Forge

Forge

Years of sitting by the forge have aged the expert blacksmith greatly. The fires hot touch has created scars of previous mistakes on almost all of his skin. Hours of pounding away at fiery metal have created thick calluses on his hands, even through his heavy work gloves. 

The man has served this family for many years, crafting the fine blades that will defend the kingdom when trouble arises. Once he even prepared a sword for his majesty the King himself. All of the mans years of hardship and strain have rewarded him with the title of Best Blacksmith in the Country, but he doesn’t particularly care for the title. 

Over the years this man has had the pleasure of mentoring the youngest prince in the family, teaching him the trade of smithing late in the evening, when no one would notice the prince’s absence. The prince shouldn’t be dabbling in such peasant trades, he was royalty after all. Royalty like him shouldn’t even come into contact with someone as low as the blacksmith, but this did not stop the prince. 

To the prince, watching the old man skillfully forge a blade out of rock was nothing short of a miracle. He longed to make his own steel, to become just like the blacksmith, even if it meant abandoning his title of prince. 

The blacksmith begged and pleaded with the prince. Telling him over and over that the punishment will be harsh if he is caught in such a place, with such a man, but the prince wouldn’t listen. So night after night, the prince would watch the man create giant plates of armor, long punishing blades, and even delicate latches for boots and belts. The presence of the boy watching him by the gentle glow of the forge didn’t bother the old man so much. He quite enjoyed the company. After years of loneliness the man was unsure of how to talk to another human, so conversations were short and lacked any real topic. Because of this the man never got to know the prince past the picture of his face, even the prince’s name was unknown to the man. 

One night the prince did not come to the blacksmith’s quarters. This worried the man greatly, but he shoved his worry’s aside and continued on his work, he had just received that day a new order from the king himself. An order for a sword that could withstand even the kings powerful blows. 

The following morning no knights came to retrieve the sword, instead the blacksmith found himself facing the young prince. There were tears in the boys eyes and he muttered a quick thank you before scurrying away with his package. For a long time the smith stood there, mouth agape, brain full of fear for the young boy whom he had came to love. The clashing of metal on metal brought the man back to his senses. From the forge the man cannot see what is happening, but he has the knowledge to assume who’s duel it is that is making such a racket. 

From the courtyard the prince can just barely make out the small wisps of smoke that float off from his friends forge. His sword had long since been knocked out of his grasp and he now found himself on his knees, his armor ripped to shreds. His father is yelling to him, but he ignores it, only thinking of the comforting light of the forge and the occasional warm smile from the old man who’s name he never bothered to learn. A smile plays across the boys lips as his father raises his blade.

Thank you, the boy thinks. 

The blacksmith takes note of the lack of noise from earlier, but does not bother himself with any particular thoughts of it. Slowly the man begins to hammer away at a new blade order he has received, mentally deciding that tonight would be the night he would ask the young prince for his name. The aged man works through the night tirelessly, waiting for the soft knock at his door that would signal his friends arrival. 

Predator

Predator

The smooth black cat stepped through the trees silently, its refined muscles making just the right movements to ensure maximum stealth. It has been days since the monster last ate, its belly grumbled faintly while bright yellow eyes scanned the ground for prey. Long ago the cat decided to travel alone, and it never regretted the decision. The cat actually believe that loneliness was the best way to live in this world. 

The cat knows it is the most feared animal in this part of the woods. Not one animal can contest its terrifying speed, its razor sharp teeth and 3 inch long claws. Yes, this predator stands on top, and will remain on top for quite some time. Still, the lone cat can’t help but wonder when there will come a real challenge for it to face. An enemy that will leave it clinging for life in a fight that it can’t win, any kind of even that would make the cats life worth living. 

Once, when the cat was traveling with a few others of its kind, it felt a rush like that. On the night that it vowed to travel alone, rather than leave its life in the hands of others. The cat learned that day that no one is to be trusted, that every animal would rather save their own life than the life of someone else. And this made the cat cold and bitter towards the world. 

A small scuffling sound meets the cats ears. Sinking low to the ground, the cat begins to stalk its soon to be dinner quietly. The cats mouth begins to water at the thought of finally sating its aching stomach. The prey is just beyond this rock now, the large cat prepares to pounce, waiting for the opportune moment to do so. THe scuffling stops momentarily and the cat knows its time. 

