Ami Lovelace's Blog, page 6

Poem: Bleed Out

Bleed Out

Pain searing, emptiness
Hollow.
muddled veins, ruptured heart
lifeless
soulless
vacant eyes stare through streams of tears, cascades—
waterfalls of glass cut visible scars on flushed cheek
reflection pools of a defiled being
dark torture in the halls of Tartarus
lost. empty soul. deprived.
Shattered heart,
puzzle pieces never again to fit
nerve endings explode, eruptions of electric pain,
shock waves channeled through cavernous tunnels
emotions manifesting in invisible lacerations
Bleed. Bleed.
    —No more!
Hope exsanguinated. Eyes close.
Dead.
Again.



*This poem actually started out as an exercise in stream of consciousness writing, something I was doing to keep myself busy on a return flight to San Francisco from Reno. In beginning as a condensed paragraph of strung-together words, a quick yet heavy hemorrhage of thoughts puddling on paper, the exercise soon found itself morphing into a more stylized presentation and eventually transforming into a structured poem.  I considered Bleed Out to be an appropriate title given the manner in which it was written, as well as the subject matter.

May you always have your own version of a First Aid kit nearby.
~Ami

Content Copyright 2011. Ami Lovelace. All Rights Reserved.

Sliding Doors

At each threshold we come upon, we are presented with a divergence of our path. Do we pummel through the door with no hesitation, or pause for just a moment, sending a ripple through the time chain of events that the hesitation, no matter how brief, may cause? Do we sprint through the station as the conductor announces imminent departure, fervently hoping to squeeze through the closing doors on the Metro, or do we leisurely stroll to the platform, loitering to people watch as we wait for the next train, a decision that very well may drastically alter the experiences in our lives from that moment on.  No matter what we do, there is one truth—life is full of sliding doors, not rotating ones.  We cannot pass through a revolving door only to turn around and go through again, life unchanged. It's in the same way we will never step into the same river twice—the river's location may appear the same, but every other little detail of life will inevitably be altered--your step manipulates the river's currents, even ever so slightly, which in turn move pepples on the river bottom that changes invertebrate habitats that changes bottom food sources and eventually flows up into the apex of the food chain and the river's ecology. It will never be the same river. There is no zero-sum game, no cancellation of one action by another; chemistry and physics indoctrinate us to the idea that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction--well, yes, but this does not mean that we return to our initial starting point. We cannot balance our choices, unmake our decisions. We live, walking ever forward down the halls to which the doors we passed through open.  Our only true disadvantage is that most times, the doors are solid. There is rarely a glass window cut in, or a even a full glass door, that allows us to peek into the hallway, into the next room, through which we would pass, if we ever brought ourselves to turn the knob and push. Still, even if there was a window, some sort of transparency, a sneak preview of what's behind "door number one", it would still only be a snippet of where that hallway may lead.  After all, a hallway has many doors, and if you are, for some fortunate reason, able to see through one door, inevitably you will not see through the next.  So, maybe the opaqueness of a good, solid hardwood door is truly an advantage, a fortunate gift. After all, short-sighted vision can be deceptive and often fails to provide the full scope of the big picture.  We wouldn't sit down and forecast a 5 to 10 year budget (or even a 1-3 year forecast) based on how we spent our money in one single day or even one single month, we look at the whole year, and trends from years leading up to that, broken down of course, but we still consider the entire annual spending to better understand what the needs may be for whatever the future holds.  Ultimately, seeing only a snippet of what's in store down a the path behind door number one could lead to extreme disappointment and heartache, eventhough the immediate track looks promising. Whereas, a path opening up behind door number two, which at first looks bleak and miserable, may eventually lead to sunny meadows, abundant in happiness and success. Though, in seeing only those first dark steps , we might choose to go through the first door, and ultimately set ourselves up for misery or failure rather than achieve our dreams.

