Fire of Heaven…


courtesy of

Authors Note:

A writing friend, without realizing it, has reminded me of a story I was working on a few years ago that – well – has been camped out in the back of my mind fermenting, stalemated over some issues of translating faith into science fiction. Today, I’ve pulled it out from the cobwebs, brushed the dust off, and am replanting those tiny saplings of words. We’ll just see where this leads, shall we…

Miklak felt rested now, so he donned his pack and crossed between the rows of stones to the stand of willows. Underneath their shade, he found another surprise, a set of concrete benches surrounding a concrete pillar with a flame that still burned. Below that, there flowed a stream of fresh, clear water.

     Miklak approached the glowing, blue flame cautiously. He’d never seen stone burn before. This was definitely fancy technology, he thought. Unbelieving, he held out a hand.

     ‘Ow!’ He yanked back his hand and frowned. Now, he knew he was someplace the Survivors held sacred. His Father had often told him how they once used candles and flame to personify the Grand Almighty.

     Miklak fell to his knees. He prayed what he could remember of the old prayers he heard Eran use. ‘…Grand Almighty, forgive me…thy will be done. But, Grand Almighty, I only wanted water to drink. I am very thirsty, you see.’

     When the flame did not change, Miklak took that as an assent to fill his cup in the stream and drink his fill. ‘Thank you, Grand Almighty, you knew I needed this to survive. Thank you.’

     Miklak looked up to what he could see of the sky amid the branches. The sun was slowly sinking well into late afternoon. Soon, it would be dark. Miklak frowned for a moment, waging an internal war. He knelt again, before the blue flame.

     ‘Grand Almighty, you know I can’t make it back to the trail before dark. Your garden of stones is so beautiful and your fire is so warm. If you will allow, I shall make camp here with you tonight.’ Again, the flame burned on and Miklak smiled, and took it as assent.

Miklak decided to make a bench into a bed, then went to explore the stream further. It was shallow enough to be perfect for a swim, which he did. The cold water soothed his tired limbs and cleaned the smelly sweat from his body. Afterwards, he cut a sapling and fashioned a spear with one of his father’s steel points. He used the tall green grass to fashion a braided length of rope that he would use to retrieve his prey.

Miklak walked a short distance upstream, but downwind of any likely game. He crouched down behind a tree and waited. Soon, as if the Grand Almighty had ordained it, a rodent hopped to the stream’s edge for a drink.

In slow motion, Miklak raised his spear. Then, with all his strength, threw it at the rodent’s side. It made impact and the rodent screamed in a death cry. Miklak held the rope he’d tied to the spear tightly as he emerged. He killed the rodent quickly and proceeded to gut it out.

Back in the fire’s circle of light, Miklak stared at the flame. It didn’t seem right, he thought, to cook his meat in the holy flame. Yet, he still needed to cook it.

I’ll build my own fire, nearby.’ He decided, and went to gather some wood. He built up a small fire, borrowing a starter flame from the Grand Almighty’s garden altar. Spearing the rodent with a small sapling he jammed it into the ground where the meat would hang over the flame and roast to a delicious crispiness.

In due time, he was feasting. ‘And the Elders said I couldn’t hunt because I can’t run. Phooey on them!’ Miklak laughed as he licked his fingers. After eating his fill, Miklak situated himself back against one of the carved stones surrounding the flame and closed his eyes to sleep.


Grand Almighty = God, Yaweh, Jehovah, Great Spirit, whatever you choose to call your Creator.


Birthday Blessings…

Kelvin knight

C. Kelvin Knight


‘It’s bread, eat it, don’t play with it.’ Mom growled, yanking it out of my hands. Instantly, she wadded and smashed it, then shoved it back into my hand. ‘Eat it!’

I stuffed the wad in my mouth. It was hard, gooey, hard to chew. I choked.

‘Eat the damn bread or your ass is mine!’ Anger crept into her voice as she reached down to begin unfastening her belt.

I gagged the last of it down, how, I’ll never know. I still had the little heart I was going to give her tucked in my other hand. Some birthday…

wc: 100

If you would like to join the 100 word weekly writing craze known as Friday Fictioneers, please join us out at the blog of our lovely hostess, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Thank you, Kelvin Knight, for such an inspirational photo this week.  We’d love to see you stop by, and maybe even share a story with us.  You can find us all at:

The Return…

Danny Bowman

wc: C. Danny Bowman

Three months of travel, and Cutter’s idyllic Terra was a disappointment. New York City no longer held its trademark skyscrapers. They had fallen, gathering earth to become budding mountains.