With a kick that takes little effort, the cat bounds over the boulder to face its prey, but what it sees causes it to hesitate. The two rabbits are breathing heavily, eyes fixated on the cat in fear. One is female and obviously pregnant, the cat only need look at her to tell, but that isn’t what stops the cat. As the cat prepared its strike upon facing its prey it witnessed something strange. In a split second the male, and much larger, rabbit had stepped in front of its partner as if his sacrifice would save her at all. The rabbit had to have known that the cat could slash through the both of them in an instant and be done with it, but this didn’t sway the rabbit. No. What the cat was witnessing was something it would rather not see. 

With a light growl the cat lowers its claws and closes its gaping mouth. It can hear the rabbits sprint as far away as they can in this moment of mercy but it doesn’t care. The cat decides it would rather stay hungry for now and continues its bitter walk to a new prey. 

The cat can’t tell on its own, and would certainly not admit it, but deep inside the cats heart, there is a change taking place. 

Sunset

Sunset 

With a exhausted sigh the sun begins to retire from the sky it ruled in for so many hours. The heat of the day slowly disappearing until a comfortable chill is all that the wind carries. In a slow, almost lazy, motion the sun pulls back its rays, which in turn pull back the deep blues of day with it. The blues transform and warp, casting brilliantly bright shades of purple the morph into the deepest of greens, but only for a moment. From the green comes a soothing spectrum of pinks and oranges, the colors mixing together playfully as if they are excited after a long day of work. At the very core of the color spiral comes the reds, which in turn mesh with the oranges and pinks. This draws out yellows, and at some points, even whites. The colors flicker around excitedly, dancing across the dying sky to provide those below them one last glimpse of their beauty before they disappear. 

But their job has only just begun. Reds and oranges flutter around the confines of their rock circle, lapping childishly at the smoky logs inside of them. Yellow stands at the top of the flames, holding in the much more erratic motions of its brothers. The occasional spark brings joy to the roaring warmth, encouraging them to increase their heat, to increase their play, regardless of yellows protests. The fire burns for hours on end, until finally the cold blue extinguishes them to mere coals that glow faintly on the now charred logs, almost as if the colors are smiling at one another. 

An artist paints through the night. His pallet running dry, the darker colors remain untouched to his right. For now he only works with the beautiful brights. Skillfully he works the happy colors through long, spirally strokes. The man dabs here and there, adding yellow just around the outsides of the orange and reds. The orange and reds of course overpower the yellows at some points, begging for their beauty to be shone to the fullest extent possible. When the artist lays down his paintbrush he stops for a moment, wondering if he portrayed the colors in the way they deserve. 

As if on cue, the sun begins its sleepy climb back into the darkened sky, bidding good morning to the moon as it begins its descent. Purples, magentas, deep blues and bright whites meet the mans eyes, almost coaching tears. With a smile he greets the oranges and reds as they appear around the bright sun, their dancing motions recognizable as they cast light across the sky. The artist takes in the full picture of what he is seeing and once again picks up his brush and pallet, thanking the bright colors he so deeply admired and thanking the sun for putting on such a beautiful show. The artist grabs his darker colors and gets back to work, no longer feeling tired. 

Flight

Flight

For such a girl as young as she is to have earned her wings she is surprisingly calm. At first she seemed almost scared to feel the sudden weight of the glossy feathers upon her back, but that was only for a moment. All that remains now is a determined look one her face. One would only have to glance at her to tell that she was a natural born flyer, a talent so rare in their tribe. 

She perches on her peak top for a split second before diving head first towards the rocky earth below her. She waits until the last possible moment before spreading her pearly white wings, catching the air beneath them and suddenly shooting up into the sky. In one powerful stroke she soars high above the few that are in the air with her, her hair skimming the clouds. The girl lets out a joyous, high pitched laugh, as she cuts through the warm August air that tickles her face in a welcoming gesture. 

Flying had always been a dream of the girl. Her mother, also born with the destiny of flight, would tell her stories of her travels through the sky every night before bed. She would tell in detail how the air seemed to gently lift her up into the air with little effort from her. How she would float above the clouds and take in the beautiful rays of the golden sun. And above all, how exhilarating it was to dive. 

Her mother described how the air would suddenly turn cold the second you began your descent. No longer warm and comforting, the air would seem to slice through your skin as you go against what your wings are telling you to do. If one attempts the dive perfectly there will even be a moment where the air will put a barrier up to try and prevent you from falling any further, her mother would always tell her of the pleasure she felt when bursting through the wall and continuing her stunt. 

Many have lost their lives attempting such wondrous fears, the girls mother among them. With so few capable of flight left, diving is almost a sort of taboo in the girls tribe. 

The girl twirled in the air one more time, biding goodbye to the sweet hands of warmth and accepting the cold new ones she would come to love. The girl raised her head and felt her mothers gentle kiss upon her forehead. In one small movement, the girl tucked in her wings, closed her eyes, and began to dive. 