Why, do you ask, do I venture down this line of thinking?  Well, because, as the analogy in my previous paragraph may suggest, I was musing the other day on the movie Sliding Doors, starring Gwenyth Paltrow and John Hannah.  Truly, it is one of the most congruous movies in regards to how our lives change, how they alter, with the tiny cause and effect ripples that glide over the surface of life's waters, eventually crescendoing into large waves that either caressingly lap at the shoreline or destroy it, all due to precise moments, missed or seized—decisions, taken or passed over.  Dramatized as it is, the movie drives home a point-- life is made of the little moments, the inconsequential ones that we might not even realize happen or never consider could have an impact down the road. Our paths diverge, form, and wind based on whether or not we make it through those sliding doors.  And, if we had the opportunity to see the full picture, to see what might happen if we powered through or paused, what decision would we make?  For one, I find myself just entering the lobby of the station, do I choose now to run, sprint with all my energy to squeeze through the closing doors of the metro, or do I go off for coffee, read a newspaper, enjoy the moment and relax, knowing there will eventually be another train to take me on my way? 

Either way, I wouldn't mind bumping into John Hannah. J

Content Copyright 2010. Ami Lovelace. All Rights Reserved.

Happy Holidays: How Low Can You Go?

Going home for the holidays is always a mixed bag of emotions.  It's nice to see the relatives, suck in the air of the town that helped you grow, sharpen your wits and your tongue with good old family banter, but its inevitable--there's always that one person you dread seeing, that one specific topic of conversation you'd give your life to avoid, that one day too long you wind up staying, and that not-so-comfortable, not-so-private air mattress you try to get some rest on.  Well, this year wasn't the normal flood of family faux pas.  In fact, aside from my twenty-five year old brother nagging me about how me and my current boyfriend better get cracking on delivering him nieces and nephews (mind you, HE is the one engaged, NOT me...), it was fairly tame.

There was the ritual family game night with all the normal drama men pouting like moody five year boys when they're not winning, the overstuffing of all competent mouths huddled around the Christmas dinner table, the annual arrival of my boyfriend from his family's Christmas in Long Island to spend the two days after with my family, the new country hick/Sarah Palin teaching the city boy (my boyfriend) how to shoot rifles, shotguns and bayonetted Russian assault weapons moment, and the freak snowstorm that shut down most of the entire East Coast. Yeah, a completely normal and neutral Christmas. That is, until I found myself on the verge of begging my brother to let me in on all the couples' secret rendezvous hotspots—you know, all those places where teenagers or young adults still living with their parents go to get it on without being caught.  Here I was, nearly thirty years old, temporarily staying  under my mother's roof, hadn't seen my man in several days, and my hormones were raging in desperate need of some action—without the parental units around.  And, what was worse, I was asking my little brother-- my asexual, never touched a girl in his life (although he's engaged), still a virgin in my mind, little brother, for the best places to go to get it on with my man . It was disturbing, it was embarrassing, it was ew-inspiring... it was an all-time holiday low. Next year, I'm getting a hotel room.

By the way, Happy New Year!

Content Copyright 2010. Ami Lovelace. All Rights Reserved.

The Creative Marriage – Relationships that thrive not only in love but through the bonds of creativity and collaboration.

Thanks to a fellow Tweeter, I came across this very interesting radio show segment called The Creative Marriage that I've decided to muse over and mull on a bit. Bear with me. Now, I don't know about you, but each year, as the holidays embrace me, squeezing me into their tight,not wholly unwanted but often times suffocating, bear hug, I find myself hurtling down into the chasms of self-reflection, evaluation, and observance. In short, I find myself having one of those Bridget Jones moments, leafing through the diary pages, cross-checking what I wanted for myself that year versus what I actually happened, totaling the numbers. Long-term Boyfriend: 1 Weight lost: - (I'm not even going to fill in this number), Jobs lost: 1, New Job: 0, Books Published: 1 etc.- you get the point.

Now, regardless of who we are and whatever items we had on our list for ourselves, apparently getting married is a big one for a lot of people and unless we're living under a rock we cannot ignore the sheer multitudes of marriage proposals and weddings that seem to bust out of the woodwork when the first snowflakes begin to fall. And this year, in the midst of this chaotic whirlpool of congratulations and celebrations, I begin to find myself treading water, wondering, what is it that pushes these couples to that decision? Is it just the excitement and nostalgia of the holidays that tips the scales? That warm, fuzzy feeling we all get that makes everything seem rosy even in the middle of a dead grey winter? The hope of a new year and new life? But, what will make them successful in the rest of their life as a couple? What will cement them together in the unbreakable bond that after years, seems to evade so many married hopefuls?

