Cold hard heart

it was,

cold and solid set

in me . . .

and frozen it was,

with no rest,

this very morning

as i went about,

here and there,

body hard and tense,

the toil

the pain

no place

no time

to rest

upsetting pace

at each turn

to face

yet another

chore

and test

to overcome

yet trip and fall

i did

to pull and rip

of my weary heart

to the boggling

seeming endless

routines vain

repeat refrain

myriad pains

. . .

. . . and then subtly,

with no sudden notice,

like a child's hand,

as with a prodigy,

he touching ivory keys

white and black

piano's voice

in the spirit wind,

faintly,

i heard,

in my heart

at first,

in its strings

as it were,

in its blood filled beats,

slightly tugging

ever so gently,

like the wisp of a breath

. . . it moved into my veins

and then my mind

into my very soul

the tone of this

a child's piano keys,

every so beautifully played,

its wordless song,

perfectly tuned and timed,

oh so divine,

the melody's keys tapped

in synchronous symphony,

burst like a star,

and lit my heart back to life

with,

Oh, holy night / / /

. . . i had stumbled

and tumbled,

and grieved,

and pained,

in complaint's

refrains,

despicable plight,

tainted soul,

from world torn . . .

like so many

countless times

countless, i say . . .

/ / /

but,

and now,

to the music,

the tune,

oh , . . .

so divine

oh,

Oh holy night / / /

i went from cynical,

in a moment,

to love, . . .

infused,

divine,

into my blood

into my mind,

to my soul

and made it soar

with sobbing tears

i fell

helpless

into the comforting arms

of invisible love

/ / /

oh, . . .

holy night,

the stars are brightly shining,

it is the night,

of our dear savior's birth,

for yonder breaks

a new and glorious morn'

From snow to stone, from joggers to carpet floors Lydia came to the location on her ramshackle tracker.

Throwing open the door she found splatters of paint everywhere, chairs overturned with broken off legs, and the balcony door wide open.

Lava cascaded down her veins, slow and ominous.

Walking into the apartment she nearly walked into the one tired witness to this whole mess.

The friend she'd desperately tried to find.

Cradling him in her arms she made note of the blue punctures.

He hissed something, his eyes switching from his own blue to a lava color with slit pupils.

Torbin, one of the most Wanted men across the region. Had he been more ambitious-- possibly had a better more malleable power-- he'd perhaps be among the most sought after men in the nation.

Yet as it stood, he currently crawled about in the grimy filth of human excrement and the vile dirt off their bodies.

A debasing fate.

And the best part?

Heroes always went on and on about how their power lay in their relationships, their love for others-- of a too large and too selfish humanity-- in empathy and in trust.

Friendship. Family.

Well he had trusted only one man in his life.

A second time, Torbin had even permitted himself to develop affections for one young man.

But that young man, for all his bluster-- one that reminded him of himself-- turned out to be so truly weak and soft-hearted, that it had been easy for the devil at his shoulder to make him a toy. No, more like the weapon he'd so delicately pruned and groomed to his own designs.

Torbin, had meant to produce a viable heir. A person in his own right, carrying on chaos on his terms but by Torbin's own grace.

But his brother, smarter and snobbish Frederick who'd never deign to get his hands dirty, Frederick had wanted an object. A destructive object whom he could control and violate their memory however necessary to point them and allow themselves to be shot at the target of his desire.

For his brother had had no anger, no envy nor greed. He had no love or joy inside him either. Frederick from the very start had had nothing inside him at all. Simply the wanton need to dominate and to hold power.

For which Torbin (who now tsked at thinking back) had been quite the useful object. The accessory to achieve the destruction and rebuild that Frederick so took cold contentment from.

He had trusted his brother, he had wished to preserve his heir despite his wavering heart-- who had dared to look upon him with fear!-- and his reward had been his manor crumbling to the ground in front of him. Forced to his knees in sheer despair.

Powers remanded inside himself to near destruction his only option then had been retreat.

Torbin lifted his hand from his chest.

