Shattered Glass and Fire

I stared at the doorway, wishing for a sound of humanity, if only a feeble voice or a cry or a muffled scream.  And there it was. A harsh, rasping noise like the last screams of Satan as his throat turned to shattered glass and fire.

I gazed at the opening, hoping for a sign, just a simple sign, that there was life beyond the doorway. And there it was. Through the door’s transom, I saw clouds darken into violent black swirls and heard them hissing like angry snakes.

My eyes were transfixed by that portal; I wanted to smell freedom and hear its echoes. And there it was. The thunderous roar of a hundred exploding volcanoes carried the sulfurous stench of a thousand centuries of shackles melting into the surface of the sun.

There, across time, I saw a woman attempting to incinerate me; she was there strictly for the pain. But that humanity, that life, that freedom—they confused her; and I watched her sizzle like a fat steak on the hottest part of the grill, her hostility impotent and irrelevant.

I watched the doorway, again, listening for affirmation of humanity, struggling to hear a chorus of voices telling me stories of salvation. And there they were, shrieks erupting from a pit of shattered glass and fire, singing my praises and cursing my name.


About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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