Many will claim it's the type of person you are, how good of a heart you have, what your personality is like, that opposites attract, etc. etc. So, I wonder, in considering types of people, and as an artist myself (artist being defined as writers, musicians and visual arts creators), do artists really only gel with other artists? Or is it possible to have an explosive combination between an artist and a say scientist or an artist and a businessman? When two very different worlds collide, will they create or destroy? One would think that to have a left brain and a right brain come together, it'd create a whole brain, a connected brain. But it isn't always the case.

I have no right answer.

But, in listening to this radio show, I found myself really thinking "what a wonderful way to pass your life—doing what you love with the person you love." As writers, we hover on the edge of the chasm of solitude. Though we may be social, the craft itself lends to being, and it is, very easy for us to fall into a solitary life, diving into our work, into the worlds we create—drowning, yet refusing to lift our heads above the water to breathe, to open our eyes and see that one person floating above us or swimming next to us, offering a round buoy to which we can cling, to which we can anchor ourselves. Hearing these writers speak of their spouses, with all the human problems they had—their marriages weren't perfect but they were solid, they were bonded, not only by the love they shared for one another, but by the love they shared for the craft. They supported each other, understood both the challenges and the euphoria the work offers, and they could share it. Having someone who inspires you, encourages you to write, and who is willing to read your work—not only to give an opinion of the quality of the work, but most times what is really more important—to share what you did that day. Sharing the advances you made the difficulties you had, how excited you were when you finally seamlessly pieced together dangling scenes or wove in a particularly dynamic subplot.

And as I found myself staring at a half-written page, paused to listen the the guest writers, whose marriages last 53+ years, until the deaths of their partners, I found myself imagining that kind of writing life for myself. Being able to share the thrill and excitement of the 5-, 10-, 15+ pages that I'd written that day with someone who is equally as excited to be that First Reader—to read, edit, suggest and discuss it; the idea was intoxicating, invigorating. It made me want to write, spend the day writing, to be able to show and share with someone, knowing they're expecting it, holding me accountable. Truly, how often do we give up on something, chuck it aside because we think it's boring, too hard, not worth it, sub-quality(and I'm not just talking writing here- relationships, too)? But to have someone at your side, just as involved, just as passionate as you are about it, not willing to let you give up nor you let that person give up—a relationship where there's a mutual inspiration, a cyclical creativity, feeding off each other, energizing each other, truly driving each other to reach your highest potential, to better yourselves—is that not in and of itself the path to enlightenment, to fulfillment, to happiness, and to longevity—both in years that you age, and years that you age together as a couple?

Consider some of the great and passionate creators—Percy & Mary Shelley, Robert Browning & Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Jim and Shannon Butcher (hey, Jim is one of my favorite contemporary writers Sci-Fi writers!)—fostering a relationship that burns brighter through their collaboration and mutual inspiration in the craft of writing.

So, with a union routed not only in love, but in writing and a creative exchange as well, did they have a foundation of understanding, a fundamental connection—a leg up, even with all the wrenches life threw at them, that perhaps writers paired with non-writers/non-readers don't?

Your thoughts?

If you're interested in listening to"The Creative Marriage" radio show segment , it's on the Callie Crossly Show.

Content Copyright 2010. Ami Lovelace. All Rights Reserved.

Yes, Virginia, there really was a Bill of Rights, a long time ago.

 Dear Uncle Sam:
 
Here you go, boxed up, tidily wrapped in festive wrapping paper, and touched off with a beautiful, shiny big red bow—I hand over my Rights as a US citizen, my Christmas gift to you.
 
I am a patriot. And a patriot, whose mind is aimed towards elevating their nation, observing the world and the state of humanity in an attempt to create a better nation,  should never walk a road blindly, but should inspect, dissect, criticize, and attempt to change—non-violently—the government decisions and actions that they deem questionable or unethical. 
 
I suppose I had a little more faith in the government—in the American people. Misplaced maybe, but the faith was there. Yet, what can we expect? After all, we've sat back for years, consumed with laziness, apathy, and some even with encouragement, allowing the government's inch by inch encroachment and seizure of our rights.  It started with profiling in the immediate days post 9/11, arrests and detentions of US citizens and foreign tourists alike, simply based on race, ethnicity, religion—actions accepted by a fear-blinded American society—actions that have steadily worsened, down to privacy-breaching searches, strip downs, illegal bugging and traces, etc.  Why shouldn't we expect the government to continue its onward momentum, moving now to violate, and even eliminate our most beloved civil rights—the right to free speech. I'm sorry, but I don't recall the Bill of Rights being neither implicit nor explicit in indicating that the First Amendment applied only to journalists. 


