He watched the light of hope fade into the night sky as it took its place with the stars and planets. The domed backset to a picturesque evening felt free and the light breeze felt cool and inviting, but he felt nothing but captivity and exclusion – the need to be part of something larger than himself, but also the incapability of achieving freedom. Continue reading “and the light was hope”
The campfire at the end of the day usually has the boys talking about cars, girls, and sports, but tonight is different. An older gentleman, looking old enough to have lived through the years before cars and sports were even invented, is going to tell a story tonight.
it’s all over
The War had ended. The nuclear strikes and endless wars had long since finished. The dust had settled. Gunshots didn’t monopolise the global soundscape any more now than they did in the peace before the War. The Premier and the President, for all their petty difference, had each passed on to the next life, whether Inferno or Paradiso. There was no one left. Not anyone. Except her. But she didn’t count, did she. She’d be gone in a matter of time anyway.
In a different time and a different place, there was a small boy in a boat, traveling down a river, catching fish from the side, when he came upon two figures, walking along the banks of the river.
The dust of shattered stars hung heavy on the air and in his soul. He glanced up towards the unforgiving heavens and their unfeeling ruler, the sun. He pondered subconsciously how something so hot could be so cold. He looked down at his broken feet, bare, bruised, and bloodied red from miles upon miles of fruitless pilgrimage. His blood had been golden once, a remnant of a different time in his life. But now even that was gone, replaced with the crimson red of the dirt and the brutal sun overhead.
And if the terrors of the night
Come creeping into your days
And the world comes stealing children from your room
Guard your innocence from hallucination
And know that darkness always gathers around the light
It was one of those long London summers in 1899, and I was spending the morning with Sherlock Holmes breakfasting in our old rooms at 221B Baker Street, a familiar starting point for many of our cases which I have so dutifully chronicled.
i wrote my way out
It’s a dark stage, even for a night like tonight. A glimpse at the hunched over back of a dedicated and focused writer sitting at a desk on the northern wall of the room reveals that he is scribbling something on a piece of paper with his right hand, while keeping his canvas in steady place with his left. He pushes the paper out from under his pen and gets another from the dwindling pile to his left, all in one smooth motion.
the golden edge of opportunity that radiates from behind my retinas
the relentless freedom of a clear night sky
the underlying perseverance of a resonant chord over distant hills
the tragic hope of guilt and innocence
Cold sweat dripped down his forehead as the alarms sounded behind him. He faced a choice he would never even have considered until now. This should not be happening – no one should have to face a choice like this. He pinched his forearm and shook his head, whether trying to clear his mind or wake himself up, he wasn’t sure.