Orange tongues

Fire. A blaze in my hands that I can craft into any shape I wish. It is my passion, my flame to share. You may call me arrogant. You may call me rash. I don’t care. Of course I don’t. I can wrap my fiery rope around you and change your opinion with little more than an ember of my will. Just give me the fuel.

Mountain climbing

I can see the top of the stairs.

It doesn’t look far.

 

Just like a mountain doesn’t look that tall

until you stand

by its roots

gazing up at the sheer

enormity

of it, and all your hopes

skitter off along the horizon,

with barely a wave goodbye.

 

But I know I’m not facing a mountain.

I’m facing fifteen rectangular boxes

stacked vertically yet veering forwards

to create an upwards path.

 

Should I convince myself,

yet again,

that my wasted muscles will let me walk

to the top?

 

I don’t know.

 

Maybe I should just tackle

the stairs like a mountain –

my mountain –

and climb.

 

I think I could do that.

If I try.

Between the hour and the minute

They tied themselves together, linking their hands with an elaborate wrap of solder. It was all for the dance; preparation for the endless twirling and spinning that was set to take place during the sixty seconds between midnight and one minute past. But that minute is never just a minute; to the right people, it is an eternity. They were the right people. They never came back.