I dreamt that the world opened up, and I was swallowed down its fiery throat.

I melted slowly in its bloody flames.

I waited to be born again,

and once I was, I waited even longer for you.

You and I were bound in fresh new skin

with crystal clear veins running like streams to a purified cognizance.

You were a new bloom of fleshed terrain,

and I yearned to flower into you with fervor.

I dreamt that we united in a fog of innocence

where I was amidst your warmth,

yet still chilled by my past as mindless magma,

walled away from freedom, and thousands of feet below you.

I dreaded the future even in your presence,

immune to the safety of your flesh between me and mine between yours.

I awaited the winter of our meet

when our bodies would wilt, and the petals of us would fall.

My dread would reach its end, the means etched into my soul.

Despite the trauma, I’ll realize the tragedy of the earth’s close.

I’ll yearn for the nightmare that was its bellowing flames.

I’ll wait for my rebirth and its accompanying pain.

Until then, I am just half of our whole.

We claim to fear life

And the way it cuts like a knife,

We fear

The pain

And say it hurts

Like the thing under our shirts

That beats

Each second

And stings like the burn

Of a red branding iron

We fear

Our hearts

That they might reveal

The lie we’ve tried to conceal,

But it

Always shows

And it hurts so much

For reasons we can’t quite touch,

We fear

The truth

That sets us free

When we don’t want to be

It’s Like

We're trapped

Inside our own cage,

Wallowing in pointless rage,

We fear

Our fear

The things women carry, can also become unintentionally beautiful. Eliza Cortez carried the unintended weight of the bags under her eyes. She knew she had to walk the streets night after night to feed the young souls she had brought to life. She carried condoms alongside her 9mm, Glock 19, to keep herself alive. It was a burdensome life. But she found solace when she left him and the constant beatings behind. She carried herself with pride when assholes drove by, yelling, and whistling goodbye. She carried red lipstick: Dior 999. In some ways more than not she had died. The woman who froze at the sight of his fists disappeared, November 29th, 2009. The woman who carried full coverage camouflage foundation: Revolution Pro F4. The woman who carried: Prada PR 16US Heritage sunglasses on days with no sun, was long gone. The one who signed a prenup because she thought she was in love—she too, had since preferred her peace of mind. That cloudy November night, she overheard her husbands’ chuckles, and she picked up the phone.

“She’s a dumb whore, no, wait baby, I only love you.”

Eliza carefully hung up the phone, and tiptoed down stairs. She went into the kitchen

and retrieved a knife from the drawer. She carried in her mind: the satisfaction of slashing his throat from left to right, of driving the knife deep, and with enough force to puncture his heart—and of the beautiful art she created on the walls.

Boom. Boom.

She could feel her heart in her ears. Her chest was shrinking with every breath that passed her lips, one moment her skin would be too sheer to hold her bones. She bolted down the road. A mixture of sweat and tears, drop by drop, streamed down her face. There was no cloud above, but the sting in her chest felt like a flood. Her feet were bleeding and blistered from the concrete. Her eyes didn't bother blinking.

She must make it to that cottage.

The warning had rung out early that morning, while she was getting out of the shower. Her phone vibrated from the notification and fallen from her bedside table. She tripped over the floor to pick it up. When the threat flashed, she felt thunder erupt. This was what she had feared. Every second was late. Her instinct arrived. She sprinted out of the house.

She kept repeating to herself "It's too late", but her optimism kept her going. Hope, logic, reason dripped out like a funnel. She ridiculed herself. She could not be stopped.

The cottage appeared, crumbling, a cruel grey tone. She burst threw the door. Inside, the small rooms were overwhelmingly cluttered, papers scattered on all the furniture. She saw a red stain on them. Some storm had powered through the home; she knew him.

When she made it to the back porch, she saw him. Blood like rain tracing down his bruised back, his hair messed and knotted, a gun in his hand. Sensing her, he turned, his eyes wide from terrors he would kill to un-see. They focused on her, black orbs piercing into her.

For a moment, he smiled. A smile of relief. She un-tensed her shoulders and began to walk towards him. He raised his arm.

Boom.

