Overall, I think it turned out well, but could have used some work. Still, I'm proud of the end result, and was (yes) a little disappointed when I got the e-mail this morning that it didn't make the anthology. With 1,958 submissions and only 30 stories chosen, it doesn't surprise me. The best part is, this doesn't bother me - it's just motivating me to try again. It was a form letter, and I'm not sure if this was their only rejection letter, but it does also include reassurance that a lot of the stories we're great but they don't have room in the anthology. Apparently my story is still in consideration for possible future projects, but we'll have to see on that one. It'll probably take a while.
Smiling after getting a rejection is a little odd, I suppose. But it's not like I really expected to hit it right straight out of the gate. Writers are supposed to suffer - it's where we get our best material. :-) One thing about this really stressful semester is that I'm discovering what I really miss about having free time, and I love writing. I love creating in many senses, but writing, creating worlds, characters, stories, may just be my favorite. My dad mentioned to me last night one of the story ideas I came up with in sixth grade. There's still potential there. And my other characters all keep growing with me.
Step one, survive this semester. Step two, figure out what I'm doing next year. After that, I should have free time again. I'm missing NaNoWriMo again, since school and marching band take up too much of my time, but maybe next year will be better. And if I start planning now... :-) For now, maybe I'll get a picture or two together for the MoD evidence photo contest. And maybe do some homework.
For those interested, the full story is after the jump. Enjoy, and let me know what you think! I welcome any constructive criticism and would love to keep improving. (Basic background to the anthology can be found at the MoD website, link above.)
IN FLAMES
The lights, as
usual, are dazzling, nearly blinding me as I stride out into the ring. I smile
and wave at my adoring fans, their screams and cheers filling my ears. I calmly
untie the loose, white silk robe, let it fall from my shoulders and hand it to
my assistant, leaving myself wearing only flame-red silk pants. A cheer from
the women – I make a show of not acknowledging them. Next, I tie my
shoulder-length blonde hair into a ponytail and open the metal box before me,
wondering if this is the day that I will die.
The poi immediately
light with a satisfying whoosh and
the crowd collectively gasps as I pick up the handles and begin to spin. The
lights slowly lower to accentuate the light from the flames swinging on their
ropes around me. The fire circles me in mesmerizing patterns as I twist, the
flames coming near, just close enough to lick at my skin, tantalizing in their
warmth. The crowd falls into a silence, lulled by the primitive fascination
with fire that we all still share. I increase the complexity of the patterns,
five beat, eight beat, and the crowd springs to life again, cheering me on.
Cheering me on as I defy death – my death.
Every night I dance
with the fire, with fate, the music swelling behind me, the crowd screaming its
adoration until I’m spinning in such a frenzy of primitive power that it seems
I cannot stop – but every night I do. Each one so far, that is.
“Give it up
everyone, for the amazing IN FLAMES!” cries the announcer in the showman’s
voice that has not much changed through the ages. I bow, again and again, the
flames snuffed out in the metal box. My assistant brings my robe again, and I
reach into the pocket as I exit the ring, my fingers sliding over the white
card from which I get my name. The card that tells me how I’m going to die.
* * *
Every night I
perform goes like that, and this one had been no different. I returned to my
dressing room after mingling, posing for pictures, and signing autographs to my
manager’s content. With a sigh, I sank into my chair, picking up a washcloth
and bowl of water to wipe the sweat off my skin. The cool water was a welcome
change from the heat of the flames and the crowd. After a few minutes, I heard
three soft knocks on my door.
“Come on in,” I called
out, rewetting the washcloth and beginning on my shoulders. I saw in the mirror
a beautiful woman, who was both my manager and ringside assistant, still in her
white leotard with sequined flame motifs. She took the washcloth and began
wiping down my back. “Good show tonight, huh?”
“Of course dear,”
she replied with a smile, leaning down to kiss my neck. “It always is. Dazzling
the crowd, enchanting the ladies…” She trailed off and arched an eyebrow at me,
her full red lips twitching as she tried to conceal her smirk. I hooked an arm
around her waist and pulled her into my lap in response.
“I’ve got the only
woman I’ll ever need,” I responded, turning on the charm full-blast as I leaned
into her for a deep kiss. Manager, assistant, and wife. We make a good team.
