AN: It has been a long time since I have last posted a story. But here, thanks to the constant
support of Norah (GO READ HER STUFF REVIEW SLAVES!) also known as Black Tangled
Heart. She brought me mojo back.
Warnings: Uh yeah, suppose to vague like. And the last three lines are from a comic by Frank
Miller which was in the 9-11: Artist Respond Vol. 1 compilation. Yay.
"Hellfire"
------------------------
Standing near the railing like this, I can see the smoke billowing out from burning planks and sails.
I can smell the cinders and feel the heat as the wood burnt and crackled. The deck is warm, much
like the pyre in front of me, beneath my bare, charred feet.
What had gone wrong.
When did I lose it all?
There is this burning within my chest that reminds me that I am in fact alive. That I survived. This
burning that is very different than the one in front of me, is the reassurance that I do not want to
be feeling.
I should have died.
Orange obliterates any other color that could be seen. Tears flood my lids as I dare not turn my
eyes from what is before me.
From where I am standing, I should be able to see the sky.
But I can't.
I want to find away to bring back yesterday. I want to find away to hope. What kind of Christian
god could allow this to happen? To allow all those lives to be lost. On both sides. What kind of
any god? How are we suppose to hope when faced with the fires of Hell?
My hair is singed at how close the flames came to me. But I could not pull back no matter what.
Awareness beyond the fire, creeps back in. I can see more now, the bright red, the powdered
white, blaring brass. The blue of the sky is still hidden by the veil of thick copious smoke,
however, I know that it is there.
I also am aware of the various pains that fill me, more than just the emotional ones. I can feel it in
my burnt feet, hands, and face. It feels as if the fire that robbed me of my love, also robbed me of
my skin. Scars will mat my arms and calves, creating patchwork patterns across my body.
But I don't care. After ten years of searching for her, she is reduced to ash. The Pearl is dead.
Killed by the determined faith of one dressed in blood.
There is also a heaviness that is felt around my wrists, reminding me that my freedom was taken in
more than one way. My fingers clench together, melted rings clanking, but they cannot pull too
far apart. The one who holds the key stands to my side.
I finally pull my eyes away as the flag begins to burn. I meet Norringtion's eyes, expecting to see
the smug look of victory.
His eyes are not on me. They are on the near by British flag, still crisp on their post. I can see
understanding the green orbs.
I am sick of flags.
I am sick of gods.
For I have seen the power of faith.
support of Norah (GO READ HER STUFF REVIEW SLAVES!) also known as Black Tangled
Heart. She brought me mojo back.
Warnings: Uh yeah, suppose to vague like. And the last three lines are from a comic by Frank
Miller which was in the 9-11: Artist Respond Vol. 1 compilation. Yay.
"Hellfire"
------------------------
Standing near the railing like this, I can see the smoke billowing out from burning planks and sails.
I can smell the cinders and feel the heat as the wood burnt and crackled. The deck is warm, much
like the pyre in front of me, beneath my bare, charred feet.
What had gone wrong.
When did I lose it all?
There is this burning within my chest that reminds me that I am in fact alive. That I survived. This
burning that is very different than the one in front of me, is the reassurance that I do not want to
be feeling.
I should have died.
Orange obliterates any other color that could be seen. Tears flood my lids as I dare not turn my
eyes from what is before me.
From where I am standing, I should be able to see the sky.
But I can't.
I want to find away to bring back yesterday. I want to find away to hope. What kind of Christian
god could allow this to happen? To allow all those lives to be lost. On both sides. What kind of
any god? How are we suppose to hope when faced with the fires of Hell?
My hair is singed at how close the flames came to me. But I could not pull back no matter what.
Awareness beyond the fire, creeps back in. I can see more now, the bright red, the powdered
white, blaring brass. The blue of the sky is still hidden by the veil of thick copious smoke,
however, I know that it is there.
I also am aware of the various pains that fill me, more than just the emotional ones. I can feel it in
my burnt feet, hands, and face. It feels as if the fire that robbed me of my love, also robbed me of
my skin. Scars will mat my arms and calves, creating patchwork patterns across my body.
But I don't care. After ten years of searching for her, she is reduced to ash. The Pearl is dead.
Killed by the determined faith of one dressed in blood.
There is also a heaviness that is felt around my wrists, reminding me that my freedom was taken in
more than one way. My fingers clench together, melted rings clanking, but they cannot pull too
far apart. The one who holds the key stands to my side.
I finally pull my eyes away as the flag begins to burn. I meet Norringtion's eyes, expecting to see
the smug look of victory.
His eyes are not on me. They are on the near by British flag, still crisp on their post. I can see
understanding the green orbs.
I am sick of flags.
I am sick of gods.
For I have seen the power of faith.