The pounding in my head is almost like a metronome. It continues rhythmically over and over until the ringing in my ears sets the only tone I can hear. Voices around me fade and faces start to blur. It becomes a pixelated slow-motion show and I have become an observer. I no longer exist, but I'm watching from the sidelines as images that now are unclear frantically dart around. The chaos distorts my mind in an act of protection until my brain can process what is before me and start to catch up.

My heart rate slows, and I can feel each breath fill the lungs in my chest. In that moment it all comes into view.

So clear, so fast and loud. It is almost deafening to rejoin the mess before me.

Just as quickly as my world went slow and silent, it sped back up with the volume on full blast. I am then thrown into the action and moving right along with the pace. The fight or flight phase my sympathetic nervous system engaged has once again come and gone. Leaving me to fight my way through another tragedy that I get to call my job.

You're stripes, by the way. Of course, you'd know that if you hadn't scattered all forty-two of your brain cells in a flood of channel surfing. That does it! I'm warning you, Bingham, surrender that bloody remote or I swear I'll bounce this billiard ball off your noggin and drop you where you stand! It's no pishy threat, mate--you've changed the station at least twelve times in the last two minutes, now pick one so we'll all be right as rain and funnel your arse over here; it's your shot! I'm gonna storm the scullery for some haggis and oatcakes--I'll be having a double sampling, too, so you're not the only one clapping thunder and leaving a cloud of stink everywhere you go. Don't think I don't know it's you, mate. You'll need a shower and clean skids if you keep it up--never get a good woman that way, I can tell you. The cooking channel?! Thanks for putting in the effort, mate. Hey, Green! Figure a way to bolt that tellie remote to the ceiling and we'll see if Bingham's head explodes!

theprose.com/post/644326

The sky was polite after light was made and let the land go first on the fateful day that color was assigned.

Land chose green and yellow and tried out pink but ended on brown gray green and white and the sky thought she'd get her chance after that. But then Land thought that it should have more options, considering its vast range of formations from sand to clay to dirt.

"I should get all the colors cause I'm all of earth!"

The sky was unsure what to say but then it didn't have to as the late third aspect trickled in and gushed,

"What are you on about? That is simply untrue! I'm definitely bigger and I decide you!"

Water had seeped onto the scene and it wasn't having earth's greedy color scheme.

In those days water was one giant mass and all of earth's land was a single land mass formed of all the dry earth and arguably it took up a little under half of earth's surface that the sky could see. Water was larger and land didn't know as both their views were limited to the space where they dwelled, but the sky had a Birdseye view and could tell that what earth claimed was simply untrue. So it agreed with water and it was earth against the tw.

"Actually there is more of water and less of you." The sky softly stated.

Water heated now stewed and somewhat agitated said,"see land, you aren't the earth wholy."

Land was quiet a moment as it wanted to be hard headed, boldly stubborn with its head full of rocks.

Water was impatient and would be damned before it stopped from interrupting the ground and it rushed rapidly to say,"Fine, you keep all the colors you've already claimed and Sky and I will Get Blue but twice a day you have to share with the sky the full range of the rainbow. To time it... lets make it sun rise and sunset."

The land confused cracked,"That's

more like it; but it leaves you with only blue, what a sucker you are to take only one hue!"

At this water waved and almost aloof ,"That's the thing land, you've made of me an enemy. For the fact that you fibbed i now seek to conquer you. From now on I will divide you down to a few pebbles. The sky is my witness I'll erode you to rubble and then you'll know earth's natural way."

And from that moment forward up to this modern day that is exactly what water has done.

Every river, each lake, or creek, stream, or spray from a gizer or hot spring, down to glaciers melting is all simple the water having not withdrawln its threat, or "promise.

The sky also assists by carrying stratus and cumulus, and all types of clouds to rain over the dry ground.

This old rivalry is no fairy tale cause even now we can see the comraderie of the two elements. How they are still teamed up to this day; and how they have peacefully shared blue ever since.

The End

This tale is not about why the sky is blue, for that is the true myth; that the sky is blue. It is not.This is the story about how the sky came to be called blue.

Civilization (as opposed to yet-to-be-civilized cultures who just have words for light and dark, as they should) has come to accept the assertion that the sky is blue (and that heaven is somewhere in the ether - also a myth.) But it is blue in the same way colorful pieces of paper have value in exchange for goods and services, or sparkly pieces of hard rock are precious and priceless: collectively, we make it so.

