes, turtles, frogs, monkeys, bears, squirrels, beavers and animals of all other sorts. In front of them stood a flip chart on a wooden easel. My rabbit friend hopped up to it and began to address the crowd as I took a seat on a mossy log next to a rather pretentious looking otter.

            “Friends,” began the rabbit, “we have all fallen on tough times but no one more so than John, who has lost his golf ball.” He was pointing at me. “We will use this to our advantage, however. When John fills out his taxes this year, he will claim that the golf ball was stolen and will file for a tax deduction. He will then take the money he saves from the IRS, and invest it in a company that I will incorporate called Rabbit Holdings, Inc. Bear and Squirrel will then sell shares of this company to two people each. The return for their investment will partially come from John’s golf ball money and in part from the money that we will earn when Deer and Owl sell shares of Rabbit Holdings to two more people…”

            It was dark when I finally made it back to the golf course. I walked back into the clubhouse and found Mike and Ryan having a drink at the bar, waiting for me.

            “So, did you find your golf ball?” said Mike. I shook my head. I didn’t want to tell them that I had almost been hired to take part in a Ponzi scheme run by a rabbit who talked with a British accent. I could think of only one thing more embarrassing.

            “It’s almost better that you didn’t,” Ryan interjected before I could even say anything. “See, Mike and I were sitting here at the bar waiting for you and we met the most amazing fellow. Apparently, if you claim that your golf ball was stolen then you can claim it as a tax deduction. Then all you need to do is invest it in…”

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This post was based off of the following writing prompt: You’re on a golf course taking part in a fundraiser to cure a disease that’s near and dear to your heart. On the 11th hole, you hit a ball into the woods. While searching for that ball, you see a white rabbit that stops, looks you right in the eye and says, “Follow me.” Link: http://www.writersdigest.com/prompts/golf-fundraiser-takes-an-interesting-turn

The Pale Blue Dot

Death is an expected event.

It’s not meant to take you by surprise,

It’s not meant to wet dry eyes, for the

hearse awaits in everybody’s life.

And when a person dies the world spins on

around the sun,

a pale blue dot

in this heaven-reaching universe.

When a person ages and has paid

life’s wages, they know that soon they will

turn the page and reach the back-cover

of the book.

And they know if then they look below from above-

            Or above from below-

            Or outside from within-

they will see that the pale blue dot will

continue to spin around the sun,

And that Death does not stop the sun from rising.        

Death, nevertheless, still seems to come

out of the blue, losing those who once

were here every day and now have

gone away to some place other than

Here.

And even after sickness or old

age, even when we are sage enough

to expect the expected,

in the moment that we hear the news,

we are confused,

thinking it would happen tomorrow,

or yesterday,

but not right now.

And though the loss gives us pain that will

always remain, we shouldn’t complain.

Instead we should smile, for though we are

shocked by that which we knew all the while,

nature is not.

And our pale blue dot will continue

to spin around the sun

in this heaven-reaching universe.

Scene Stealer #1

Anna watched the sun come up for the fifth day in a row. Sleep had eluded her since the accident. So did her memory. Reaching up to touch the heavy bandage that was wrapped around her head and was covering the bullet wound, Anna tried to remember what had happened. She screwed her eyes shut and tried to make her brain work but all she could recollect was the sound of a gunshot and a hot stinging pain on the side of her head. The doctors had told her that despite the damage and the pain, the bullet had merely grazed her. They had also said that she was lucky to be alive. Anna wasn’t sure she agreed.

            The entirety of the sun was now breaking free of the horizon, spewing blood-red rays of light across the sky. The residents of the San Fernando Valley below Anna’s window were beginning to awaken. Anna watched on and wished that they wouldn’t for somewhere in the city the person who had tried to murder her would also be waking up. Some say that ignorance is bliss but Anna disagreed. She knew that her shooter could return at any time to finish the job and her amnesia made each moment that passed exponentially more agonizing than the pain she felt in her head.

Anna got up and leaned her head on the windowpane, looking down at the ground below her. She was currently on the seventh floor of her apartment building which rested on top of a cliff that dropped at least 100 feet lower. If she jumped from the window the fall to the bottom would certainly kill her and end both pain from the wound and the torment of her amnesia.

And then it came to her. The thought of jumping from the window clicked on a part of her brain that made her remember that her would-be-murderer was not waking up right now.  In fact, the person was already awake for the shooter was she. Anna looked back out the window and contemplated whether a second attempt at suicide was worth it.

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This post was based off of the following writing prompt: http://writetodone.com/2012/07/07/scene-stealers-writing-promt/