The Man in the Blue Shades
Hello to all, and good bye to all so soon. I'm jsut here to quickly post this:
I can tell you I’m bald. I know this for when I touch my hand to my head, I feel nothing but smooth skin, the remnants of the once wiry hair. I can also tell you that I wear blue shades, round like the dollars in a dead man’s eyes. This is how most people remember me: ‘The Man in the Blue Shades’. If you are as so unlucky to meet me, you would never know my name. I like it best this way, my line of work demands secrets.
With all the honesty I can muster, I will tell you this: I can start fires. There’s something to be said about a flame licking the air for life and consuming an article out of mere necessity. I start fires for this reason; the necessity, the obsession. Psychologists try to label this desire with a title: pyromaniac, but how can that really grasp the whole idea? The fire; the burning; the light; the destruction; the charred remains. I see no pyromaniac here; this is a genius at work.
My work is clean, there is no gas, no matches, no torches; just flame. When I was five, I learnt of my talent. Stacking blocks, block on block, they all fall down. I did not like them falling down. Sister Clarice came to the source of the smoke, scolding me for playing with matches. And all I could say to her with a dumbfounded expression was: “I have no matches.” And it was only until the smoke had cleared and the blocks were black, that she saw I was correct. There were no matches.
Perhaps it is wrong to manipulate a person, but I love to taste the fear. To stick the tip of my tongue out into the air and taste the anticipation. I know it is as blue and perfect as water. Sister Clarice was easily manipulated; perhaps she had always been afraid of me before she knew what I could do. A fierce burst of flame from her old iron stove was all it took to get out of school. It was not fully my fault, I could not control my rage like I do now.
I will also tell you this with all the honesty I can muster: I would like to see you burn. I can picture you burning right now in my eyes. I know you’ll burn, I know you’ll hurt, and I know you’ll scream. And maybe it’s the pyromania, but I would enjoy to hear you scream. I have a tortured past you know, doesn’t everybody though?
I was born, like anyone else, I was born. Though unlike a normal birth, no one smiled, no one laughed. My mother knew I was going to be a boy, and bless whatever soul she had, that’s what made her happy. My father had died only months before my birth, the cancer got him. He left my mother with the farm and several daughters to tend to. A son would help, a blessing no less. It’s kind of odd that she knew, perhaps it’s the motherly instinct or maybe just the way she began to blow up. But I was a boy, just like she wanted, but I came with my own strings attached. Strings, that while I was pulled from the womb, tugged at my eyes. I was born blind.
It was all the birthing mother could do to pull me away from my mother’s now deadly hands. I was of no use to her, and she made it clear that I was unwanted. And with no other options, the sink was filled with water in preparation, and I’m sure I was screaming. Screaming and crying and flailing against the wet abyss that was to be my own. The attending sister then spoke up, unable to accept the gruesome fate of an unwanted child. A woman of God and the White that understood that one man’s trash was another man’s treasure, even if you were referring to a human being. Her name was Sister Clarice, and I’m sure she whispered that to me then, and she became my mother. I think she’s the only one that cares I’m alive.
I start the fire with my fingers; the world is so easy to burn. Imagine a simple snap, and the man in front of you goes up in flames. It is such a strange, powerful talent. That is why I’m so good at what I do: it’s a clean burn. It simply appears that the man spontaneously combusted. Just a snap of the fingers.
Like I said before, the people unlucky enough to have met me remember me by my blue shades. Though, the only time they consider these haunting blue moons is when they’re aimed off in the distance, and they’re watching them while they burn alive. I don’t really know how much the actual burning really matters to me, the world is always on fire in my eyes. I told you I’m blind, but I can see everyone like a flame that’s just waiting to be started, consuming only the outer reaches of their body. It is based upon the colour of the fire that I know how you feel. I love the blue. So when you’re fidgeting on the ground, burning, it all looks the same. It’s just the screaming that makes the difference. I love the screaming, the fear. Fear is blue. I love to see the world in blue.
I am telling you all this now, for as much as I love the burning and the screaming, I need it to stop. I came across a familiar habit the other day, and the eyes below it were heavy and despaired. She then told me only this, before rushing off again: “The fire consumes your soul, it burns away at it, and your soul is but char and ash. To me, you are already dead.”
I have not managed to avoid the stray sparks, and my soul is ash, and soon my body with it. But I will miss the burning, I will miss the torture, and I will miss the warm glow. I think this is a fitting way to die; they were lucky ones. But one final thing: I will not scream, I will not offer you that pleasure. *Snaps fingers.*
A short story-ish thing that I wrote. More so, actually, for a monologue I hope to do in Drama. It's a little, twisted, but I think good. For your consideration.
Matt
President of the Just Turkey Corporation
"Sunny came home with a list of names,
She didn't believe in transcendence.
'It's time for a few small repairs,' she said,
Sunny came home with a vengeance.
She says, 'Days go by and I don't know why,
I'm walking on a wire.
I close my eyes and fly out of my mind,
Into the fire.'
Get the kids and bring a sweater,
Dry is good, and wind is better.
