A clock works because the things inside

Function as they should.

The mechanics are not seen

But their outcome is seen and appreciated.

People are like clockwork.

They go unseen, unnoticed,

Yet they make the world what it is.

Sometimes they make it better.

Sometimes they make it worse.

But they have the power to change the world.

We have the power to change the world.

We have the power to change.

We have the power.

Magic holy burning ardent flame—

Behold the restless fury pouring skies,

To breathe the fearful glory can’t be tamed,

Like nightmares, wild horses song on high.

A haunting song in terror, beauty, life,

Beyond all questions, depth intangible—

To silent screams the whispers echo blithe

In radiant curses blest implacable.

Passionate spirit burst from heavy chains,

Unleashed from shackles: spirits breaking free,

In darker shadows sharp from blazing veins,

To lurkers shrinking back in frightful glee.

Unrestrained the savage demon leer,

Inferno paramount of love and fear.

———————————————

This IS a repost but I couldn’t resist entering it into this contest—

I have two no-fail methods of curing my own writers block:

#1: Look around you and open your eyes to the lives of the things and people around you. What about that great tree in the park? How old is it? What kind of changes has it seen? Everything has a personality—a story. Write it.

#2: Dump. I’m serious. Grab a pen and paper, open a new note tab, or just type here on Prose. Start writing and don’t stop until your mind is empty (or close to it). Can’t start? Pick a letter. Write your thoughts—all of them. When you’re done, look back and glean ideas from there. To quote from one of my previous posts: “Some of our best ideas are hidden deep in the recesses of our minds.”

Fire burns desperate

Or maybe in vain

Love you I do

Love me back

Oh won’t you?

Won’t you take a hint?

Mine I want you to be

Evermore

Dark and foggy, open ocean waves swelling in great boils all around, the great stone fortress is sinking. As had been foretold, so I knew from intuition—therefore I feel no strong emotion against it. No joy, nor melancholy, nor fulfillment, nor indignation fills my heart as I watch the killing waters lap slowly up the walls, eating their way through the rock-solid foundation. I am merely bowed in submission to the fate which befalls the solitary stronghold. Soon all the secrets buried inside will be washed away, drifting down through the dastardly sea—whose swirling currents are cloaked black as night—and disappearing from existence, as if they never were.

I am sinking. Resigned to my sorrows which evaporated long ago, lost in a cloud of gloom which so often blinds the whimsical moonstruck lover whose target gives them no second glance, I offer no resistance. The treacherous waters suck at my foundation, eating it away, slowly rising. Come dying; death awaits.

I raise my lusterless eyes to the East, where the sun nevermore shall rise: “Oh, if there be one righteous being, some divine entity who rules the skies,” I pray, “Then spare me one more day, one more turn of the Earth!”

A glimmer, a glint, and the morning rays break through, golden shafts piercing the night and chasing the darkness away, which flees back into the ocean from which it was born. The waters recede. God is merciful.

Thus I open my eyes that morning, the battle won once again.

I begin by doubting everything is reality. Nothing is absolute.

If I say there are no absolutes, then I contradict my own statement—for I am declaring “there are no absolutes” to be an absolute.

If I doubt everything, then “everything” includes perception, action, and thought.

Doubt is a form of thought.

If I doubt that I am doubting, then I prove I am doubting, for to doubt “doubt“ requires doubt.

Head spinning yet?

Spent

Fire

Screams

Love

Problems

Curses

Resentment

Pain

Your poor strong heart

Crushed to powder in the wind

Whisked away by my mistake

I was wrong

I can say that now

I can see your pain

It keeps me up through the night

Words can’t say

How much I feel

How much I wish

I could make it go

Away

Words can’t say

How much I feel

How much I wish

I could wash it all

Away

—————————————————

Initially wrote this as the pre-chorus/chorus for a song. Made my audience cry.

I liked his smile. It was warm, handsome, and kind. I could tell he really loved her. But then his face contorted into a leer, sallow cheeked, full of malice and greed. He smelled of things that made my head whirl. I heard myself screaming, vainly resisted the force of strong arms grasping me and shoving me sloppily into the car. I saw the needle in sharp relief against the dim surroundings, blindly felt it plunge cold into my arm. A chilled drowsy mist, an explosion of blissful relief, then everything swelled in bubbly waves before my eyes and I was gone.

Flitting in and out of consciousness were the same things. It nearly always ends in the shiny pointed needle, feeling weightless and blissful before dropping off again.

Everything is foggy, except the fire—lots of fire. Mounting up in endless towers, I feel the searing heat, scalding tongues of flame, choking fumes of smoke pouring from the ground and rising in billows to the skies. Even now, hardly conscious and aching all over, body limp and lifeless, heavy as lead—even now I feel the fire still. It scares me.

