March 2, 2009

  • I really want to write a short story (that's different than the previous stuff I wrote, just for the sake of keeping things changing). Issue is, I want to do more at a faster pace than I'm able to do.

    XXX

    I didn’t bother to look at their faces. I knew where they would reside, in the end.

    So many colors, the flames that drew black coal in wispy strokes. They left marks, you know. In subtle glory, they refused to leave after they had long gone.

    Am I babbling? I suppose so. But everyone says that, now don’t they? God, they were beautiful. Freshly made little flames, of so many varying shades and color. I swear to you, they seemed to dance upon that table, utterly and entirely separate of one another (a fragile, unique beauty). They lit up the night, fighting against that sordid darkness.

    Some would argue that darkness consumes us, in the end. Perhaps that’s what it is.

    They only speak to each other, those of the shadow. Beacons of radiance that refused to be out in the daylight. They were frightened. I would like to think because they thought their light couldn’t shine in the glaring of all those other lights that exist.

    There are possibilities in multitudes. There is death in things that are One.

    Some would argue this is the way of the world – it’s natural. Everything – from the species to the rocks – is diverse and multiple. The irony of so broad a singular statement is not lost on me. Yet even lovers of these cold crevices love that which they cannot have.

    There is solution in multitudes.

    They fade. Like a blackout, they go out – if only all at once! No, they etch away. Maybe it’s an amusing sight for whatever bastard decided to lay that blanket of darkness. Did he expect us to cuddle up under its warmth, clothing our naked selves when we wanted to hide?

    Quiet, don’t cry. Oh, please, don’t snuff. Don’t you see? You won’t be able to see otherwise.

    And it grows. Towering over us, the edges of that table don’t make sense with the dark covering them.

    Nothing is clear anymore.

    I’m scared.

    And they all turn, all change. Who wants to fight in this? They were so fragile, you know. I watched them. I hope I don’t sound out of place if I were to say I raised them.

    It’s so hard to hide, that dark. Every time you think you’ve blocked it, you see it peeping out from around your armpit. Or it’s covering you.

    Oh, I must be babbling. Why didn’t you tell me? I’m sorry; really, I am. It wasn’t intentional.

    They were just…so beautiful.

    They turn a color, before they fade. It’s a dim, ruddy color.

    And, soon, they’re all that color. You know, under all that blood and blue skin, beneath the sloth of fourteen hours of sleep, engrained in the guilt of their increasing blame is a flame – the brightest and smallest flame you may ever find.

    Are you human?