Starlight

Starlight 

Tonight the stars will shine brighter than they ever have before. They will sparkle and shimmer with all of their might for the sake of your moment. The stars will shine everywhere around you. They’ll dance in your eyes when you smile. They’ll sparkle on your teeth as you thank everyone who is here to witness you. The stars know how important this is to you tonight, so they’ll even hold back tears if you begin to get emotional. 

Tonight the stars will cast a beautiful flood o flight down around you, enveloping you in their gentle glow until you become that of a star. Your words will motivate, your eyes will light up, and your energy will suddenly become recharged as the starlight casting upon you now ignites something that the elder stars placed inside of you a long time ago.

This is your moment tonight, not even the clouds dare to approach your area for fear that the stars will punish them for ruining your transformation. On this night you will grow more than all of the previous years in your life combined. Tonight you will stand tall, head held high, speaking words that both hurt and sooth the audience that is around you. In a fiery blaze that dazzles the crowd, you will overtake any challenge that you come by. Because you are ready, because you know now that you have what it takes to conquer anything. 

Tonight on this night, you will do what stars are made to do. Tonight, you will shine. 

Possibility

Possibility 

Somewhere a man sits by his wife’s bedside, tears in his eyes as he gazes upon her deteriorating form. There is a small chance she’ll survive. The doctors weren’t very confident as they said it though. 

The thought of living the rest of his life without her scares the man beyond belief. But it maybe be a reality he will have to accept. 

Across the world a storm is striking. A little girl sits and cries in the underground crawlspace of her now destroyed house, wondering and praying desperately that her family got away before the storm hit. 

The dull beeping of the machines that are hooked into his wife have become nothing but background noise to the man now. For a moment his wife opened her eyes and mouthed words to him that he couldn’t comprehend at the moment. He was far too hollow inside to accept that the possibility of her survival was steadily dwindling. 

The girl stops her crying for just a second. There is a pounding coming from above her, from the door to the safe haven she’s shut herself in. But the sound of the storm billowing outside frightens the girl. She hears a voice cry out to her before the wind silences them forever. The girl curls into a ball and accepts that the possibilities of her survival is all but zero by now. 

Without a sound the man watches as the men in surgeon uniforms wheel away his wife’s unmoving body. 

A few hours later the man decides to turn on the television. He sits forward in his seat as the news reporters cover live video feed of a small, bruised, and broken girl crawling out of what was once her home. 

On the inside the man repeats a phrase his wife always used to say to him. 

“Possibilities are not endless, nothing is. Everything has its limits. Possibilities are not endless, but the ideas and drive they create, that is truly without limits.”

Light

Light

The sky is gray. The buildings are gray and cold. The green grass that once grew in abundance is now a weathered layer of gray concrete, much like the sky. Their clothes are gray. Their hair is black, to show their individuality. Their eyes are blank, large gray bags hanging prominently from them. The words they speak, if speech was to be described in such a way, are gray. The blood they bleed, should they injure themselves, is gray. 

The work is hard, much like the concrete grass. The fabric they all work so tirelessly to produce always comes out gray. Always. The food they eat is a sickly gray shade, which is also tough to chew. Just like the concrete. 

The world is gray. The buildings are gray slabs. The people are no different. 

But there is one gray fellow who walks among these noiseless zombies of gray. A certain gray boy who has noticed a pattern beyond the word of gray that surrounds him. For once his food is not so tough, not so gray. For a moment the green billowing grass spreads before him and the sky breaks its outer shell to reveal clouds of white and blinding blues. When he speaks his words are no longer gray, they are something else. The boy is becoming warmer and warmer, color flooding back into his face and his bags disappear. When he closes his eyes all he can see is a flash of a bright color he can’t name, something he calls light is forming within him. A light he must share with his peers. 

The boy begins to shout, desperately trying to spread his beauty. One by one the gray people wander over to him. And one by one they tear at him. They spit on him. Bite him. Beat him. Curse him for ever bringing such a thing into their gray worlds. One by one the light and beauty within the boy is destroyed. And when the sea parts, there is only a sad gray boy behind. 

The gray boys eyes are blackened, bags hanging underneath them. The gray people begin walking towards their works, trailing a desolate path of gray behind them. 

What the people cannot see throughout their thick gray exteriors is the tinge of color that shines in their eyes. A light that will burst forth in glorious day, discarding their gray vessels behind them and destroying everything in their wake.  