Why? Because the reality is terrifying. If we saw what was really there, the challenge of living would be a near impossible undertaking. As it might have been for the ones who came before the Bluing if it were not for the Wise Ones.

Once upon a time, the Earth was young, and life upon it was new. As was death. But as the millenia passed the crystal clear view of all that is above us - the moon, the stars, our Sun, began to change. It gradually became more opaque, but the change was so slow it was unmarked by those who roamed the Earth. Until a little known stargazer, Melatonym son of Sunit, noticed something unusual about the growing haze present even when clouds were absent. It hummed. Or, as he described it, it moaned such a sound of utter despair as he'd never heard.

He took his concerns to Teacher, an Elder who was also one of the Wise ones.

"Teacher, there is something wrong with the sky. I fear the gods are sad or angry. I hear such sounds of grief and anguish when I lay on the hill to gaze upon the stars at night."

"It is only the wind."

"Perhaps, but usually the wind howls like the beasts; it does not moan and weep."

"Your imagination is wild like the birds, Melatonym. Calm yourself. I will join you in your stargazing this eve and name the beast for you."

And thus it was that the Wise became aware.

Teacher and Melatonym climbed the nearby hill and lay upon the ground to study the stars and listen to the voices of the night.

"Teacher, do you hear that?"

Teacher was silent for he not only heard, he saw, and what he saw turned his blood to ice.

"Teacher?"

Teacher stood and reached out a hand to Melatonym. "As I thought, it is but a wolf weeping the loss of her cubs."

"What of the haze?"

Teacher looked up. "Wisps of cloud. Nothing more." Patting Melatonym on the shoulder he said, "Look!See how brilliantly the red star shines tonight."

Lost in admiration of the stars he loved, Melatonym remained oblivious to Teacher's unease.

A council of Elders was held within three sunrises.

"I have news."

There was murmuring amongst the nine.

"Have any of you noticed the sky is losing the clarity to which we are accustomed? Not the clouds that bring coolness when the sun's rays burn, and water that gives life to the fields. Something...new."

"Is it not just wisps of clouds?"

There were nods of agreement.

"Come with me this night and you will understand."

And so it was.

"It cannot be!" Each elder exclaimed in a horrified whisper.

"But it is," replied Teacher.

"We must petition the gods; this cannot continue."

"Men will become crazed when they realize..."

"Do not speak of it here! Words have power," said Teacher.

The Elders descended the hill in silence and walked without hesitation to the Cave of Prayer where they lit torches to light the way to the Room of Glass and Flame. Placing the torches in holes carved into the walls for that purpose, they sat upon the warm stone glass floor, heated by sources hidden from men's eyes.

Teacher looked around the circle. "We must seek proof before taking action."

"In your respective regions, seek to witness the death of innocents as well as the death of old men. Particularly, seek those with reputations as evil doers." He paused, glancing around the circle.

"Breathe not a whisper to your acolytes, nor, and especially, to the ignorant who seek your wisdom and guidance. We must confirm our suspicions. Then, we will act."

Bowing their heads, they began to chant as one, invoking the support of the deities in their quest for truth and beseeching them to guide their subsequent efforts.

"We will meet here at the next full moon."

Several sunrises later, Teacher was called to the home of Myria, daughter of Feelan, wife of Daggart. Daggart, a wealthy merchant, wanted Teacher to witness the birth and bestow blessings on his newborn child. Thus it was that Teacher was present for the first and last breath of the unnamed infant. As well as of the Lyssia the Birther, beheaded by Daggart, as was his right, for failure to ensure the infant's safe passage into the world. And of Myria, also beheaded by Daggart for having delivered her third child unable to survive one circle of the Sun.

In a matter of moments, Teacher's hypothesis was proven. He left Daggart to deal with his dead and walked to the hill to weep.

At the next full moon, the Council of Elders met in the Room of Glass and Flame.

"Is there any among you who has not seen the truth with his own eyes?" Teacher's question was met with unanimous, silent shaking of heads.

"How could the teachings have been so wrong?" said one.

"How could the gods be so unkind?" said another.

"It is not our place to question the gods," replied Teacher in a firm but quiet voice. "And who are we to wonder why the essence of an innocent life is not lifted to the stars but rather sinks back into the Earth?

"Indeed, is it not better for that which is good to become one again with the very life of life?