First Amendment:
Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.
 
Seems to me like the intelligent use of that nifty little conjunction "or" between the words speech and of the press is fairly indicative that our Founding Fathers meant the right to apply to both journalists and non-journalists alike.

The overzealous and blatant censorship, shutting down, blocking, black-listing, prohibiting, and threatening of major websites and/or organizations that were previously linked, supported, affiliated with or somehow encouraged the readership of Wikileaks is an outright, offensive and illegal rescinding of the First Amendment—where does the government get off thinking they have such a right. I was under no delusions that the United States of America was ever a true democracy, after all, we are the REPUBLIC of the United States of America, but when did we become a dictatorship?  Beware the rise of 1984's Big Brother.  Sure, they have the power to do it, but with power comes responsibility, and the government's responsibility is to us. OF THE PEOPLE, BY THE PEOPLE, FOR THE PEOPLE, remember that? The government's responsibility is to protect our rights not to seize, freeze or eliminate them under the guise of protecting us. If you suspend liberties just to protect liberties, what is the point?
 
I understand tracking and and arresting the individuals who committed the actual crime of theft—of stealing the confidential documents that appear on Wikileaks. But trying to issue baseless arrest warrants, or create trumped up charges to bring a man into custody simply because he disclosed confidential material that was given to him—who's next?  Tom Brokaw, Barbara Walters—you? me?  Most likely the latter—after all, we're not protected under the auspices of being journalists.  Apparently, according to the current Washington opinion,  the First Amendment protects them and them alone.  Our laws, our rights are not in place for the government to pick and choose to whom and when they apply. They themselves must be held accountable for them—and they are violating the Constitution.  Tell me something, why is it OK for police officers or lawyers to disclose unsolicited, confidential or privileged information that they received from undisclosed informants to a courtroom, to the public record in pursuit of a case—documents that had been stolen for them, although they themselves never asked that it be done—yet, when a simple citizen discloses unsolicited confidential or sensitive information that fell into his/her hands, they are hunted down and persecuted? Picking and choosing whom the Bill of Rights applies to, while hiding behind the Iron Curtain of National Security, cannot be tolerated.
 
It's come down to the old adage: If you give them an inch, they'll take a mile.  Well, my friends, they've been marking out leagues.   You know, I'd love to go back to those September days of 1789, when the First Congress sat convened, locked in a single room in the sweltering heat and humidity of a nasty Philadelphia Indian summer, toiling away at a document that they dreamed would be the foundation of a great, just and lasting government. And I'd like to tell them, "Hey guys! Yo! Mr. Madison, put the quill down! No need to keep discussing, the document's just going to be invalid in a little over two hundred years, anyway. Let's all get out of this sauna and grab some chipped ice!"  Hey, current US government—ever stop to consider that the Constitution wouldn't have been ratified if NOT for the Bill of Rights? When stripping us our our rights and liberties, ever remember that the Founding Fathers created the Bill of Rights because they thought the Constitution as it had been first drafted failed to protect the fundamentals of human liberty? That the Rights were essential to prevent tyranny from the central government?  Well, Washington and friends are rolling over in their graves right now.  And you should be ashamed of yourselves.
 
 
One final thought to close out my rant:
 
If the NRA can stand behind the literal text of the Second Amendment, allowing guns of all types into the hands of the average Joe, and falling back on the defense of the government's inability to tamper with the Constitution and rescind their rights, why can't we, as a whole society, stand behind the power of the First Amendment, that prevents censorship and protects the right to free speech- for ALL US citizens and foreign visitors on our soil, not just the lucky ones holding a press badge?


Your's most sincerely,


Very Concerned Citizen: Ami Lovelace 

For more information about The Bill of Rights:
visit http://www.archives.gov/exhibits/char...  
Or, hell, go to your local library, find a few books, an encyclopedia, and leaf through those—might be less of a chance of them being censored, you know, before they're banned or burnt.
 