This is the closest I have come to myself since…I can’t even remember when. How long have I been living in that half-hearted dream, relieved by the needle? What even is living? How do I know?

My bleary eyes open onto another dreamy world, but this time my head is clearer. I feel my head swimming in pain and my weary limbs draped lifeless on the surface around me. I open my eyes once more and the fog slowly lifts. I can finally see things that I know to be real. I appear to be in a barn, but upon further investigation, I change my mind to an old warehouse. Tools clutter the table nearest me, neglected machinery stands rusting in the corner, and the smell of gasoline lingers in the air. A small library of leather-bound books fits on a low wooden shelf beside me. Sunlight streams in shafts through the cracks in the ceiling, bringing a feeling suggestive of eerie magic. I am alone.

I don’t know how long I remain before I remember. Mom! What did he do to her? I fly to my feet in a sudden rush of energy and stumble across the ground towards the door on the other side. Then I collapse. What was I going to do if I found her anyway? I can’t save her in the mess I’m in now. If anything, if by the blessed grace of God she was still safe, untouched, then my arrival would seal her doom. No, it is best that I remain here.

The sunlight slowly wanes, then returns, then wanes again for a long time. I grow tired of watching it, waiting for something to happen. Yet no one enters this place. What now? I ask myself. I leave that unanswered, and the day’s monotony continues uninterrupted.

After the third day, I take it into my mind to read. Then at least I will be entertained for a little while. I desperately hope that whoever owns this warehouse has a copy of Shakespeare in their library. Wait a minute: Since when did I start caring about ancient poetry? I guess I just forgot about it.

To my utter disappointment, there is no Shakespeare among the leather-bound collection—nor any other renowned work. They appear to be a series of journals. I pick one out from the left side of the shelf and look around me warily before I open it and begin reading. Not that I expect anyone to come in, since everything about this place screams it’s been abandoned long ago. My eyes find the first entry.

4 Jan, 2002

Dear Diary,

Man, people really need to change how they begin writing in these things. Oh well. I received you as a birthday present from Davy this morning. Mother says I should get in the habit of writing my feelings down before settling into bed, and Davy was kind enough to get you for me—telling everyone about my emotional issues in the process. I’ll get back at him tomorrow. It’s his birthday today too, and the least we can do is give Mother no trouble from us for at least 24 hours. I got him that red spinny top he’s been eying for the past month ever since it came into Fred’s. He was thrilled, but something told me he expected it. Not complaining though: never have, never will. How to I feel? Cold. I can hardly feel my feet. Better scoot off to bed before it gets worse. I’ll write again tomorrow.

Sincerely,

Ralph Notting

My eyes halt at the signature: Ralph Notting. Then my eyes burn with hot angry fire. This was the man that married Mom, took me captive for numberless hours, or weeks—perhaps even months. As much as I want to run and scream, burn with vengeance against my captor, I restrain myself. His journals are the only source of entertainment I have. Maybe if I read on, I will find his reasons for committing such atrocities, find a way to Mom, wherever she is now. I grit my teeth and read the next entry.

5 Jan, 2002

Dear Diary,

I promise, I’ll come up with a good start that’s not the girlish “Dear Diary,” but for now I have more important things to discuss. I got back at Davy today, much to the detriment of Mother. I never realized how deeply she cared about him, even for something as little as his weird quirks. You see, Davy has an inexplicable obsession with classifying everything he finds—from recording the names of each individual shade of green in the house to spending hours figuring the exact shape of a Rubik’s cube. He insists that, contrary to the name, it’s NOT a cube. Anyway, since he told everyone that I have emotional issues, I made a poster of his face and a Rubik’s cube with the words “It’s not a cube!” then set it up on the front of the grocery store. By midafternoon, everyone knew about it. Davy was furious. I was laughing crazy with Kent and Kitty, but Mother was in tears. She told me that Davy was sensitive, and I couldn’t tease him like most other kids. I didn’t understand, but I did feel a twinge of guilt that hasn’t gone away. I wish I could take it back. I’m going to go out early tomorrow morning and take down that poster.

Sincerely,

Ralph Notting

In the following entries, Davy wouldn’t come out of his room for weeks. When he finally did, he ignored Ralph’s continued apologies. Serves him right, I think, That was disgustingly rude.

I slowly read my way through the years, through the books. Days, weeks pass. I get to know Ralph extraordinarily well. His brother Davy fell into alcoholism, then his high school girlfriend introduced him to drugs. They disappeared for a while and then he emerged alone years later with a daughter named Joanna. Unfortunately, she fell into his way of life early on, cycling between drugs and alcohol and sexual abuse. I pity her immensely. That’s no way for a girl to live, never knowing any better. Then Ralph met Mom.

