A tale from Hubby
They called it Going Baked Potato.
As the wildfire surrounded them, cackling and roaring, cutting them off, they'd pull out the emergency blankets, bundle themselves up, bury themselves in the dirt, and pray. An invisible hole would kill them, ignite the air in their lungs, leaving time for a scream.
The fire strolled over them, speaking as it went. Slowly they emerged, counted the living, the maimed, the dead, and followed.
The voice at the heart of the wildfire drew them, there was glory in the cathedral of the flames.
I did one, too!
~
She was the kind of bored that wriggled and squirmed and itched. The sun-struck piece of broken glass looked like something to scratch it with, even if she wasn’t sure how yet.
Poking hurt. It was too early to smash it, even if the sound would be satisfying. She held it low to the dead grass, to watch the sun flare inside it. The flame was just a curled finger of heat until the breeze blew it higher. Tearing through the dry brush like a hot snake. Merciless, irrevocable, beautiful.
Eight years old, and she had chosen fire over blood.
Wow, you guys are rocking it, today.
Maybe lots of writers think about addiction a lot. David Simon says the character he identifies with most is Bubbles, the informant/ heroin addict.
Because mine is kind of freaking out lately, I offer the prompt skin or Under my skin
Excellent choice, erika! Thanks!
Certain medical problems mean I've having vivid dreams again. I'm afraid this one has nothing to do with the prompt, but still worth sharing...
The Maybe-Redemption Permanent Floating InterUniversal Poker Game
It never registers in your mind as a new door. It always seems that a shop entrance or an office off a corridor you have passed a thousand times without thinking has caught your attention. And you know that you have to hurry through it to take your place in the poker game, the poker game that never really stops - even though two seconds ago you had never heard of the game, maybe were not all that interested in poker.
As you approach the game, one of the - beings - at the table waves you to an empty chair next to itself. That many tentacles must make shuffling a whole lot easier, you think to yourself with a grin. You are dealt in; your opening hand has two towers, three lovers, and one fool. Well of course, you think, three lovers almost always means at least one fool in the hand. For a moment, something bothers you, but then you push the silly thought aside. Of course, these are the standard cards in a poker deck.
The money at the table varies widely, crisp bills, pay point cards, gold coins, cowry shells, ox hides, glass beads, energy units. No need to worry about conversion; money can't be taken away from here; nor can it be left behind. The stakes in this game are something far more fundamental than money. You are not exactly sure what those stakes are; but you know something important is on the line.
The shining city you see out the window hints at what can be won or lost. You can see that city is beautiful and you know in your heart that it is a place everyone in this room wants to reach. But you also know that if anyone climbed out the window or tried to open a door to that city that something terrible would happen.
She thought getting used to having her stories rejected gave her thicker skin, but when she lay in bed at night, it felt the same as always, if slightly past its first freshness, like an apple that had been sitting out in the bowl for a week already In theory, edible, just not quite crisp. It would probably taste fine, if someone enjoyed it soon., although it had gone from slightly oily to slightly dry, it did not feel that different from anyone else’s. It didn’t feel like “What happened to you?” or “special circumstances”It felt like a woman’s skin.