For more information about the current status of Rights infringement by the US Government visit:
http://www.independent.co.uk/news/wor...
http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs...
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/...
or just google: Wikileaks news, New York times

Content Copyright 2010. Ami Lovelace. All Rights Reserved.

Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock: Who's afraid of the big bad clock?

Life creeps by-- in moments, hours, days, years. It just passes, trucking along at the same speed, completely independent and aloof to everything around it. We say we lose it, gain it, adjust it, but untamed, uncontrolled, no one has ever been able to rein in time. So how do we react to it? At what points in our lives to we feel it's running out, or that we're moving just a bit faster to stay ahead of the game? When do we start to crumble, weighted down the gravity of its pressure?

Everywhere I look I'm surrounded by newlyweds, engaged couples, first time parents-- my friends, family, former colleagues- it seems like the never-ending parade of lovebirds and lovechildren. And I am truly, extremely thrilled and happy for them. That said, I'm no where near ready to jump on one of their floats or run to march alongside them, but with the shrinking number of singles in the stewing pot (and by singles I mean folks who aren't committed to each other for the "long haul", whether or not you're in a relationship), it still adds pressure. Now, I'm not one of those girls who runs around thinking she's going to just die if she doesn't get married before midnight on her thirtieth birthday, or in the very least thinks that she'll turn into a mangy cat when the clock strikes twelve. But, surrounded by all the happy couples, taking that next step in life together, you do check yourself-- your priorities, what you want and what you need. And here's the kicker, they don't all mesh. I don't have a five- or ten- year relationship plan, nor a set date for when I want to be married or have kids, but the fact is I DO want to be married and I DO want to have kids. I come from a big family, family is important to me, and I want one of my own. Doesn't mean I want to start now, or even in the next three to five years, but, at what point to you run out of time? At what point do you find yourself looking around, readying to move on, but realizing your opportunity has passed you by?

That's the trouble with the clock. It just keeps pace, whether you want it to or not, whether you're ready or not, and you can't remove the batteries from life. Tick-tock.

Content Copyright 2010. Ami Lovelace. All Rights Reserved.

Freedom is just another word for...

What I like the most about writing? It's freedom.

The ability to fall into a scene, a world, completely consumed by the imagery, the feel, the personages and their interactions. And, what's better?  Being fully dependent upon yourself to do it. You control, manipulate, orchestrate the machinations of the world you've plunged into. With free reign, you answer to no one, are judged by none. Within your own mind, you become the awe-inspiring escape artist, undaunted by the reality of others. You create your own world. The master puppeteer to a stage of vibrant, lively marionettes. And it's available to you anytime, anywhere. It becomes a power that cannot be stripped, controlled, or stolen from you. It is a game of your own conscious devising, with no wrong turns, no bad rolls of the dice, no last level, no end—until you deem it necessary to create one. It's the fountain of youth, bubbling over in ecstatic desire to revitalize life. You are how you choose to be. Or, you're not at all. It can be an evocation of life not lived, or one long forgotten. Of fantasy, or the reiteration of a pleasant reality. Imagination is a constant lover, there always when you turn to it, waiting to indulge in even your deepest desires. No questions, no hesitation, just endless opportunity.

To write is to imagine. To imagine is to be free. And freedom is everything. Just ask William Wallace.

Content Copyright 2010. Ami Lovelace. All Rights Reserved.

Muted and Mooted: The Veiled Woman

Women hold a power within themselves that is unrivaled, unprecedented, and many times, unrealized. Throughout centuries and across many cultures women has been feared and repressed, bound in both literal and metaphorical chains. Complacent, submissive, seen but not heard, and sometimes not even seen, the role of a woman in history's society has been one in which they have been subjugated, condemned to survive—not to live—at the will of the men who surrounded them.

 

Over recent decades, we've jubilantly witnessed vast changes in equality, respect, and the right for a woman to her own individuality, her own inner self, her power. Woman have risen, gaining the right to attend schools, vote, express themselves, assimilate into the workforce- to live a life they've wanted for themselves, to pursue their own dreams rather than bowing to those of an oppressor. We live in a time where women can walk down a street, drive a car, or even travel without needing the permission or escort of a male relative- brother, father, husband. Well, most of us do anyway.