Count the years, you always knew it,
Strike a match, go on and do it."
I can tell you I’m bald. I know this for when I touch my hand to my head, I feel nothing but smooth skin, the remnants of the once wiry hair. I can also tell you that I wear blue shades, round like the dollars in a dead man’s eyes. This is how most people remember me: ‘The Man in the Blue Shades’. If you are as so unlucky to meet me, you would never know my name. I like it best this way, my line of work demands secrets.
With all the honesty I can muster, I will tell you this: I can start fires. There’s something to be said about a flame licking the air for life and consuming an article out of mere necessity. I start fires for this reason; the necessity, the obsession. Psychologists try to label this desire with a title: pyromaniac, but how can that really grasp the whole idea? The fire; the burning; the light; the destruction; the charred remains. I see no pyromaniac here; this is a genius at work.
My work is clean, there is no gas, no matches, no torches; just flame. When I was five, I learnt of my talent. Stacking blocks, block on block, they all fall down. I did not like them falling down. Sister Clarice came to the source of the smoke, scolding me for playing with matches. And all I could say to her with a dumbfounded expression was: “I have no matches.” And it was only until the smoke had cleared and the blocks were black, that she saw I was correct. There were no matches.
Perhaps it is wrong to manipulate a person, but I love to taste the fear. To stick the tip of my tongue out into the air and taste the anticipation. I know it is as blue and perfect as water. Sister Clarice was easily manipulated; perhaps she had always been afraid of me before she knew what I could do. A fierce burst of flame from her old iron stove was all it took to get out of school. It was not fully my fault, I could not control my rage like I do now.
I will also tell you this with all the honesty I can muster: I would like to see you burn. I can picture you burning right now in my eyes. I know you’ll burn, I know you’ll hurt, and I know you’ll scream. And maybe it’s the pyromania, but I would enjoy to hear you scream. I have a tortured past you know, doesn’t everybody though?
I was born, like anyone else, I was born. Though unlike a normal birth, no one smiled, no one laughed. My mother knew I was going to be a boy, and bless whatever soul she had, that’s what made her happy. My father had died only months before my birth, the cancer got him. He left my mother with the farm and several daughters to tend to. A son would help, a blessing no less. It’s kind of odd that she knew, perhaps it’s the motherly instinct or maybe just the way she began to blow up. But I was a boy, just like she wanted, but I came with my own strings attached. Strings, that while I was pulled from the womb, tugged at my eyes. I was born blind.
It was all the birthing mother could do to pull me away from my mother’s now deadly hands. I was of no use to her, and she made it clear that I was unwanted. And with no other options, the sink was filled with water in preparation, and I’m sure I was screaming. Screaming and crying and flailing against the wet abyss that was to be my own. The attending sister then spoke up, unable to accept the gruesome fate of an unwanted child. A woman of God and the White that understood that one man’s trash was another man’s treasure, even if you were referring to a human being. Her name was Sister Clarice, and I’m sure she whispered that to me then, and she became my mother. I think she’s the only one that cares I’m alive.
I start the fire with my fingers; the world is so easy to burn. Imagine a simple snap, and the man in front of you goes up in flames. It is such a strange, powerful talent. That is why I’m so good at what I do: it’s a clean burn. It simply appears that the man spontaneously combusted. Just a snap of the fingers.
Like I said before, the people unlucky enough to have met me remember me by my blue shades. Though, the only time they consider these haunting blue moons is when they’re aimed off in the distance, and they’re watching them while they burn alive. I don’t really know how much the actual burning really matters to me, the world is always on fire in my eyes. I told you I’m blind, but I can see everyone like a flame that’s just waiting to be started, consuming only the outer reaches of their body. It is based upon the colour of the fire that I know how you feel. I love the blue. So when you’re fidgeting on the ground, burning, it all looks the same. It’s just the screaming that makes the difference. I love the screaming, the fear. Fear is blue. I love to see the world in blue.
I am telling you all this now, for as much as I love the burning and the screaming, I need it to stop. I came across a familiar habit the other day, and the eyes below it were heavy and despaired. She then told me only this, before rushing off again: “The fire consumes your soul, it burns away at it, and your soul is but char and ash. To me, you are already dead.”
I have not managed to avoid the stray sparks, and my soul is ash, and soon my body with it. But I will miss the burning, I will miss the torture, and I will miss the warm glow. I think this is a fitting way to die; they were lucky ones. But one final thing: I will not scream, I will not offer you that pleasure. *Snaps fingers.*
A short story-ish thing that I wrote. More so, actually, for a monologue I hope to do in Drama. It's a little, twisted, but I think good. For your consideration.
Matt
President of the Just Turkey Corporation
"Sunny came home with a list of names,
She didn't believe in transcendence.
'It's time for a few small repairs,' she said,
Sunny came home with a vengeance.
She says, 'Days go by and I don't know why,
I'm walking on a wire.
I close my eyes and fly out of my mind,
Into the fire.'
Get the kids and bring a sweater,
Dry is good, and wind is better.
Count the years, you always knew it,
Strike a match, go on and do it."