She laughed, a dark,
resonant sound that makes me fall more in love with her whenever I hear it. Her
hand strayed to her stomach as it often had in the past few months and she
frowned. “Either I’m gonna need a different outfit or you’re going to need a
new assistant for a bit.”
“Well, we both know
that I can’t have an obviously pregnant woman driving down the sex appeal of my
show.”
She crosses her arms
and arches that eyebrow again, “Oh, you’re saying I don’t have sex appeal?”
“Only to the men
dragged along by the women who are fawning over me,” I casually reply, flipping
my hair over my shoulder.
“You’re horrible,
you know that?” she replied, wrapping her arms around my neck for another kiss.
“In the best
possible way.”
* * *
Daredevilry started
to go out of vogue with the advent of the Machine. When everybody knew how they
were going to die and became obsessed with avoiding it, stunts weren’t so
exciting anymore. When a guy who’s been jumping motorcycles over cliffs his
whole life draws CANCER, nobody’s impressed anymore. It doesn’t matter anymore
how much skill it takes – that’s not how he dies, so the audience grows bored.
It makes me think of
the Roman gladiators. At the beginning of the match, they address the emperor:
“We who are about to die salute you!” They knew how they were going to die – in
the ring. That’s what gave me the idea. I was one of the first in a new line of
daredevils – those who tempt the very death foretold in our blood.
The machine wasn’t
new when I started. I’d been tested at birth, a normal practice for babies. My
grandfather tells stories of the days when the Machine first hit doctor’s
offices, the way people did crazy things to avoid their death and died in
crazier ways. By the time I graduated high school, things had calmed down a bit.
People on the whole weren’t quite okay with death yet, but they didn’t go as
far out of their way to avoid it.
When a friend of
mine in college first spun poi for me, using glowsticks on the ends of two
strings, I was transfixed, and I knew then and there that it was my calling. He
looked at me like I was crazy when I asked him to teach me. It took some
coaxing, since he didn’t want to be responsible for my death. I started small –
from socks to glowsticks, and, eventually, to fire. It’s actually very calming
– the rhythm is soothing and there’s such an ancient, primitive power to fire
that it’s captivating. And every time I douse the flame at the end, there’s
that thrill that I cheated death for another day.
I started small,
with outdoor exhibitions around campus. It was my friend who thought of using
my death card for advertising. My parents called, fretting over it. Worrying
that I was throwing my life away, my career, my education. It wasn’t until they
saw me perform for the first time that they started to understand why I would
want to do it. Though I’m still not sure how much my mother actually saw
through the gaps between her fingers.
* * *
I smile at the
memory of those days as I look at my reflection in my dressing room mirror. I
go through the simple motions of getting ready for a show, trying to trace back
what brought me to this moment.
* * *
I met Karen after
one of my shows senior year. The tall brunette immediately caught my eye when she
walked up like she already owned the place.
“Hi, I’m Karen.
Business and marketing major. I think you’ve got some serious potential.”
“I’m Connor. English
and History major, with a minor in death-defying stunts,” I replied with a wry
smile, meeting her handshake.
“Pleased to meet
you.” Her slight grin was her only response to my joke. She waved a hand around
at my makeshift setup, complete with multiple fire extinguishers. “Were you
thinking of taking this act on the road?”
“Well, I’d certainly
love to be able to. Care to discuss it over dinner?”
She smiled and
slipped me a card. “You can pick me up at 8.”
Maybe that
confidence stood out. Perhaps it just grew because of the proximity our
business arrangement leant us. Whatever it was, I fell for her fast and hard.
It wasn’t until a few months later, though, that I really understood that fate
meant for us to be together. We had been out for dinner and dancing and she
came back to my apartment for drinks. On our third bottle, she swirled the wine
in her glass and looked at me.
“FIRE,” she said, simply.
“Um, yes… that’s
what I do. Spin fire around, maybe you remember?”
“No, silly,” she
giggled, reaching into her pocket to produce a white card with block black
lettering: FIRE. “Fire. ‘S how I die. Isn’t that funny?”
“If you die in a
fire what are you doing hanging around a guy who spins it around his head for a
living?”
“If you die IN
FLAMES, what are you doing spinning fire around your head in the first place?”
“Touché.”
She put her glass
down on the table and leaned in close to me. “Maybe I like the danger. Maybe
it’s because when I’m with you, it just doesn’t matter how much time we have
left.” And with that, she moved forward and we shared the first of many kisses
to come.