Music

Music

The boy lived a very lonely life. Always holed up in his house, no family to care for him, no friends to speak to him. For all his life he’d been alone. This loneliness cause a stir in him, a powerful, aching throb that at times threatens to consume his very being. No one can stop him when he’s in one of the rages he so often falls into. Not that anyone would. During this time the boy has a crazed look in his eye, his entire being burns with agony mixed with envy that all boils down to an untamable wrath he cannot control. Why would he? His loneliness is too painful to not become crazy. 

In his valley below, the boy begins his rampage. The sounds waft up the hills to the nearby village where villagers have hidden from his anger. 

A beautiful woman, oblivious to the boys fury, sits atop a hills peak, just above his home. With grace she pulls out a golden stringed instrument and takes in a breath. In an instant the heavy, burning air is calmed with sweet melodies. Notes that pierce the ear drum in a heavenly way begin to fill the entire valley, stirring the birds, coaching the deer out of the trees, and eliciting a delicate sigh of relief from the village. 

The woman’s fingers move up and down the strings, her beautiful song cutting through the boys rage at last. 

The villagers begin to dance in their houses, each note that hits their ears brings about beautiful memories of good times, happy times. Some even burst into tears as the woman’s song touches the very depths of their unused hearts. 

On queue, the woman begins to sing. The world around her erupts all at once, creating an almost terrifying reaction at her beautiful melody. The birds she roused begin to join in on her song, their beautiful voices perfectly accenting her angelic lyrics while her strumming continued to pierce every corner of the village. 

Everyone is shedding tears now, even the boy. The flowers that lay ruined around his feet spring back to life in an instant, almost as if they are responding to a magic in the woman’s tones. The music cuts through the boys ears, penetrating every cell in his body until he his filled with the wondrous miracle that is the woman’s song. There is a faint moment where the boy begins to let out a joy filled shout when he finally falls to the ground in a peaceful slumber. 

All at once the woman stops her song and picks up her things. There is a sly, almost evil smile on her beautiful face as she begins her descent into the valley. 

The villagers are sound asleep now. But it is no longer a peaceful sleep. In their minds, the woman’s song has become twisted, warped, almost painful to the ears. Nightmares plague the citizens slumbers. They struggle to wake but find themselves caught. Caught in an endless hell. 

There are no birds singing. The flowers have once again died. The deer have fled, far away, never to return to that wretched place. In the valley a beautiful woman with a stringed instrument kicks a sleeping boy aside and continues her journey onward to a village not too far away from where she is now. A new song already brewing in her mind. 

LoVe

LoVe

It starts out small. Almost unnoticeable at the start. A tiny fire, no, a tiny fizzle of smoke that winds out from the heart and around the organs. The smoke is weak and frail. At times the smoke almost disappears amidst the mass of emotions that threaten to stop it in its tracks. 

Anger constricts the tiny wisp, squeezing until the small being almost gives in, but still it pushes on. 

The dangerous envy attempts to block the weaklings path and when the phantom passes by it grabs at it rapidly. Desperately trying to claim what should belong to itself in the first place. The wisp, slow and steady, somehow evades envy’s sinister grasp, and continues on. 

A blinding light suddenly appears in front of the wisps path, causing it to stop momentarily before deciding to reroute around the troublesome emotion. Lust whispers promising words of power, money, sex, anything to try and deter the mist from its current mission. Without fail, the wisp pushes onward, bent on reaching its final destination. 

When the light finally dies the wisp is confronted with a bone chilling sensation of cold, a cold so intense that it slows the wisp to that of a crawl. A gentle sound reaches the wisp, the sound of soft tears hitting the ground and disappearing. As the wisp inches past the sorrowful figure it takes no notice of him, the sadness inside of him is far to great to notice the wisp. 

The destination is near, the wisp knows this. There is a certain spring in his step as he bounds towards the approaching happiness that is promised when he reaches where he must go. He feels a tinge of regret, only for a second, as he realizes that those he passed on his journey are doomed to die at the hands of what he will create. For a moment the wisp attempts to go back, to change what he wants. What if it’s too strong? What if it dies? Are the final thoughts he has before he disappears.

Somewhere in the body. Somewhere in the heart. A fire springs to life, spreading its warmth and grace throughout the man as he gazes upon his wife. 

This is LoVe. 

Water

Water

The air is cool, calm, and quiet. No animals are stirring tonight, not that any would dare venture close enough to see what lies beyond the thick of the trees. The trees are old, all teetering in the ground as if they could fall at any moment. But none will fall in this part of the woods, not a leaf with float, not a branch will crack. There is no sound in this part of the forest. One could say the only thing that lives in this area is the seldom unfortunate souls that lose their ways among the endless greens. 