"And would not being suspended forever between the Earth where we lived and the stars we once thought our glorious eternal resting place be as awful a hell as the one we believed in the depths of the Earth?"

Teacher's assertions were met with disconsolate silence.

"I have spoken with the gods."

Eyes looked at him with hope.

"A great rain will come. Clouds will cover the Earth from one full Moon to the next. When they at last dissipate, the sky will look as the sea. It will be a miracle as never before seen. No longer will there be the danger of one such as Melatonym seeing the shadows of the dead nor hearing their cries. None will know that heaven is here on Earth while hell watches from the sky.

"It will be called the Bluing." He paused, briefly looking each Elder in the eye.

"We must prepare those who look to us for guidance. We must tell them that the gods are planning a great cleansing but that it will end in a great gift for us.

"The sun will have an even more beautiful setting in which to shine. It will be called the gift of Blue."

But it isn't blue. That is just what men have been told; what children believe. What the Elders said to save the world from seeing the spirits of the dead hovering above them, unable to escape the confines of Earth.

As hundreds became thousands then, millions then billions, the descendants of Melatonym have become aware once again of the hum of despair coming from the sky...that isn't blue.

“Jump, Keegan!” yelled Delma.

He hesitated. He could not swim, but he wanted to keep the plane from its perceived watery fate, so he began to back up, preparing himself for the plunge.

Continuing to hesitate, he threw down his shield, thinking it would not help him stay afloat. He breathed deep.

“Poseidon, have mercy.” Then he ran and jumped.

Boom!

Sharply and suddenly, he was blasted out of the air by a burst of electricity to the chest. He shot back through the doorway, across the width of the airplane, and slammed into the door on the opposite side, knocking it square off its hinges with the force of his impact. His outspread arms and legs were now embedded in the doorframe, having stopped him from falling out of the other side, into the sea. Just then, the demigod that struck him appeared in the doorway.

“Son of Hades.”

Coming to, Keegan grimaced at the title.

“Time to die.”

He lifted his sword as the clouds above the craft began to glow

with a violent dance of electricity.

With amazing speed, the blast leapt from the sky, through

the open door at his back, and into the demigod. Then it went out through the sword, causing it to glow brightly pale-yellow.

Boom!

But timing it as best he could, Keegan tossed his arm out from the doorframe, across the width of his body, allowing the shot to just graze the shoulder of his tunic.

The blinded and deafened passengers panicked in their seats.

Boom!

Keegan freed his other arm, narrowly dodging another blast. He grunted out his forceful exhales, for the speed at which he moved greatly stressed his body.

The demigod had grown tired of his target’s good fortune. He fired a third blast, faster in succession than the last two.

Boom!

With a leap, Keegan freed his heels from the doorframe, swiftly rolled onto his shield, seized it, and defended himself as the demigod fired another blast.

Boom!

Keegan slid back under the force of the demigod’s mythical lightning. He regained his footing with the moment he had before the demigod continued his onslaught.

He fired a blast.

boom!

Then another.

Boom!

And another.

Boom!

And another.

Boom!

Keegan heard only ringing in his ears now.

Boom!

But he continued to hold his ground under the barrage of lightning strikes.

The blasts were bouncing off his shield, striking the inside of the airplane, creating scorch marks on metal, setting the things that could catch fire ablaze, hitting passengers, killing them instantly.

Boom!

As Keegan fought to regain his focus, he noticed a moment’s pause in the demigod’s assault.

Boom!

And then he seized the opportunity. He stood erect swiftly, like a man quickened, dashing forward. He spun to the inside of the blast, knocking his attacker’s arm outward with his shield causing the lightning strike to hit the inside of the cabin—boom!—and then finished with a devastating blow to the belly.

The demigod went soaring under the force of the blow toward the front of the airplane at a slight upward angle then burst through the top of the cabin, out into the open air.

In his triumphant respite, Keegan noticed the hiss of heated metal. He looked around and saw that smoke was coming from his reddened shield and frantically began blowing and fanning it to cool it off.

Prisms glisten

with the new hue

of integrity,

capturing compliances

ferocious mannerism.

Totality gleams

with wide eyed teeth.

The warrior

that looks within

glares back,

condemning perseverance

into the void.

Breathe your truth,

couture your freedom.