* * *
In the next year,
Karen proved herself to be an invaluable partner in the show. She critiqued my
routines, booked venues, sweet-talked theatre managers and fire inspectors, and
drove the marketing.
“Your name is a
brand,” she used to tell me, “and we have to sell it.” She organized photo
shoots, charity appearances, interviews, even entertaining for birthday
parties. We clocked more than forty hours for most weeks that first year, and I
knew I couldn’t have kept up the discipline without her. The passion that she’d
brought into my life was matched only by the adrenaline rush I found through
spinning.
One night, about a
year in, she dozed on my shoulder after a long day of rehearsals and meetings.
It was a night like so many others that we had shared, but it sticks out in my
mind because it was in that moment that I decided to ask her to marry me. After
two months of preparation – mainly covertly shopping for a ring and steeling my
nerves – I told her I was going bar-hopping with a couple of friends and went
instead to her parents’ house to get their permission.
I unlocked the door
to our small apartment, one sweaty hand clasping the small box in my jacket
pocket. As I kicked off my shoes, Karen jumped up off the couch and ran towards
me. Before I could even say hello, she slapped me across the face. I stared at
her stony expression for a split second before she burst into tears and hugged
me.
“Oh Connor, I
thought something had happened to you!”
“I’m fine, dear,” I
responded, confused, putting my arms around her.
She pulled away
abruptly. “I thought you died.”
“What?”
Karen pointed to the
television, which was showing a news story about a downtown bar that had caught
fire earlier that night.
“Oh.”
“I’ve been calling
you for hours. And your friends. How is it that none of you picked up?”
I panicked for a
second as I reviewed my friends’ death cards in my mind: nothing about fire,
they were likely fine. Hopefully.
“We’re all fine. My
phone battery died. We must have been at McCarthy’s on the other side of town.”
Karen just shook her
head and went back to the couch, picking up the pillow she was hugging when I
came in. I sat down next to her, but she turned away and buried her face in the
pillow.
“Karen, I’m sorry.” She
still didn’t respond. I knew that I should just come clean and tell her where
I’d been, but somehow it didn’t seem like the right moment in which to propose.
I was at a loss for words for a minute before finally giving up. “Karen, I
don’t know what to tell you. I’ve never seen you like this.”
Slowly, she lifted
her head out of the pillow and sighed. “Connor, I’m good with people. I’m good
at reading how to market to them, how to get what I want out of them. I can
charm almost anybody – I’m good at my job. But I’m not good at losing people.
I’m not good at being alone. I knew that I could let myself fall in love with
you because our cards are the same. We could die in the same fire. And then I
wouldn’t be left behind.”
“You told me once
that it doesn’t matter how much time we have left –”
“Yes, because I’ve
been entertaining this fantasy that we’ll burn together.”
I wrapped my arms
around her. “And we may yet. But what matters now is that I’m still here and
I’m not going anywhere.”
She pulled back
slightly and looked up at me, tears filling her brown eyes. Her lip quivered as
she said, “I just can’t stand the thought of losing you.”
At that moment, I
knew the time was right. I slid off the couch onto one knee, pulling the box
out of my jacket pocket. As I opened the box, I asked her, “I want to be with
you for the rest of our lives – to hold you close as we meet our fate. Karen,
will you marry me?”
* * *
I brush away a tear
as I pace around the dressing room, watching the clock count down the seconds
until my performance. I have never again gotten quite as nervous as that day,
but I am coming close now.
* * *
As my show gained
popularity, moving from fairgrounds to opening for other acts, eventually into
legitimate theatres, I was approached by other fire spinners. Most of them had
cards that nothing to do with fire at all, so they couldn’t get booked on the
daredevil card. I began to build my show into an ensemble of fire spinners and
performers, in homage to that primitive power that I’m utterly fixated on. But
I always remained the final act, the pièce de résistance.
Truth be told, it
would be pretty hard for me to die while spinning. But crazier things have
happened in the wake of the Machine. People have started to come to terms with
knowing how they’re going to die, but we are still fixated on it. No matter how
much people try to avoid their foreseen death, it tracks them down. Anybody
else spinning is just a cool spectacle; when I spin, it’s the possibility that
something will go horribly wrong that keeps my audiences coming. Morbid, but it
pays the bills.
* * *
I will never forget
the day that Karen told me we were going to have a baby. I couldn’t believe it.
