Post by Jove Belane on Jun 19, 2017 23:13:36 GMT -5
SUPERNOVA.
Silence often has introspection in tow. The hush shouts that the city has been left behind. Only stars cast light from above and from below, a crackling campfire illuminates the sparse earthen floor surrounding it. The fire crackles, but only frames the silence--somehow amplifying it.
Self reflection without technology as a guide. The thought process void of the ease of learning through typing questions into a Google search engine. There is no social media here--the masses lurch back and forth ceaselessly, yet, their loud anxious eagerness is muted here.
Another log drops on the fire and it’s dry--so dry that it almost immediately catches fire and throws higher flames up like tendrils reaching for the night sky above.
The flames lightly illuminate Jove Belane who is the sole occupant of the scene, meditating by flame.
“What a struggle it would be if mankind had technology ripped from its flexed sweating fingers. With mass media silenced, how would mankind seek attention? Would mankind draw from ancient wisdom or would the masses simply yearn for the readiness of prescribed thought?”
Jove lets out a chuckle as he leans forward to stoke the fire with a stick. The fire crackles and erupts as he turns over a log, revealing the hot coals beneath.
“Mankind has grown, much like this fire, burning hotter and hotter with each step forward. Each step it burns--each step it needs more fuel. Pick your poison. Who stokes the fire of humanity, ensuring it finds the ample fuel to burn hotter? Who nurses this heat?”
Jove throws another log onto the fire. Again, the fire wraps its tendrils around the new piece and begins to include it among the other flaming logs--now casting even larger flames and brightening the surroundings more. Now Jove’s face is lit clearly with an orange hue.
“Too many fires burn without control and without someone to nurse the fire along, it burns out.”
Jove wets his whistle with a gulp of an amber liquid from a clear bottle. He sets the bottle down beside him and clears his throat.
“Kimitsu Zombie and Azrael were not prepared. The burned bright, but they rendered inert when the oxygen was cut off before they could gulp it down into their desperate lungs. Zaylee Flynn, the next bright burning flame, takes the stage next. Will she brighten the world with her presence? Will she save the world with her Googled thoughts and Twittered threats? A flame as bright as hers requires all of the fuel in the world, doesn’t it?”
There’s a loud pop as a log bursts--the logs roll over and fall--forcing Jove to throw another log onto the fire.
“Zaylee Flynn represents a question mark and it’s bold and loud and she hides behind it. If by design or simple ignorance, she uses this as a weapon. How can an opponent prepare for an unknown? How can a flame of unknown origin like hers, be extinguished?”
The flames wax and wane and with each transition, Jove’s face is illuminated and cast off into darkness. He pulls a twig from the fire and uses it to light a cigarette. He exhales.
“Zaylee Flynn pulls no punches and she’s not politically correct. This fact will be emblazoned upon social media for as long as mankind has the ability to keep the ones and zeros intact. She’s ready to frighten the world with the ‘reality’ residing behind her self described beautiful countenance. You know the one--the face she makes before she ‘murders’ someone.”
Jove can’t help but laugh.
“Yet another opponent who really believes that this sport can be so fatal. She is yet another in a long line of those who believe that empty threats, never before backed up, have meaning. These are but words which will one day be deleted by Zaylee herself or destroyed when the machine finally stops running. Me? I will be alive and I will be right here, nursing the last fire mankind will ever know. The fire of life. The real fire. The one you touch, then pull back a burned hand. My fire is not one which only resides upon my lips or is the result of hours of thumb typing out one hundred and forty characters or less… I leave that up to my hipster jerk of an agent. Let him be desperate. Let him be desperate-just like Zaylee Flynn.”
Jove inhales another drag of the cigarette and holds the cigarette in his teeth as he drops another log onto the fire.
“How long can this fire burn, Zaylee? How long can you hide behind your technology?”
He exhales as the newest log joins the others within the blazing inferno.