Sheata inhaled the crisp air, standing on the rough road the engineers had started to clear. Terra was anything like ideal, but it was livable. In time, a new city would rise from the old. And, on the other side of the largest mound, she’d been told there was still a small island in the bay, and a statue that welcomed all immigrants to the land.

That, she had to see.

wc: 100



If you would like to join the 100 word weekly writing craze known as Friday Fictioneers, please join us out at the blog of our lovely hostess, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Thank you, Danny Bowman, for such an inspirational photo this week.  We’d love to see you stop by, and maybe even share a story with us.  You can find us all at:



C. Google Images. Poisson-Blanc, Quebec.

It was hidden, almost. Still, it afforded a good view of the lake. Most importantly, she was alone.

Day one, she patted around the cabin not even bothering to venture outdoors. A small fire in the hearth, a hot cup of tea, feet propped up, and a book in hand.  It was idyllic.

Day two, she slipped her moccasins on and ventured out to sit under the trees and watch the ducks swim by. On her lap, a sketchbook. Beside her, a set of pencils. She smiled with contentment.

Day three. The silence of the place began to grate on her nerves. The squawking of the ducks bit on her last nerve. It had rained in the night, streaming down the chimney and putting out the fire. She sighed. It was time to go home.

Packing up, she headed down to where she’d tied the canoe. It was gone.

wc: 149

Thank you once again goes to What Pegman Saw for taking us to a new place we’ve never been, this week to Poisson-Blanc, Quebec, Canada. If you’ve enjoyed this little story, then please, come out and enjoy some others at: . Just follow the prompt tag to the little blue frog… your adventure awaits.



Palace Hall

Roger Bultot smallpox hospital

C. Roger Bultot. Image of ruined Smallpox Hospital.


Sheata stood in the atrium of the grand hall, once a parquet floor, now a blanket of grass. The once beautifully tinted stained glass windows now open to the sky. Restoration. How could she even believe that such a thing could happen. And, yet…

Sheata watched as the reality melted into the holographic presentation. The stained glass once again colored the parquet floor with small colored shapes of light. The broken stones glowed high with polish, and the twinkling of the crystal chandeliers again echoed in the silence. Sheata smiled. This is how she would always remember the old school.


If you would like to join the 100 word weekly writing craze known as Friday Fictioneers, please join us out at the blog of our lovely hostess, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Thank you, Roger Bultot, for such an inspirational photo this week. I swear, I just couldn’t do it the justice it deserves. We’d love to see you stop by, and maybe even share a story with us.  You can find us all at:

Where is my Family?

Please share: If you have loved ones in the disaster zones and are looking for them, this is the place to go:

The American Red Cross Safe and Well Website is a way for people affected by a disaster to enter information regarding their welfare so family and friends can check their status. Because people self-register, the Red Cross cannot verify the information and is not responsible for any inaccuracies.

Repatriation Museum


One stature within North Korea’s Grand Monument. Picture from


Epes struck a chord animating the bronze statues. None could visit without being deeply affected. He’d seen to that. It was all part of his plan. He watched, licking his lips as people approached.

Stephen’s statue, with his hand on the shoulder of Takarna, stood looking into the future, silent. Lady Tamai stood watching over Sheata as she looked into the sea. Between them, knelt Dr. Charles “Cutter” Robert Montgomery of Earth, and the first statue to come to life.

Dr. Montgomery spoke of his role as “Cutter” in the Relocation Camps. He spoke of being forced to dissect and dismember the bodies. After him, Takarna spoke of her role as a “boiler” of the bones. Tamai spoke of her slavery to the Chr. Stephen and Sheata both spoke of their roles in the Rapatriation of the Aki.

Someone screamed.

Epes smiled. Yes, his plan was working very well, indeed.

WC: 150

Author’s Note: The best info of the very little to be found, places this statue within the Samijyon Grand Monument built in honor of Kim II Sung and revolutionary activities. The story below in no way reflects North Korea, it’s leadership, or its people. It is complete and utter fiction.

I had a hard time with this week’s write, so please forgive the disjointedness in this. It revisits characters that played a vital role in a series of science fiction stories I wrote years ago… my goto place when the muse decides to go on vacation. I seem to be on a roll with writing about this “museum” so just bear with me. After all, the journey back to Terra Firma only takes three weeks… hopefully. Then, the recolonization can begin…