Where the bits left of the device once strapped and interweaved into his flesh crackled and spurted blue-white lightning.

If he didn't find someone, anyone to fix it, he would leave this life in a blazing pillar of lightning and release who knew what, razing the world with him.

But he would never see the look of agony on Frederick's face.

Should he die, it would be when he and Frederick killed each other.

Rarely viewed as the villain

Until, of course, the victims

realize it really is

Time gives us an opportunity

try everything

once

Time gives us the chance to

succeed

as often as we want

So, how is Time the villain?

Time is insidious

Gradually eroding

Our body

Our mind

Our hopes and dreams

Time permits a young mind

To explore the infinite

Before realizing he does not have the infinite

Time displays a myriad of choices

Then slowly closes each of them

Before we know they were even possible

Time is the giver of what we do not take

Time is the choice we do not choose

Time is the laughter we hear when we fail

So we hope to warn others

About what Time did to us

But they fail to listen as we failed to listen

Time then gives up on us

As we gave up on it

Once becomes once more

Not with the old man

But with his grandson

All we can do is watch the inevitable

Since Time cannot fail

That is its sole weakness

Time can never evolve

Ironically captured in its own loop

Time repeats ad infinitum

Garnering no accolades in the process

We, on the other hand

Achieve and fail

remembering both

Time presents as an ally

Pitied by the wiser mind

Feared by the man on the cusp of life

We can beat Time at its own game

Or die trying

I like my odds in this fight

Seriously? You want to know my user experience with life? My answers to sixty multiple choice questions? On a seven point scale, was life annoying versus enjoyable? Complicated versus easy?

And you say you're really a programmer? And we're living in a computer simulation? Why couldn't you have let us know that? Do you like driving folks insane? Shit!

Huh? Things you got right? Yeah, a few come to mind... Rambunctious puppies. Homegrown tomatoes. And Schubert's music, moonlight through branches, the transcendent feeling of being in love...

Did those things make life worthwhile?

Worthwhile?! Well... Yeah... I suppose they did.

Dear Diary,

“No AI.” “Only truly creative types allowed.” “AI is a fraud.”

I encountered all three hurtful statements today. Can you believe that people would deliberately target me with painful insults?

It began with a blanket email I received this morning from my so-called friend. He asked me and three other guys if one of us would consider being his best man for his upcoming wedding. He added that his bestie had to deliver a humorous speech about our relationship, but added, “Make it from the heart. No AI.” How dare he? Why did he feel the need to humiliate me in this email string?

Later, I read the guidelines for a writing contest I wanted to enter. This one said, “Only truly creative types allowed. No machine-generated entries.” I can see good uses for such artificial writing such as helping with computer tasks and writing boilerplate language, but not for a writing contest. Your own writing ability must shine through. But why did they have to zing me by adding “no AI”?

But the most spiteful reference came in the evening when I saw that a Facebook friend posted that I am a fraud!

Have a good night, my diary. I won’t.

Sincerely,

Andrew Irwin

When latte goes down

sunset like lava

like when it comes

right back bottom up

and sits us on the cold

chair in some office

where it snows deep

inside behind the eyes

and we must sport

glasses for the blue

light that reflects

out from us, smart

and artificial as some

vomit on the carpet

the colors of paint

that jog the memory

of when we were 3

12.04.2024

Mirrors

at the banks

we're counting sand

counting by the bag

Some call it sport

and say it's good

for the mussels

that surface

then like bags

under the eyes

in morning light

ready for us

old birds to pluck

in a clear yule tide broth.

"How many shells, Artie,

have you got?"

"Just enough, Debra."

"For a necklace?"

"No, an anklet."

"It'll do..."

and we shuffle

to the safe

cause the crossfire

is fast setting

in, in Twilight

"Well, well what do

we have here?"

says the teller

and we know

we can't cheat

the central clock

"This is all we've got,"

setting our bags

on the counter

Artie wipes

our glasses down

and we peer

at our loss

"It's been a good time."

"Aye Debra, it has."

11.25.2024

Word Challenge @Knox