“Zaylee Flynn wants attention. She wants you to look into her eyes and see something she hopes exists within her. Yet, can she truly channel this inner person she wishes to display on social media? She surrounds herself with like-minds who even call themselves ‘the society’ and they can have it. The same society they wish to represent all follow false leaders and idols. At times, those idols are the ones they see when they gaze into the mirror. Fine. Have it. Love it. Let them find out what happens when the fire burns too bright, too soon, and falters before being extinguished forever.”
Jove looks up to the stars above and shows his teeth before taking another drag off his cigarette.
“We can hope to be stars one day, but even stars eventually go supernova and burn out. Right now, even as we gaze at the stars above, we see some bright lights which have long since burned out leaving only the distance it takes the light to travel to earth as the only proof they ever existed to begin with.”
Jove looks back down at the fire.
“Zaylee wants to be one of these stars, but has she already gone supernova and burned out? Was there ever a fire there to begin with? She portrays this woman who has everything together, pulls no punches, and is ready to murder anyone, but…”
Jove’s teeth shine as he smiles.
“Yes, there’s a ‘but’... Zaylee’s need for attention on social media showed her hand. She calls out for her father on father’s day. He passed on when she was only twelve. She did not have enough time to know him, yet she knows she must apologize for being a ‘fuck up’. She wants attention from the masses behind this social media to replace years of attention she can never get from her father. Rest in peace, she says. Yet, can he truly be at peace? Can he be at peace, knowing that the feminine proof of his existence has already become a fatalist at such a young age? How long will she last if the attention is cut off? Happy father’s day.”
Jove pulls up the bottle and takes another swig. He swallows hard this time, takes another drag off of his cigarette, and flicks the butt into the fire.
“She’ll last about as long as this fire would, if I turned my back on it. The fire, just like Zaylee, without attention, will burn out--eventually leaving ash. Ash, only to be blown away when the wind picks up--destroying any trace of its existence. There’s no safety for her. There’s no safety for her, knowing she’ll never look into her father’s eyes again. She will never gain his approval--the same approval she seeks in her peers and those looking on blankly at the bright white screen as they’re logged into twitter-dot-com.”
Jove stands up and from the darkness he produces a four liter jug of liquid.
“Zaylee Flynn is a bright burning fire. She has the window of social media to find the attention she so desperately needs. Yet, soon, she will step into the ring with me and she will have my attention. Only, my attention will not be the kind she so yearns for. She has herself figured for a titan, yet, she is a lost girl wishing her father could rise from the grave and tell her she’s not a ‘fuck up’. Too bad, so sad. We all deal with loss in our life.”
With one thumb, Jove spins the cap off the bottle.
“Zaylee Flynn’s fire will burn out on it’s own, but, I plan on giving it a little push.”
Jove holds the bottle up and right before he turns it, he says…
“Zaylee, your fire burned too bright, too soon. Now it’s--Lights Out.”
With that said, Jove tilts the bottle and douses the fire with water. The fire hisses as the water splashes onto it and soon the fire loses the battle and goes out in rage of smoke and nothing can be seen.
The scene is pitch black but you know the camera is rolling by the sound of water dripping. Then the scraping sound of metal on concrete that makes your eardrums feel like they might burst from the pressure.
“The number one fear of most people is the dark.”
The voice is not familiar to the audience though. It is female, more of an alto then a soprano. There is an undertone of sadness in it, like the voice belonged to someone who had long had the happiness sucked right from the depths of her soul.
“Anything could happen in the dark and you would never see it happening. I lived most of my teenage years in dark places but I learned to be more comfortable in the dark, then in the light.”
The dripping sound seems louder but it's only because without the visual picture of the speaker, your other senses have picked up the slack.
“I became really good at listening, and smelling. It made me good at hiding. Good at staying alive. Something you need when you don’t have a home. It also made me good at using my surroundings to my advantage, so when I was offered the chance to train, I naturally was able to adapt to the ring like I could any dark alley.”
The light suddenly comes on, making it seem almost too bright for your eyes after an extended period of eternal black. The dark haired woman sitting on the chair in front of the camera is sitting forward, her forearms resting on her thighs. She’s dressed in skinny jeans, a dark wash with strategic frayed holes that were currently, ‘in fashion’. She is wearing a short, black leather jacket that hit her waist and flattered her thin muscular frame. The shirt underneath is a red tank top, low enough to show off her natural, full bosom. Her piercing blue eyes bore into you, the same enticing colour as a tropical ocean. They are unwavering and give away no indication of the inner turmoil this young woman had just described. Her dark hair is loose around her face, creating something of a curtain.
