Objective: Write a poem or piece of prose in exactly 87 words
The story repeats in predictable fashion. A hopeful soul blazes through the pristine wilderness, searching for his breakthrough discovery. With luck, his reward is exotic birds, diverse species of rare orchids, and unique animals. Excited, he shares the wonder.
Tiny frontier towns sprout in the hinterland to provide the curious with accommodations while they conduct their research. A steady stream marks the beginning of an erosion that culminates in a deluge. In time, they conserve the endangered and priceless treasures in an isolated park of utopian hell.
Be wary, my dear creative friend, when you say you wish to explore the seductive call of the arts. If your conviction is not solid, if your resolve is not resolute, if your ethics are not steadfast, clear, and true, then my advice to you is to run. Run, before it is too late.
Once you dip your brush, your pen, your sword, your soul is forever colored, consumed, altered.
Oblivion lurks at the bottom of a paint can, time becomes malleable, and insignificant thoughts recede.
Art has left me desperate and my car keys have been missing for weeks.
Thirty years ago, Blaze fled to Alaska. The country promised shelter from the rat race in its desolate, raw, and expansive wilderness. Old-timers railed against encroaching civilization and forced curious tourist home. Undeterred, Blaze was desperate and without options.
He would never forget the day he met Kaskae. Saying nothing, their souls remembered the ancient bond, and he knew it set his fate.
Kaskae trained him to be a bush pilot and humanity’s lifeline. At first, it had been easy, but a tiny drip became a deluge. The unfortunate reeked of madness, and despair for which Blaze had no cure.
Reginald heard it before it appeared and checked his watch. The steam engine screeched, the wheels spewed sparks as the engineer braked. Rattling past the platform, cars thundered, slamming into one another. The boiler heaved, exhaling a plume of white-hot breath, and everything stopped.
Reginald imaged it was the reincarnated dragon his ancestor once defeated. He smiled wryly and boarded.
The car rolled, lurched forward, and tumbled him into his usual seat. Gazing out the window, he reached towards the ruins of his family’s past glory. He swore he would become the newest titan, a man worthy of his legacy.
Novak had seen the end. He told everyone who would listen. For his trouble, they labeled him a lunatic, certifiable. He painted pictures, but he couldn’t force them to see. They were lost.
He had been like them, paralyzed with fear, he clung to the familiar, repeating his history in a self-fulfilling destiny. Each day manifested as a poor interpretation of a yesterday which spiraled him into darkness.
Until he gasped for breath. The last flickering spark screamed from the deathbed. He was alive, this wasn’t his swan song. Daring greatly, he released his past to create a new future.