The first thing that I can remember is seeing the stars.

Well actually the first thing that I can remember seeing is someone’s face but that is neither here nor there as the first thing that actually sticks in my mind that I care to remember as I opened my eyes was the stars.

Inestimable and awesome they hung suspended above me as if they were there for no other purpose than to light my way, for my own enjoyment. My own fairy lights in the sky twinkling away in mirth as if at some unseen and unknown cosmic joke.

I so wanted to ‘get’ the joke, to be included in it and to be able to look up and nod my head at the stars, acknowledging the secret that we shared, the celestial bodies and myself so far apart but joined by the commonality of simply knowing what ‘it’ was all about.

‘It’ being the cosmic joke, the raison d’etre … reason to be … so to speak.

I wanted to be able to look up into the night sky and forever realise that I KNEW why I was here and what I was meant to do.

… and then with a brush of his hand he reached down and wiped the shards of mirror away from my face, dried the tears that had fallen from my eyes as I had lain there senseless and the stars vanished from my sight.

A trick of the light, an optical illusion. Nothing more than that. What I had thought to be the stars laughing with me and bringing me into their embrace was nothing more than refracted light of broken, silver plated glass … nothing more than a corona of light twisted like a rainbow through my own tears.

I have never flown so high nor drop so low, so fast.

I know that I kept breathing, because here I am still alive … but at that moment it didn’t feel like it. At that moment I felt like I had died.

When your dreams are taken from you like that, when everything that you believe is shattered in a single instant, what then is left?

When the light fades from your eyes and the only laughter that you can muster what then is left?

Simple.

Lose yourself in the here and now, forget what you saw, what you glimpsed, what you almost were able to reach out and touch.

Forget what you so very nearly had.

Forget the stars.

Become Earthbound … never look up again, never dare to dream of what may be one day and instead concentrate on what is today.

Live for the moment, live for the sensation.

Live.


Fine white, diaphanous drapes fluttered in the breeze that entered the room, through the crack between the partially open French doors, from the night air outside. Muted light shone through them, illuminating small particles of dust that seemed to bask in the spotlight the lunar kiss brought, weaving amongst each other in their eternal dance, competing with the almost wing like movement of the drapes themselves.

The sound of gently falling water filtered from through the slightly open doors hidden behind the drapes, it’s gentle pattering echoing faintly in nature’s staccato rhythm as the drapes continue the foray into the room, reaching out like the gentle caress of a lover’s finger teasing their partner’s skin.

Sparsely furnished, and minimal in it’s decoration, the room is no more than twenty square feet in size with a closed door in one wall, the wall opposite the drape enshrouded patio, with a large leather couch alongside it. A rectangular frame, a picture of some sort that cannot be made out in the dim light, the only ornament on this wall.

Another wall is flat and broken only by a desk that sits squarely against it, a small green lamp, reminiscent of those that grace libraries around the world, sitting to the left edge while writing paraphernalia such as reams of paper and fountain pens with small jars of ink, rest along side. A comfortable looking black leather chair is pulled back slightly from the desk, depressions in it’s surface evidence of recent occupation. Above the desk, where it’s placement shows that it could have taken obvious pride of place, is a marked and discoloured area where something large and curved once hung … a trophy perhaps … now removed and out of sight leaving but fading memories on the white painted surface.

The final wall has three rows of shelves, spaced out evenly to give enough room for large objects to have once rested, but just like the wall adjacent to it this one is also empty; the shelves main purpose in life … to bear the accolades, trophies and memories of life … now forgotten as they were relegated to nothing more than a poor example of installation art by a fan of Walter De Maria.

A cloud passes over the moon, out of sight and almost out of mind, outside the window and without even this subdued light the only illumination in the room comes from a bare bulb that hangs naked, uncovered by any decoration or shade, from the ceiling. The breeze causes this bulb to sway wildly from side to side, which in turn causes the white-washed walls to dance wildly with the shadows cast by the billowing drapes themselves. With a rattle and then a thud the patio doors suddenly open, the drapes blowing up and billowing out almost as if they are trying to escape the place in which they find themselves bound as the wind rushes in, dying down nearly as soon as it begun, the drapes coming to rest again, their slight motion the only sign that the breeze is still coming in through the double doors.

The frame above the leather couch suddenly slips off it’s moorings and falls to land on the couch below it, a result of the mini-storm that had briefly blown through the room.

As all returns to silence and normalcy the small door in the opposite walls creaks open as a silhouetted figure stands in the frame. Dressed all in dark … perhaps black … tight fitting clothing the figure is hard to define. While not exactly larger than average, standing about six feet in height in the doorway he … for it is most definitely male … seems to exude an aura that makes him seem larger than life. It could be in the fact that even while silhouetted it is obvious that he is tightly and lithely muscled, it could be in the stance of his body; a quiet and relaxed confidence. It could even be something intangible. Long hair, reaching almost to waist length, streams freely down the front his body hiding his already indistinguishable features from view … as the light bounces of it the hair is revealed to be pale blonde, so light as to be almost white. Suddenly there is a flash of brightness, of piercing white, as a throaty laugh rings out, teeth exposed briefly through bared lips until the breeze moves the hair to once more mask the oh so pale flesh.