I hugged her like I would never let go and kissed her with more passion than
our wedding night. That night I held her as we lay in bed side by side, my arm
around her, resting on her stomach.
“A baby. Our baby.”
I said for the thousandth time that night.
“Yes,” she sighed,
nuzzling closer into my body.
“Do you think he’ll
be blonde? Or will she get your eyes?”
She laughed. “I have
no more of a way of knowing than you.”
“Names, we have to
start thinking of names!”
“Oh, we’ve got time
to figure that out,” she murmured, hugging me.
“Well what about
your brains? Or my… my… “
“Way with words?”
she suggested.
“Exactly. Maybe that’s
the next president, or maybe he’ll invent something. Karen, this kid could
change the world!”
“Connor, I’m not
even out of the first trimester. It’s early yet. Besides, you can change the
world in smaller ways.”
“I know, Karen. It’s
just so exciting. We’re going to have a baby, a little bit of you and me. And
we can teach him everything we know, like poi, and reading, and sewing, and
bike-riding, and playing tea party, and math, and…” I trailed off as I noticed
Karen looking at me. “What?”
“I just always knew you’d make a good father,” she replied, kissing me.
“I just always knew you’d make a good father,” she replied, kissing me.
* * *
I stood by Karen in the obstetrician’s office a few
months later, holding her hand as the doctor carefully inserted the needle into
her swollen belly. He turned and placed the blood sample into a black box,
which whirred and spit out a small white card. I squeezed Karen’s hand as the
doctor handed her the card. She took a deep breath, exhaled, and flipped the
card.
Two familiar words
stared back at us: IN FLAMES.
* * *
I have to sit down
at my mirror again, remembering the simple event that changed everything. I try
to stop, to focus instead on performing, but the memories keep coming.
* * *
Karen didn’t speak
for the entire drive back to our small apartment. She clutched the card,
occasionally glancing back to check if the words were still the same. It wasn’t
until she sat down at the kitchen table that she showed any sign of life.
“You have to stop
performing.”
I stopped where I
was, standing in the middle of the small kitchen with a frying pan in one hand
and a bag of frozen stir-fry in the other. She stared up at me with those
pleading brown eyes I’ve never been able to say no to. But this time I couldn’t
even respond. I settled for continuing to prepare dinner.
“Connor, please. I
can’t – I want to have – he has to have a father.”
“But it’s not that
you’re worried about.” The level tone of my voice surprised me. Even my hands
were shaking as they opened the bag of vegetables. “You’re worried that he’ll
never see the light of day.”
She dropped the card
on the table in front of her and buried her face in her hands. I couldn’t
comfort her; I didn’t know how. For a
time the only sounds were the sizzling in the pan and Karen’s occasional sob. I
served us two bowls and steered her into the living area, onto the couch. We
ate there, in silence, leaning into one another. Dinner finished, I put the
bowls in the sink and returned to her, wrapping my arms around her.
“I can’t stop,” I
whispered.
“Stop what?” she
asked quietly, though I think she knew and dreaded the answer.
“Performing.”
“You have a good
degree. You could teach or get a job at a –”
“But that would mean
giving in.”
“Giving in? To what,
to your wife?”
“To that goddamned
slip of paper.”
At this she sat up,
looking me straight in the eye so I could understand the full extent of a
mother’s love. “To the way you’re going to die. But this isn’t about you – this
is about our son!”
I couldn’t handle it
anymore, couldn’t hold it in any longer. I got up and began pacing around the
room. “Karen, I can’t start planning my life around this paper now! Look, we’re
gonna die the way we’re gonna die, right? It doesn’t matter whether I stop
spinning poi or if we avoid candles for the rest of our lives – we’re all dying
in a fire.” She started to cry. I knelt at her feet, my hands on her shoulders.
“Maybe it’s not the same one, maybe it is! All I know is that I’ve lived my
life defying this card, challenging it. I can’t stop now. The day I let that
card get the better of me is the day I stop living.”
There was a
deafening silence as she stared at me, more tears welling up in her eyes.
“Oh, Connor, I’m
just scared for him!” She dove forward into my arms, sobbing into my shoulder.
“I know,” I breathed
into her hair, “I am too.”
* * *
I tried one last
time as I left the house to convince her to go with me, but she just shook her
head and stood on tiptoe to kiss me before sending me off and shutting the
door. I had decided to walk the few blocks to the theatre in an effort to clear
my mind.
