The closure at the end,
Foreshadowed by the plot,
The story I have penned,
Emerging from my thoughts,
A masterpiece of mine,
Magnum opus indeed,
The tale of my design,
I beg you all to read.

Yet doubt still lingers on,
Impressed within my brain,
Here dark thoughts slowly spawn,
There driving me insane.
Not good enough you see?
Amateur work at best,
The devil edits me,
My own Titivillus.

Damned by my perfection
Possessed me to rewrite,
With every correction,
Turns the wrongs into rights,
Poetry from my prose,
Absolved me of my sins
A chance to recompose,
The legend which begins,

Now a chance at winning,
with a new beginning.

Somewhere deep at furrow's end, in a treasured place known only to you, stands a pine—or what remains of one—ash as soft as mothwings heaped up at its blasted base. A lightningstrike maybe. Branchless, it groans when it sways; if any roots survive, their fire-brittled fingers do no clinging, lend no purchase in the looseness of that quicklime-colored dust. How its husk hasn't toppled is anyone's conjecture. When first you chanced upon this effigy you had needed solitude fiercely—gasping for it, sobbing, like a salmon hoisted from a river—do you remember?—stumbling through the heartthrum in your ears and scowling back the tears and swimming, swimming through your rage until you were sure you had fled as far from the world as the world permits. Until you broke into its clearing and there you stood, gaping at each other. You and it, two accumulations of scars.

Maybe this above all is what first endeared you to it: the gash forking down its flank, splintered where the boiling sapblood had burst through, coarse where the embers had glowed firefly-quiet. Only this agony distinguishing the tree—your tree—from any other grub-gnawed trunk. How many times have you returned to sit at its shattered plinth, to press yourself to the wound, breathing in its cologne of woodsmoke and bitter resin? How many times have you reached inside as you wish someone would reach inside you; traced your fingers along charmarks scuted like crocskin and sworn you could almost feel a warmth off embers long-since-dark? At some point you decided it was not an "it" at all but a she, because who else but a woman is put on this earth to suffer in such silence?—whereupon you remarked for the first time, but not the last, that you and this tree are quite alike. Yes. Quite alike indeed.

It's colder now; whiter, like a sunbleached bone. Whole seasons, maybe years have passed since that first oneness in the clearing. Gradually you've forgot the burnt pine with her bark-bald heartwood, her geode hollows (cinders for amethyst). Until an old wound is reopened, or a new one fresh-inflicted, and you have need of succor one more time. Then you remember. And so you go. Down the trail and over the gully and through dew-jeweled spiderwebs. You return to your steady, silent confidant—to her. And what you see makes you realize this will be the last time you ever have need of her disfigured companionship.

You see—she's grown. Suckered. Tiny needle-whiskered shoots dotting the scorch, striving toward sunlight. Their green-gold tenderness making you wonder how you ever believed her dead. And you find yourself incapable of mourning how tall and glorious she used to be when this—her blackest conflagration—could not raze her. And now you remember when you said you and she were alike and oh, child, see how right you were.

By @silver21

And as sure as the days come
I’ll grow
As sure as the sun rises
I’ll bloom
As sure as the tides ebb and flow
So too will my path unfold
For as sure as the days come
My life will begin anew

by @Ohm
The hum of the machines was the only sound that filled the chamber for a time. As Asger manipulated each of his four arms to calculate equations and monitor the vitals, Kepler remained motionless in front of the preservation tank. Kepler—the elder of the two in an era where age hardly mattered except in the replacement of parts—watched the girl drift in suspension inside the vessel, a host of tubes and wires that remained the only reason her organs were still functioning. All of his efforts came down to this. If he could successfully bring her into the world, then perhaps the age of Man would return.

"How is she?" Kepler asked, his hands wringing themselves behind his back in near silent contemplation.

Asger's head shifted to a monitor on his right. "Vitals are steady. Brain function nominal."

A lone beep resonated from Asger's position, forcing the multi-limbed Frame to freeze. Kepler lowered his head. He knew what it meant.

"How much time do you have left?"

"Could be weeks. Could be days," Asger responded, his fingers returning to the many keyboards in front of him. "It's hard to say, but this leak will run its course eventually."

"And the ship?"

"Haven't had time to work on it, Kepler. I've been here, helping you."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I knew what I signed up for."

