Weekly Prompt Story: Prayer

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A Prayer

By Christopher Munroe

Merciful Zod, before whom we kneel:

We thank you this day for your moderation, in sparing planet Houston from your wrath.

We thank you, too, your indulgence of we upon this world, though surely we are but insects to one so mighty as yourself.

And, most of all, we give thanks for our lives that you, in your wisdom, have allowed us to keep.

And, should we be able, we shall help you find the son of Jor-el, that you might enact the revenge you’ve so long awaited.

In the name of the Ursa, the Non, and Zod almighty, amen.

What I Learned From Sting

The tickets had been a gift at the last minute, and due to a scheduling issue I wasn’t able to arrive until the concert had already began, but that was fine. I’d thought I was going to have to miss the show entirely, and was certainly appropriately grateful for the opportunity to see Sting and Peter Gabriel in concert.

They didn’t play sets, as such, choosing instead to alternate songs between them so as not to interrupt the flow of the performance, and I can personally attest to the fact that the performance did flow. By the time Sting got around to “Message in a Bottle,” the whole crowd was singing along, calling back to him as he called out to us, joining with him in full voice as the song neared it’s climax…

“Sending out an S.O.S.”

“Sending out an S.O.S.”

“Sending out an S.O.S.”

“Sending out an S.O.S…”

And that, I think, was when I finally understood the appeal of fascism.

Because it really DOES feel good to stand, surrounded by twenty thousand other people, most of whom you’ve never met, most of whom you’ll never meet, and know that, in that one moment at least, you are all of one mind.

It feels good to cry out, together, a simple sentiment shared by thousands of your fellows, knowing that everyone present is invested in that moment of unity every bit as deeply as you are.

It feels good to share your passion, and to unleash that passion free from judgment or consequence.

It feels good to free yourself of the burden of yourself, and in doing so to lose yourself to the will of the group. To nullify all sense of personal identity as payment for the opportunity to become a part of something terrifyingly huge, and utterly uncontrollable.

There’s freedom in that feeling. And power…

So yeah, I “get” fascism now.

Which is good.

It’s good to know.

It’s important to know that I’m as susceptible to that sort of thing, given the right circumstance, as anyone else.

If for no other reason than so as to avoid it…

Weekly Prompt Story: So Many Prompts

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The End of the World

By Christopher Munroe

They say that, from a certain point of view, every end is a new beginning.

I assume this is intended for people who’ve been dumped, as it does NOT apply to the end of the world.

It came from beyond the clouds, a being beyond any earthling’s comprehension, and we knew instinctively there was no way to defend ourselves, no hope for humanity...

Well, we who weren’t driven mad did, anyway.

Myself, I tried to be philosophical about it.

We’ve all gotta go sometime.

Sometime soon.

I drank up the wine, eyes on the horizon, and waited for the end…

Possibility

We, each and every one of us, simultaneously are and are not simply the sum of our parts…

We are limitless potential, capable of things no rational mind could ever conceivably predict, limited only by our ambition and our imagination.

And yet it is, at the end of the day, frequently that very ambition and imagination that fail us, that hold us back, that limit us, that keep us from expressing the potential each and every one of us contains. Our self-doubt, our worry, our fear, each in turn prevents us from taking risks, leading us time and again to safe choices, stopping us ever being more than what we are.

We are capable of so much, but the vast majority of us will convince ourselves that we’re not, and in doing so we’ll prove ourselves right.

In this way we are limitless yet crippled by our limitations, perfect yet profoundly flawed, nothing more than the sum of our parts yet so much more.

Simultaneously tied to the earth and aching to soar.

Until we try.

Until we try and, in trying, can observe all that we’re truly capable of, if we’re just willing to take that leap of faith.

Until we’re willing to trust ourselves enough to let ourselves out of the boxes we’ve constructed for ourselves.