What am I doing? I thought. Why
am I out challenging fate with a wife at home and a kid on the way?
I studied the faces
of those I passed. The man who sighed as he exited the burger restaurant with a
salad – HEART ATTACK. The woman carrying her high heels, having swapped them
for sneakers, and walking on the sidewalk close to the buildings – CAR CRASH.
The family who drove by, car laden with suitcases, with out-of-town plates –
one of them had to be a PLANE CRASH. People did sensible things to avoid
tempting fate, to get the longest life they could. By eating healthy, avoiding
cars and planes as much as possible, they could live long, normal lives.
Why couldn’t I do
that? It would be a simple enough thing in this day and age to avoid fire. There’s
no need to take unnecessary risk. Everything
in my kitchen is electric; there’s no fireplace, no candles – my parents didn’t
even let me have birthday candles on my cakes when I was young. It wouldn’t be
so hard. I walked the rest of the way to the theatre, stewing over this idea,
acutely aware of the metal box thumping against my leg.
* * *
I break out of my
reverie and steal a small peek through the curtains at the assembled crowd,
letting out a low whistle. “Packed house.”
“You never fail to
bring in the crowds,” replies the theatre’s manager, Pete. “It’s why I always
find a time to book you. Where’s your lovely wife?”
I let the curtain
fall back into place, and then turn to face my friend with a smile. “Oh, she’s
taking a break from assisting.” I comically scoop my hands in front of my
belly. “Baby on the way, you know.” How could I explain to him that she’d
stayed home to ensure all three of us didn’t fall to the same fire before the
baby was even born? How I wasn’t sure if she’d come around again at all?
“Right, right. I was
hoping to see her.”
“Well, you’ll have
to bring your husband back to our place for dinner sometime.”
“Sounds good to me. You
set with a different assistant?”
“I think I’m just gonna do it without her tonight.”
Pete looks at me skeptically. I smile back at him,
trying to transmit more confidence than I am feeling. He responds with his own
smile. “Just let me know if you need anything. But what I am standing here
chatting for? You’ve got a show to put on and I’ve got fire extinguishers to
find. We’ll talk about dinner after.” He
winks, claps me on the back and walks off, ordering stagehands around as he
goes.
As I go back to my
dressing room it occurs to me that this is the first show Karen hasn’t attended
since the one at college. Since we met. I push the thought from my mind, focusing
instead on my performance, my most complicated to date. I always like to push
myself, to learn new tricks and better combinations, but in the weeks since
that doctor visit I’d applied myself even more to the task.
No matter how much I
focus on the patterns, the motions that usually calm my nerves, I can’t shake the
creeping feeling of dread. I’m drawing close to thirty years old and still
acting like a kid – playing with fire just for… what? The fun? The adrenaline
rush? To give the middle finger to fate? Spinning in college was one thing, but
now I’ve got more people counting on me, more people than myself to live for.
In what seems like
no time at all, a stagehand is knocking on my door, letting me know it is show
time. I stand behind the curtains again, waiting for the announcer to finish
his introduction.
The curtain rise and
I am blinded by the lights, but I smile and wave as the crowd erupts into
cheers. I calmly untie the robe and let it fall from my shoulders, pausing
momentarily before remembering and tossing it aside with a flourish. I flip
open the lid of the box, normally steady hands trembling, hear again the
familiar whoosh of the poi lighting,
and pick up the handles. The lights dim and the crowd hushes, knowing my moment
is about to begin.
I begin to spin,
slowly at first, alternating simple patterns with more complex ones, working my
way up to the new routines I’d been practicing. Once the fire was twirling
around me, I began to relax, calmed by the familiar rhythms. Weaves, butterflies,
over my head, wrapping around, the fire spinning faster and faster, the air
around me heating, the crowd alternately in amazed silence and adoring cheers –
this, I take a moment to think, is why I do this. I wrap the ropes tighter
around my hands and bring the poi spinning in a tight wheel between my arms in
front of me, then let them loose in a wide arc around me.
I step around as I swing and the poi wrap around my arms
then unwind, the momentum carrying me into the next trick. I sweep the poi around
quickly then slow, stopping them for a beat – the balls of flame hover for a
moment in space and time until I flick my wrists and it’s all motion again. I
move to the front of the stage and dramatically sweep my arm forward, brushing
one poi to the ground as the other arcs high behind me. The flames lap at the
fire-proofed stage and find the channel of oil.