As comfortable as we have become in our inalienable rights to freedom, happiness-- to life the way we want to live it, there are those women living in cultures who are still forced into silence, into nonexistence. Their governments, religions, and (or) societies maneuver to deprive these women of their own voice, their power. Out of fear, hatred, jealousy, these women are hidden away, taunted with the luxuries of life around them, though never to have a piece of it for themselves. They are both muted into silence and mooted in life. But, there is always hope. 



 

Moot Life

Clearly

the veil lifts

imprisoning meshed screens torn

the faded greys of a foggy life burst into vibrancy

intoxicated with vividity

breath burdens no more

torpid Will breaks

galloping with the speed of convergent dreams

the dark streams

kohl rivers flooding sight with blurred hope

rumbling begins

weak and gurgling

churning in thickening reality

hesitant sound putters shyly with infinitesimal existence

then to erupt forth,

in fiery passion

the volcanic gift escaping its Oppressed core

imbibing reluctant opportunity

the uncaged nightingale regales

shackled stories unleashed upon courageous ears

once Muzzled, a song never to be muted Again

her life

Now

unmooted.

 

 

©2010 Ami Lovelace. All Rights Reserved.

 

Content Copyright 2010. Ami Lovelace. All Rights Reserved.

A Peek at Micropoetry: the Short Poem Revival

Do you remember Senryu or Tanka? Or maybe their more infamous little sister, Haiku?  Having flashbacks to your high school English classes? Senryu, Tanka and Haiku are all stylistic forms of poetry originating in Japan. Overall, their formats are generally simple direct, and above all, short, though each varies just slightly than the other.  In the wake of the social media and mobile app"s F5 tornado, these styles of poetry have made a distinct resurgence, becoming a prevalent form of expression in the 140 words or less mediums of Twitter, Tumblr, text message, and the like.



So large is the movement that they've developed universal hashtags (think call signs) for the poetry that allows individuals to search through the multifaceted layers of online users and material to find the posts relating to the specific expressive medium they enjoy.  It's not rare to see #haiku #senryu #tanka and the more recent #micropoetry, the new collective nominal for the resurrected genre, tagged on at the end of a posted poem, or even smack in the middle of a sentence.  The resurgence has even gone as far as an organized Haiku Tuesday, in which fans of the style know that Tuesdays on Twitter are designated as days to post and read multiple haikus, creating a collective anthology of online work from novice poets to multi-published poets.

 

Personally, I think it's wonderful that these styles of poems are making a come back. I have also joined the ranks of the online micropoetry poster...  after all, not all poetry has to be in the form of a five page romance ballad.  With life streaming by us at an incredible rate, both online and off, I'm ecstatic to see that poetry has found a new niche.





Some of my micropoety, in the form of Haiku, that I have posted on Twitter over the past couple months are written below.

Curious about the different between Senryu, Tanka and Haiku?  Find out here .

 

                  I.

Black sun is rising

The agèd lily crumples

Sleeping in the soil

              II. 

Golden rusts and rubies

reaping in abundant wealth

The harvest moons rise

             III.

Shadow worlds collide

lost in lunar abandon

cognizance dwindles

            IV.

Twilight mists lay siege

Shrouding celestial fireflies

The world's held captive

                 V.

Love smolders the night

Melted in obscurity

embers groan w' passion

                VI.

Soft glaze of mourning

Smeared to crystal despondence

As muted bells toll

 

 

               VII.

basil and citrus

illuminatingly fresh

his herbal eyes lie 





             VIII.

Shimmering tears fall

the moon hides, swathed in soft veils

grieving in the dark



Copyright 2010 Ami Lovelace. All rights reserved.

 

Content Copyright 2010. Ami Lovelace. All Rights Reserved.

Chapter One Draft: Sci-Fi/Fantasy Working Title

"It is time." The figure announced as he gazed upon the land before him, a slight grimace of disappointment, or maybe even satisfaction, flashed across his face. I couldn't really imagine what was being processed through the dark depths of his brain, I barely had a grip on my own thoughts and emotions, my reality being wrenched away, such as it was. The figure turned from the transparent wall and with the miles of rolling hills, new growth trees, cubist patches of blooming fields and sporadic clusters of houses framing its background, it could have been a surreal landscape painting, it lifted its head meeting our eyes and simply told us, "We must go. Now."

