(Written a while ago but probably just as – if not more – relevant today…)

Ice Heart, by Happy Tea

The block of ice was determined.

It could survive – even in this heat. If it just gathered its resolve and stayed frigid, things would be alright. The sun would be a forgotten enemy, and maybe they could one day even be friends, laughing at silly conflicts frozen in the past.

The block of ice was determined. …But it really was a hot day.

The sun smiled and the ice block started to perspire. There was no need to smile back. Frigid it would stay. …But what a gorgeous smile. So full of warmth and light and happiness.

The ice block was fighting now, feeling itself start to drip shamefully. This was no good.

And the sun continued to smile that heated, loving smile. Please stay, it seemed to say.

But the ice block got the goodbye it wanted. The sun was fading from view; they would soon be parted forever.

But the sun had its victory too. Because as it winked out of sight, all that it left behind was a slight chill and puddle of forgiving water.

The Carver.


Wednesday morning at 5 am by curlytops

He carved. By profession. By character. Everything he did had an element of cleaving to it; a sense of tearing in two.

And he fascinated her. Interesting people always had an uncanny ability to lure her in and she knew she was caving, but she did so anyway. Not exactly a moth to a flame – although these people tended to be dangerous. She was more like a phoenix, reveling in the fire that simultaneously destroyed her and gave her new birth.

She sat in front of him, cross-legged like a child, and watched as he carved a small block of wood, carefully curling back and peeling away layers of solid as if it were clay. She wondered at the delicacy of the process, the detail, the care. Transfixed by the sight, she could almost feel the knife on her. Painless cuts whittling away confusions of the past, creating new wounds that she could not yet feel the sting of. But she would. She knew she would. She was waiting for it.

Continue reading The Carver.