“Tut tut, did the nasty wind bring you crashing down from your lofty perch?” comes the softly spoken jibe from the figure as he leans against the doorframe, arms folded as he seems to stare at the couch. Stepping quickly across the room, his feet bare an unadorned with footwear, his movements as light, measured and flowing as that of a world class dancer, the figure reaches down towards the frame just as another blast of air comes through the patio which sends the doors slamming open again and the bulb smashing into the ceiling itself. The room plunges into near darkness with a twinkling of glass shards that fall like glittering snow to the ground below.

“Well it seems that even nature itself wants to intrude on us here my dear” the figure continues with a his soft, accented voice that is almost sibilant in it’s intonation as he picks the frame up and stares into it at the barely formed face that can almost be made out in the gloom.

He walks over to the doors and reaches through the drapes that now, instead of their carefree dancing, seem to have murderous intent in their hearts as they wrap themselves around his upper body as if trying to choke the life out of him. Ignoring this attempt on his life … or perhaps it is nothing more than the wind through the material … the figure reaches through and shuts the doors tightly, flipping a catch that seemingly locks the doors tightly. As he turns back into the room the figure slowly walks out of the embrace of the drapes and the fall limply, beaten, back to each side of the doorway.

“Well this little sanctum of yours is so far out of the way that it is only nature that will ever find it’s way inside you know, well baring the intrusion of technology of course. Did you know that I had received a little email from the lovely people at the WWA?” the figure drawled to the frame as he leant over the couch and started to place it back on the wall, staring intently into it as if looking directly into the eyes of whoever was captured forever there.

“Of course you didn’t know, silly me, I mean I didn’t tell you did I? I know that you never approved of my ways, of my dreams, and thought that you were the only one with the God given right to make decisions for us but that has changed now. You see I decided that I would try out for the WWA, and guess what?

… oops there I go again asking you questions that you have no way of knowing the answer too … forgive me?” the figure continues as he levers the frame into place on the wall and then steps back to look at it, putting his head to one side as he checks to see if it is even.

“I am being silly again, I mean why would you forgive me for something like this when you have never forgiven me for anything else in our lives before … oh well, never mind … where was I? Oh yes, the WWA. You see I went up to their arena, met some people, signed some papers and they had a match.

Yes, I do mean a wrestling match” the figure continued as he reached out to slightly move the upper right hand corner of the frame. Seemingly satisfied with it’s placement now the figure again steps back and folds his arms, reaching one hand up to cup his chin as if in thought … though of course with his face framed by his hair and hidden in the darkness there is no way of knowing exactly what he is thinking or doing … as he continues his external musings.

“They had me face someone called Aidan Delacroix, a self styled boogie man of the modern world though unfortunately for him it seems that he should retire to some child’s closet as if the WWA thought that he would be a test for me before my acceptance into their little World they were sadly mistaken.

If it wasn’t for the fact that the arena was damnably cold I think that I would have fallen asleep half way through the match … it was SO easy!

… but I was telling you about the email.

It seems that the WWA were marginally impressed with me … or perhaps afraid of what they had seen … because no sooner did I get back here to our little home from home than I got an email letting me know that I have got my first official match.

This time against three other men at the same time … one of whom has a delightful name like Punk or Nu or something typically based around modern music … which while the WWA probably think means that I will have more trouble this time I know simply means that I get three times the fun!

…. Grunge, that was his name actually!”

Stepping backwards the figure nods his head to himself as he becomes satisfied that the frame is back in it’s perfect place. His bare feet walk over the broken glass of the shattered bulb but he doesn’t react … as if the experience of pain and the ripping of his own flesh is nothing to him, beneath his notice perhaps. Turning around slowly he walks back over to the single door and opens it, looking back over his shoulder … his face once more silhouetted by the light streaming in from the hallway beyond, light that reveals a trail of bloody footprints from the middle of the floor to where he stands now … to address the frame once more.

“Perseus was given three tasks by the Gods in order to prove himself, so I suppose that I should feel privileged that I am being given the same chance as he was. Unlike him though I don’t have to tame a flying horse or kill a Gorgon … mores the pity, instead I get to pit myself against three men who will no doubt think that I am someone to be stepped over, someone to be ignored, someone to beat perhaps? Perseus got to have all the fun. Poor little Ember though gets Ace, Bonafide and Grunge … oh joy is me.

What those three men should realise though is that while they may assume that in this match I am at a disadvantage as they have the experience and longevity behind them they are wrong … Perseus had his three tasks but they have only one task, one task that just happens to be just as difficult and legend making as the Greek heroes own.

They have to beat me.

… sorry, did I hear you say something there … do you think that I am being egotistical here?”

The figure, now known by his own lips as Ember, asks the last question as he slowly walks back into the room and stands in front of the frame again. As he stares into it, facing into the half seen face that stares back from it’s depths, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a piece of dark, smooth material. Holding this tenderly in both hands he brings it to his mouth and places a gentle kiss upon it’s surface before he covers the frame with it, draping it and enshrouding it in the material. He backs off again and walks through the door, slowly closing it behind him as he leaves.

“Oh that is right, you didn’t say anything …how could you, you are dead …” his voice trailed back into the room, fading away through the wooden door as an audible click of tumblers turning could be heard as it was securely locked.

“ … I killed you …”