Deep within this forest lies a lake. Deeper than the eye can see and as dark as the night sky, one could say this lake has no end. There are no ripples upon the lakes surface, nothing can penetrate the thick glassy surface that years of isolation have built upon the crystalline liquid. 

Nothing lives inside of the water. There are no fish, there is no plant life. Some say that everything that touches the water will suddenly be sapped of life, earning the lake the title of ‘Cursed’. 

In the year the village across from the forest burned down many lives were lost, many tears were shed. The beautiful drops that harbor so much emotion and sorrow were whisked away into the sky, as soon as they were shed. And with that came the rains. Beautiful and delicious rains. Rains that filled rivers and quenched farms, providing much life and prosperity throughout the land, in hope that they may move on from the tragedy that hit them. 

But the rains had another purpose. The clouds were black and angry, lightning and thunder cracked menacingly above as the gods released their own torrent of beautiful sadness. A sadness the villagers once shared, tears they once cried, water they once created. 

The lake sits untouched. It’s pristine crystal like surface unlooked upon. With the waters eternal resting and isolation comes the birth of new life in another world. Thus the purifying qualities of water are shown. 

Adventure

Adventure

The world truly is beautiful. Indeed it is. Even when confronting all of the hurt and destruction we as humans have acted upon each other, the world is still a beautiful place. Even when the rush and routine of every single day becomes a dismal blur of repetitiveness that drains the soul and spirit out of living, the world is beautiful. 

The man sits in his office, as he always does this early in the morning. He may go for lunch early, try something new, or maybe he will just continue his day as the norm calls. He wasn’t always this unhappy. No. As a child he was free, running around all hours of the day, making up stories in his head that weren’t really there, trying to be the one who finally discovers something new, something groundbreaking. Frequently he wonders where his younger self would be now had he not settled down and abandoned his active spirits. Oh how he wonders, and oh how he wants. 

The man won’t say it, but he longs for a chance to prove himself. To run out into the wilds, armed with only the things on his back, his only knowledge that which is in his head. He yearns for a chance to explore the unknown, dive into depths no one has before, to rediscover the part of himself that longed for adventure. 

The man manages a small cough, adjusts his glasses, takes notice about how beautiful the flowers on his desk look today, and silently decides he will try someplace new for lunch today. 

Rain

Rain

The image of rain pouring down from the clouds above is to many people, a sign of bad luck, an ominous quality of a bad day. To others, rain is a source of inspiration. The crystal droplets shimmer and shine, casting brilliant lights onto the ground before them before they eventually shatter. Continuous breaking and shattering of the precious glass causes streams, who turn into rivers, who in turn morph into lakes, until eventually the pristine surface of the liquid is dried to its limit by the burning sun, forced into being sucked back into the air until it’s time comes once again to fall. 

The clouds that bring the rain are known as plan ruiners, party cancelers, even as reflections of human emotions. But not all that the cloud is is bad. As the beautiful crystal of life dries up and disappears before us we hardly glance, only when the cold gray harbingers of rain come do we change face. Clouds may be the most mistaken pieces of our world today. As the fluffy whites and grays mix together and gently envelope the sky, another miracle begins to happen. Rain. 

As the rain falls and leaves is silky touch behind on the Earth, spreading life and giving nourishment to whoever will take it, it can also bring destruction. Amidst all of the destruction and devastation that this gem will give, there is a silver light, a rather fluffy one at that. 

For as rain can bring hope, it can also take it away. And when all hope is lost, the gray warriors will come bounding across the sky, carrying with them a new form of hope which will always be better than the last.

Searching For a Home

Searching For a Home

Home is a strange word indeed. For many people it means a place where one can relax and feel at ease, not a care in the world. They say everyone is born with at least one place where they can feel at ‘home’. But for others who are born without the comforts of home there is only a chilling sensation, almost as if a chilling wind is always running over ones skin without pausing. 

Living without a home doesn’t always have to be a bad thing, however. One gets incredibly familiar with the feelings of freedom, the taste of victory over their triumphs they complete on their own. Not having a place to return to also presents the kind of exciting possibility of adventure, self fulfillment, possibly the adrenaline pumping scenario of not knowing what tomorrow could hold for you. 

To adventure around the world with no boundaries to hold you back, no sense of needing to return to something you’ve left behind you, that must be the ultimate freedom that so many of us hold deep in our hearts, quietly suppressing it until it is nothing more than a whisper in the winds of our daily lives. Many people have dove off into the wilds to try and find the adventuring spirit they so desperately seek, only to come back to their comfy houses at the slightest sign of danger. This sparks a thought in my head. No, a question. 

If we cannot feel free until this point, is anybody really free?