The crowd gasps in awe and delight as the ring of flame
spreads around me. I move back to the center, still spinning. Again, I spin
faster, five beat, eight beat, the poi tracing elaborate patterns in the air
around me. I move to one end of the circle, twist, and leap across the circle.
For a moment I’m suspended in the air, twisting in a full circle, the poi
spinning around me, the flame of the circle seeming to reach out towards me. In
that instant I’m reminded of demons reaching up from Hell.
I come down to the stage and feel my landing ankle give.
The other foot hits but cannot stop the inevitable. My legs hit, my torso, my
head.
Time slows down. I
am aware of a searing pain in my right forearm, the growing heat of the flames,
the sweat rolling down my bare back. Somewhere in the back of my head I’m
trying to place the stench. The heat ripples the air around me. I am cut off,
alone in this world of fire.
Karen was right. I’m going to die, and my son will have no father. The
flames seem to leap higher in agreement. The pain spreads to my hand and I feel
the fire more intensely, inches from my head.
Moments, disjointed,
flash before me. My parents. Karen’s smile on our wedding day. The first time I
spun. When Karen told me she was pregnant. Various shows, crowds, cheering…
cheering for me… but always Karen, always us, and now the baby.
No father. No husband. I am a fool. The oranges and reds overwhelm
my vision as I feel the pain creep further up my arm. Why did I have to try?
A new heat snaps me
from my reverie as my pant leg begins to catch fire. Fire-resistant, but not fire-proof. Like me.
No. I resolve,
survival instinct kicking in. Not if I can
help it.
I roll to the right, tucking myself to stay inside the
circle. Suddenly, I place the scent. Burning hair. I reach up with my good hand
and smother the fire on what is left of my ponytail, ignoring the pain in my
palm. I continue my roll and hop to my feet. I spin around, panting, to face
the audience. Somehow, the showman in me kicks in as I spread my scalded arms
in triumph. I bend over and pick up the handles again, the poi dangling at my
sides, the popping and hissing of the flames mocking me.
Part of me registers the scorch marks on the stage as I
carefully settle the poi and fall into a simple turning pattern as I collect my
nerves. The crowd hardly knows how to react, until a few people begin clapping.
I shake my head curtly to the hesitating stage hands, who slowly return to the
wings.
I begin to wonder if I really can keep going. My hands
and arm scream in pain. My ankle throbs, as do the hip and shoulder I landed
on. Just when I was going to give in, I look up and see her. Through the lights,
the heat, the crowd, I see my Karen, standing in the back, clapping, cheering
me on. I grin, nod at the crowd and continue the show, more sure of myself than
ever before. Later they would say it was my finest performance ever.
After my bows, I am rushed offstage by a medic. As she
chides me about continuing the show in my state, I grab my robe and pull the
card out of the pocket. Its purpose, as it always has been, is to remind me of
one thing: flames will still get me in the end. That’s it – no matter how hard
I try, how careful I am, I will somehow die IN FLAMES. Just as a heart attack
will eventually find that man, and that woman will someday get hit by a car – I
will die IN FLAMES.
I may die by fire,
but I can still control it. I can swing it around my head every time I perform
and extinguish it and know that it has not gotten me that day. I practice
rigorously so that I will be in complete control – so I can ensure that it will
not be my spinning that causes my demise.
After the medic has properly addressed the immediate
needs of my burns and wrapped my swelling ankle, I go out to the lobby, late
for my usual autograph session. The gathered crowd fills the room, and there is
a reverent hush when I enter, followed by a cheer. As Pete organizes the crowd
filing around for autographs, pictures, even just for the opportunity to
gingerly shake my injured hand, I reflect on them. The crowd really is pulling
for me the whole time. Like maybe if I can control my fate, they can retain
some degree of control in their own lives.
Karen squeezes through the crowd to embrace me. The
pressing crowd falls back as I hold her.
“I thought I was going to lose you,” she sobs into my
chest.
“Not if I can help it,” I whisper into her ear.
“I am the master
of my fate / I am the captain of my soul” – it’s from the poem “Invictus”
by William Ernest Henley. Of all the things I read for my English major, it
remains one of my favorites. Invictus – Latin for unconquered.
That is me, IN FLAMES: unconquered.
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