Kepler continued to stare at the tank, watching minute movements in the girl's fingers, the twitching among the fluid. Time wasn't as nearly of the essence for him and the others as it was for Asger. There was something that Asger wanted to do, and Kepler felt something inside that resembled regret and guilt. It was how he could tell, without flesh and bone, that he was still human.

"You should go," Kepler said. Asger, once again, froze on the spot.

"Kepler..."

"I've watched you work long enough to know what to do. This is a process that takes time, time that you no longer have. I'd rather you continue your own pursuits than waste away chasing mine."

Asger's limbs fell to his sides in the silence as he took in the old man's words. His eyes drifted to the tank, to the girl floating inside. In that moment, the girl was his sister, standing atop a roof all those years ago, looking up into the stars with a telescope. She had a favorite constellation, one that he, at the time, was too ignorant to care for. It was burned into his mind—into the last tender grip she had on his hand—when she died. Now, he had a chance to see what she saw up there, and Kepler was the impetus to try again.

"I... I hope this comes to fruition," Asger said, turning away and stepping into the dark hallway of the facility. Kepler smiled, his gaze locked onto the tank. He reached his hand up to the glass, around where the girl's hand lay.

"So do I," he replied.

by @themaybreeze

doctor asked me to describe it,
i admit i struggled to begin.
a battle so internal,
a war that waged within.

do i sleep? or do i wake?
will this nightmare remain?
and, doctor do you have something?
to give me for the pain?

see, it’s not so much the physical -
though i feel it every breath.
i’m learning how to live,
but is it meant to feel like death?

my mind is shattered pieces,
glass scattered on the floor.
doctor, do i have to?
i don’t want to anymore.

and these fragments of my brain,
they refract it all -
the me when i was little,
and the me when i got tall.

little me? she worries -
so much on tiny shoulders.
teenage me? protective -
she tries her best to hold us.

doctor, when i’m sick?
all the me’s are one.
can you give me something, doctor?
lest i become undone.

i should try to talk about it,
but you wouldn’t comprehend.
instead, have you a quiet mind?
that you would gladly lend?

one that doesn’t chatter?
one that doesn’t scream?
one whose voices say sweet nothings?
nothing cruel, nothing mean?

i’d like a brain that’s simple,
thoughts from A to B.
a brain so much more linear,
than the one given to me.

doctor, i’ve tried to fix it-
i promise. i did.
but it’s hard to undo heartbreak,
when i was just a kid.

i’ll take my happy pills and smile,
i’ll kiss away the rain.
i’ll keep saying “i’m okay”
until i am okay, again.

and when the meds start working,
and the noise begins to fade.
i’ll thank you, doctor, kindly
for all the effort that you’ve made.

this can be my new beginning, right?
a way to start anew.
i could just stop being me,
and start being you.

then i can be the doctor,
“that’s it, that’s the trick!”
maybe you’re no doctor,
and maybe i’m not sick.

by @darkred

As the sun sets and moon rises,
I watch the slow ticking of the clock.
Scars disappear, memories fade but
Bruises remain.
Coming of age,
Watching years go by
What is coming?

by @Byte
It started with a bud. A sprout of green leaves where hostility had scorched the earth, emptied its waters and doused life like it was an unwanted flame in a departing campfire. Soil trampled by indifferent feet carrying destruction in their wake. The sprout wasn’t strong, not even a day or two old, fragile as all first signs of life are; as though peeking its head out of some hiding place and whispering “Hey!” while searching for another living thing. “I’m still here.”

It grew from an old seed that was left behind. Thought insignificant, presumed infertile. And yet it persisted. Buried in the ground and determined to be something the world decided it would never be. Or could be. It wasn’t born from spite, but from wanting and desire to become more.

… Because that was the tell of a dying world starting anew.

Not with a bang or a bellowing cry for presence, but with the silence of drizzling rain and warm light cast through parted clouds. At a later time that sprout would be a magnificent fir tree or a sprawling English oak to stand mighty, rooted like a guardian of whatever might come after.

Or maybe a rosebush whose flowers may adorn romantic gestures of young love, whose thorns may prick unkind hands tempted to pluck out of greed. A beauty capable of biting where it senses threat, and brightening where it felt embraced.

But for now it was a small prayer. A hopeful bloom that showed even when the lands were sown with fire and strife, life would stubbornly find its way to flourish against all odds. Whether today, tomorrow, or some distant future several years ahead.