“For those that don't know me, I am Zaylee Flynn and no, that isn't the slave name I was born with. But that doesn't matter. What matters now is that now that I am here in Union Battlefield, and I am here to strike fear into every single person that gets into the ring across from me. I am here to tell all you fuckers that I care about very few people in this world and number 1 at the top of that list is yours truly.”
She puts a hand to her breast bone. Her black fingernails are noticeable and they also call attention to the very faint ring like scar around the young woman’s neck.
“Jove. Well this sorry hunk of man-meat is the first to feel my wrath. I would say I was sorry... but I’m really not. I regret nothing in life. He is just another name on my list of the people I don’t give a rats ass about. And you know what, I get that you had some rough shit happen. A victim of the grim reaper coming to collect his due on people that seem way to young to get their ticket punched but I am not going to use that as an excuse to sit around and be a piece of shit. I survived. I fought back and didn't let anyone push me down. I kept getting up and each time, I came back just that little bit stronger. At least you had a roof over your head, money someone could steal. All I had was what I could carry. Now I am not looking for sympathy or a hand-out. I just want to get what I am due.”
She smiles but it is like one you might imagine a snake or tiger would make in animation right before winning.
“A chance. The Society is all about standing for people, who like us, are written off before being given a chance to earn their shot. I trained, just the same as you. You started out as a rookie too and someone somewhere gave you that foot in the door. Why can’t we have the same? Why do all you assholes gotta put us down without even knowing us. We are wrestling's ‘misfit toys’ just waiting for Santa to take us somewhere we belong. We stand for all the little guys that have been overlooked, typecasted and cast aside. Even here, it's a popularity contest. Sure you gotta have skills but if you got big tits and a willing mouth, you get unexplained title shots. You’re a monster of a guy with a silver tongue and superman’s abs, you got people falling all over themselves to sign you. But if you are a big mouthed street kid who has more talent than most of the brainless bimbos and arrogant steroid jocks you just get brushed aside like trash. I LIVED in trash, yes but I am NOT trash. I never shot my arm up and left tracks. I never degraded myself to fucking for loose change and I sure as shit never begged for nothing. I had to work harder than all of you and look now, here I am right here where you all are and that pisses you off. Jealousy is a fickle mistress though. She will turn on you in a second.”
She looks around the almost empty room.
“This right here, is an abandoned hospital in upstate New York. I lived in this room during the winter months when sleeping outside would kill you. Believe me, if you can spend nights here, in the dark, listening for every little noise, facing some melancholy widow in a ring is child’s play.”
She smiles again.
“You all want to write me off as a 15 minutes of fame, go ahead. But when the lights go out and you are looking for an escape, you won’t be the one leaving a winner.”
The lights go out again and Zaylee laughs. It echoes in the room. The distinctive sound of a match is struck and it flares to life in front of the camera. It only illuminates Zay’s fingers holding the match and her vibrant eyes.
“Ironic that the show, is called Lights Out isn't it?”
A devious smirk pulls up the corners of her lips.
“Hope you are not afraid of the monsters that live in the dark.”
She blows out the match right before it hits her fingers.
“Because I am one!” her voice takes on a gravelly anger filled tone. It echoes eerily before the camera shuts off.
*** :::OFF CAMERA:::
Zaylee holds her phone in her hands, it shakes and you realize her hands are trembling. Seems out of place for the girl that seems to exude confidence. She takes a deep breath before typing.
Zay: You ever rode on a motorcycle?
The person’s name being texted cannot be made out.
Txt: That's an odd question but no why?
Zay: Get your butt down here and you'll learn the answer
Zay pulls down the visor on her helmet and pockets the phone. She straddles the bike, between her legs, waiting patiently for whoever it was she texted. You can hear her sigh deeply as she looks up. A male voice can be heard.
“See this is something I would have never guessed."