In this way we are, all of us, every one, everywhere, Schrodinger’s humans…

Weekly Prompt Story: Endless

http://oneadayuntilthedayidie.com/?p=31964

The Endless Ones

By Christopher Munroe

The Endless Ones slumber beneath the city

Unthinkably huge, eternally old and horrifying beyond all imagination, simply to view them is to go mad from revelations no mortal man was ever meant to know. Surely upon waking they could destroy us, one and all, obliterating our city and all who dwell within it without so much as a thought.

For such is their power, their horrible majesty, that we are but gnats upon their surface.

Fortunately for us, here on the surface, their sleep is, like they themselves are, endless.

So yeah, we’re good. We ought to all be fine…

...on Pokemon

My neighborhood is full of Pokemon.

I can tell because my neighborhood is full of people wandering aimlessly up and down the streets, and through the dog park across from the building in which I live, phones in hand, eyes fixed unwaveringly upon them, looking for Pokemon.

And while I’m not completely familiar of the mechanics of the game, were my neighborhood free of Pokemon I presume there’d be fewer Pokemon hunters hunting Pokemon in the area. I gather that’s how the whole thing works.

Is hunters right? Catchers? Trainers? Or are training and hunting Pokemon unrelated to one another?

It probably doesn’t matter.

I’m trying my best my best to not find the whole thing hilarious, but it’s tough not to, especially as for the past week it’s been raining pretty heavily.

So I watch them from my balcony, looking like drowned rats, soaking wet, wiping rainwater off the screens of their phones, shoulders hunched over, shivering in the cold and the wet, bloody-mindedly determined in their quest to find more Pokemon.

Such is their commitment to catching them all, or at least to catching more of them than the online rivals I presume exist for them…

As I said, I’m not completely familiar with the mechanics of the game.

Which is fine.

That’s their business. They’ve chosen a hobby that works for them and it obviously brings them joy, even if it’s a sort of joy that seems weird and frankly hilarious to me. They don’t need my permission to have a good time, and their definition of what constitutes a good time is, at the end of the day, the only one that really matters.

Not everything has to be about me…

So, yes, my neighborhood is full of Pokemon.

You know, if you’re looking for Pokemon.

Weekly Prompt Story: Wings

http://oneadayuntilthedayidie.com/?p=31953

My Wings

By Christopher Munroe

I’ll fly as close to the sun as I fucking please.

My wings are made of sturdier stuff than those of Icarus, and I am a man of vision, scope and ambition. I shan’t be scared off by tales of lesser men and their failings.

For I am not those lesser men.

I’ll fly to the very sun, pluck it from its perch in the heavens and bring it with me back to Earth, that I might present it to you as a token of my love.

I defy God itself to stop me!

I’ll see you upon my return…

Hot Plates and Gender Roles

The blue ceramic plates go in the oven.

I can’t stress this enough. They go in the oven, they’re designed for that purpose, and as such they hold heat incredibly well, so that by the time the food gets to your table it is literally still steaming.

Your food is still hot, because the blue ceramic plate in which it’s cooked is still hot. Like, very hot. Hot enough to take the skin off if you touch it with your bare hand.

So don’t touch it with your bare hand.

Alternately: Touch it with your bare hand, I’m not boss of you, I’m a waiter, and this restaurant and I are both covered legally, now, because I have warned you in front of witnesses.

The blue ceramic plates are hot. Do with this information what you will.

For example, the other day I delivered stuffed mushrooms to a table of four, not to profile or resort to sexist stereotypes but it won’t surprise you to know they were all dudes, and upon the mushrooms’ arrival all four men immediately grabbed the blue ceramic plate with their bare hands.

First one to pull his hand away in pain had to pick up the tab for the meal.

Because he was “a pussy.”

And as I watched it happen, my first thought was; “And that, in a nutshell, is what people mean when they talk about “Toxic Masculinity.” Thanks for the example!”

And my second thought was; “That’s kind of hilarious, and I should totally do this with my friends next time we eat out!”

Because understanding something doesn’t make me above that thing, and self-awareness is overrated as far as actually preventing self-destructive behavior goes…