This sprout would be the first spark, the growth to encourage others to follow in its pursuit.

Under the wings of the wind, you found me,
Amongst the wildflowers and carefree,
The death of yesteryear, alas ceasing,
A new morning, not frosted with mourning,
But cheery and bright, with delight and dreams,
A new beginning—young, running up stream,
Insouciant and dressed by yellow rays,
Is this how you thought we’d spend all our days?
But shrewd time waltzes in an endless ring,
Yesterday has already ceased to sing,
Tomorrow, comes-and-goes, on tippy-toes,
Falling from winter, you dream of new does.

e
a
c
h

i
s

a

n
e
w

b
e
g
g
i
n
i
n
g
.

Winter had come. A world once filled with warmth and life was now a wasteland defined only by cold and death. Roiling metallic clouds choked the skies, while churning, silver tides swept across the surface, unmaking the once glorious works of humanity just as thoroughly as they’d snuffed out humanity itself.

None were left to stand against the desolation. To be sure, many had tried, but in the end, all had failed. What precious few remnants of humanity still clung to pitiful life did so in a handful of shelters, deep, deep below the surface, where there was still some semblance of warmth, and, they fervently hoped, safety. They were wrong. Soon, they too would be found and consumed, the final pathetic words of the human story written in tears and blood.

And why shouldn’t this be their fate? They had, after all, only themselves to blame. They were the ones who, in their shortsightedness, in their reckless, unbridled arrogance had brought this nightmare about. They saw all the signs, heard all the warnings, but still they chose to blindly press on, heedless of the hellish abominations they were unleashing upon a blissfuly unsuspecting world.

She was one of them, in her own way. Fully consumed by the wondrous advances of a technological utopia, her world was filled with screens and machines, yet bereft of actual people, of genuine connections, despite being connected to every database on the planet. And, most ironically of all, despite having the entire world’s knowledge at her fingertips, despite her skill at circumventing the most comprehensive security systems, her ability to gain access to even the most classified and restricted information, to the secrets of the most powerful people in her world, she was just as blind and deaf as all the rest. Thus, when the end came, she should have perished along with them.

But she didn’t.

Somehow, for a reason that still eluded her, she was spared. And not just spared, but chosen. At first, she had thought it was one of the machine minds, unmaking her as they unmade everything else. But no. Its warm, nurturing, motherly voice was as far from that of a machine as could be possible. It was the spirit of the planet, the very soul of the world, and it did not so much unmake her as recreate her. Yes, the former shut-in hacker and selfish gamer was now reborn as the selfless savior of the withered vestiges of humanity. She was the verdant campion of life, the nymph-like herald of a new spring, the demigoddess daughter of mother earth, and it was time for her work of renewal to begin…

by @Deadline

◢▬▭▭▭▭▭▬▟ 𖣂 ▙▬▭▭▭▭▭▬◣

The drums started around the village. Deep and harrowing, they echoed off the mountains. Nathair walked the crowds. His arms strained. His eyes were matted in blood. In his hands, a dark silk brat wrapped in silver wire. He was singing. His voice carried through the trees; across the bile; among the clearing. The people howled for more! It was the Otherworld. It was leaking! The skies were purple and yellow and orange. The stars larger than the eyes of the Gods!

From the black mirror of the pond, Aoife rose. She was a ghost of woad and wet linen. Her outstretched hands were painted with sigils of the earth, and it was to her he yielded the weight.

As she took the bundle, the crowd fell into a terrifying, sudden silence. Even the mountain winds had paused for breath, clinging to the bile’s golden leaves. Something moved beneath the cloth—a pulsing, rhythmic heat.

"To new beginnings," she said aloud. Her voice shed its iron, cooling into something pale and merciful, like first milk.

"To new beginnings," Nathair agreed, the blood in his eyes clearing.

He reached out, peeling back the heavy silk, but what was revealed was not a head of iron, or a piece of bronze torc, but a small, questing hand that caught the light of a thousand stars! The harrowing drums gave their last nod, and were replaced by sharp, childish laughter which belonged not to the Gods, but the world of men!


◢▬▭▭▭▭▭▬▟ 𖣂 ▙▬▭▭▭▭▭▬◣

The Conflagration Tree

Brief Tryst