The figure paced away from the glass wall, though I truly doubt that was what it was made of. Maybe some sort of crystal or translucent metal, if there is such a thing, but not glass. Something overtook us, the instinct to be home one last time, the raw emotion of losing everything you loved, or the grotesque allure of not being able to turn your head from a train wreck, several of us found ourselves drawn, stepping cautiously, hesitantly, to the enormous window, the sight of our world spread before us. "Moths to a flame," someone whispered quietly behind me. We did not feel the massive prism we were captive in move. There was no trembling, no grinding of gears as the machinery winced into motion, no screams or groans from a previously silent giant engine prodded into indentured servitude. The only indication the prism was in motion at all was from the view that beheld us so captively. Our home, our land, our lives, falling away from us, slowly, tortuously, decreasing in size as we gained distance. Miles and miles of traitorous air levitated between us and our families.

I stood there, a stillness I had never experienced before imprisoning me. I wanted, needed, one last look- needed to remember. I heard the soft sobs and sniffles of a man a few meters away, but my eyes were unable to track the sound, welded as they were to the view that had once been in front of me. A view that had altered its angle in our increasing distance and now had settled to rest at a 45 degree angle below us. The miles of houses, forests, fields, streams, people who were out and about going on with their lives, were all about the size of an ant farm when it happened. The figure must have known we had reached a safe distance, as the prism carrying us slowed to a stop. I could feel the change in tension in the room, bodies stiffened, becoming rigid, short, violent gasps of breath being gulped in- held. We watched.

The Great Fireball came on swiftly, blazing across the land, engulfing the ant farm world below us. In macabre irony, its heat energy, its fire, rivaled that of- or maybe even derived from, our sun. We felt the intensity of its flames, for even within the safety of the prism, miles above the ground, we felt the ambient temperature rise a several degrees. But our sweat was cold. The blazing sphere left nothing, in the seconds that it took to cross over miles of land, it melted- not burned- melted everything. We were able to see the process. It melted, then vaporized. In the wake of the Great Fireball, a vast desert of sand and dust settled, with sporadic puddles bubbling- sandy hot springs forming the beginnings of a glassy substance. As my body broke free of its own restraint and my hand fell upon the transparent wall in front of me, the fluttering question of just what material it was made of, briefly breached my thoughts. Where exactly had it come from? I shuddered.

My distraction was only momentary, as my eye caught the rapid movement below. In the Fireball wake there was nothing, an eerie tranquility, but in the land that lay before it there was a flurry of panicked motion. Ant-sized people sprinting away in the direction opposite the hungry inferno. Gut-wrenching to watch, the celestial view made it painfully evident how slow their fastest strides really were in comparison to the momentum of the sphere. Sanctuary they looked for but would not find. Those who were deluded enough to opt for their vehicles, rather than go by foot, were worse off. Or maybe better off, since it was all going to end in the same way, regardless of the method of escape, at least their fatalities came to them faster. The people in cars, trucks, SUVs, scrambling for their keys, wrestled with the ignition only to find the heat prevented the engine from turning over. The doors of the car, in the moments they had lost trying to get it to start, either became too hot to touch, or had expanded from the temperature, altering and damaging the framed and preventing the doors themselves from being able to be opened. The people were trapped, and as the heat intensified on the Fireball's approach, their vehicles converted into their own personal EZ-Bake ovens.

I tried not to watch as the skin began to melt, sliding down their faces and dripping from their arms in a red-pinkish bloody, gooey mess. Their faces twisted in panic- I could see them. I could see the forms of screams taking shape, altering and reshaping their features. But I heard nothing. None of us did. So far above them, in a virtually sound-proof prism, we were impervious. No echoes of violence, no screams defying annihilation reached us. We stood surrounded by peaceful serenity and stillness. As the Great Fireball disappeared over the crest of the Earth's horizon, presumably moving on to another hemisphere leaving only a soft orange glow of light and patches of steam and glass rising from the vast desert that had once held our homes and our loved ones, the woman standing a few feet from me shifted. I tore my stare from Earth to look at her. She caught my eye, a sad half smile tugging up at the corner of her mouth, her eyes heavy though not tearful as she whispered the easiest thing most of us could attach to at the time, "And so ends the world, with roaring silence." 



© 2010 Ami Lovelace.  All rights reserved.

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Content Copyright 2010. Ami Lovelace. All Rights Reserved.