21 July 2018

Dear Diary,

Wow. Emotional overload is in full “go” mode. I met a beautiful young woman in the office today and I can’t stop thinking about her. I’ve never felt so free in my life, but I really need to slow my roll. I’ll never forgive myself if I plunge headlong into this love when she’s already in a relationship with someone else. I don’t want to be the cause of any more mischief. For now, I can only wait until I see her again and get to know her better. I think I’ll ask her out for a lunch date with some friends.

Heartsick,

Ralph Notting

The next significant entry about her was about a week later.

29 July 2018

Dear Diary,

Her name is Aurora. She’s widowed. She has a darling daughter of eight years who reminds me of my niece. Poor girl. Davy had never been so upset in his entire life. I don’t know when she died, but she can’t have been older than fifteen. It’s like God gave her a second chance in Aurora’s daughter—the likeness is so similar! I love them both, and I’m determined to try for marriage if Aurora’s interested. I don’t want to force her if she’s not.

Sincerely,

Ralph Notting

So Ralph was initially a nice guy with no poetic language who had to bear with his brother’s bad choices. I catch myself feeling bad for him. I eventually read up to the marriage in 2023. They go on their honeymoon to Venice while I stay with his parents. I smile as I remember that. They were really nice to me. The next entry has me dumbstruck.

30 May 2023

Dear Diary,

Lilian is gone! Aurora and I are absolutely devastated, crazed. We’ve looked everywhere, made phone calls, and still there’s nothing! I don’t know what to do! It’s been mere weeks and I’ve already lost our child, the thing most precious to her. What have I done! Why did I allow my love for her to supersede all else to the neglect of Lilian! Oh the poor poor girl! Aurora says it’s not my fault, but I swear I’ll never forgive myself until we find her and make sure she’s alright, safe in her mother’s arms.

Sincerely,

Ralph Notting

Now I don’t know what to think. He either clearly lied to his diary, or…something else happened I’m still not sure about. I have no choice but to read on, for I am now determined to discover the truth, whatever it may be.

So I read. They spent years trying to find me. They had given up all hope of ever doing so. Then, after a year-long gap of entries, Ralph explains everything. He hadn’t written in a year because his every minute was consumed with the emergency—he could take no break to write. He was walking home from work one day when he caught sight of smoke issuing from a small slum downtown apartment building. It was consumed in a blaze of fire. He acted on instinct and ran inside, calling for help.

He was only able to save one person, who was dying quickly—me. Reeking of drugs and smoke, bruised, scarred, flesh burnt away to the bone in several places, I lay unconscious in his trembling arms. The ambulance showed up and said it was hopeless. I was done for. But Ralph absolutely refused to accept this and hurried home in desperation.

After a full year of work, I was still living, though barely so—reliant on twenty different machines, cords jammed in all over my body, monitors regulating everything. The entries caught up and resumed at one per day. Still, Ralph worked feverishly, though he didn’t say how.

He did say that Davy died in that fire. He did say that he believed Davy kidnapped me out of desire for his daughter Joanna. He’d been eyeing me greedily ever since the wedding day. Ralph also said that Mom died of heartbreak in 2036.

First I grieve for Mom. No tears come, but my heart is sick. Then, 2036!! I am shocked. How did I stay in here like this for so long? Am I really over thirty-six years old? What year is it now? If only I had a mirror to look into, to see! I drop the book and stumble around the warehouse, scrounging through drawers and filtering through the piles of junk lining the walls.

Finally I find a rusted rear-view mirror attached to a decrepit junked car. I look the same as I always did—thirteen and glowing. How? I need an explanation.

Then as I return to the diary and flip to the next page, a sheaf of paper falls out, along with a photograph. The latter catches my eye first: it’s our first family picture, dated May of 2023. Ralph stands beside Mom, myself standing in front of the gap between them clutching him tight. I still like his smile. My face in the photo looks the same as my face does now. In fact, in looking at my reflection in the mirror again, I am identical to that girl in the picture.

In the sheaf, I find blueprints—plans. Plans impossible to read, but easy to deduce. I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it.

The final entry in the final book is dated 2068, in which he states I should wake up self-sufficient in about five years.

There is no more denying it, for it stares me right in the face.

Ralph saved my life, and made me into an unchanging machine.

Small wonder I am never hungry.

I’m used to winning everything.

My whole life, I would rock everything I did and win all the prizes.

Personal pan pizzas at Pizza Hut for reading.

Gymnastics meets and performances.

“Most Improved Swimmer.”

Online elementary school inventing contest.

3-time Top Reader for the summer reading program at the local library.

Every. Single. Essay. Contest.

I was rolling in scholarships.

Maybe it’s being homeschooled.

In my Junior year of high school, I won all possible awards at the annual international debate conference.

I’m used to winning everything.

But life isn’t to be won.

Just lived.

When will I figure that out?