The king made the fires in his furnaces as hot as his rage.  He ordered them to burn seven times hotter than normal.  The stone housing was red hot and seemed on the brink of birthing a new sun for the sky.  Several of his men had died setting the blaze.  The king did not care.  His focus, his purpose, his demonstration, was fixated on the three men who had defied him.

A crowd gathered at a safe distance.  They were silent.  The king felt the heat pouring from the stone furnace, it made him sweat under his gold crown laced with jewels.  Fear saturated his guards, and the crowd.  The three men awaiting execution, stood, looking at the blaze as if they were watching the sun rise on a Thursday morning.   The king didn’t understand why everyone but these few followed his orders.  Everyone was to bow to his monument and honor him.  Today, these three would be examples. Betrayal would have consequences.  He poured his anger out in shouting, in hitting, and in fire.

The three men were still not afraid.  They spoke calmly to the angry king.  Their belief in what they stood for, and would not bow for, was so simple and perfect in their minds that they welcomed their fate.  To yield to the king, would negate the value of what they believed in.  The value of that belief was worth more than their lives.

So, they were thrown into the blaze.  The fire grew into a sifting, swirling mass. The crowd seemed to hear it growl and hiss.  An abstract vision of a dragons ghost.  Heat and rage twist and writhe out of its formless body.  Yet, the fiery creature does not devour the three men.  They stand in its belly, as if they were standing on cool windy beach.

The king, had many times seen his furnaces lick the skin off of people.  Lives were reduced to a scream, ash, and smoke.   The three men, that he meant to kill today, did not die.  He could see them walking around in the fire, but now there were four.

Beliefs, if they are true, can never be burned.

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert

 

 

 

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/cling/

I will cling to happiness.  It is my choice.  In the depths of my mind I forge the armor that will protect it.  I fashion a shell that will house my attitude, my desire, my hope.  If I let invaders pierce its soft hide with rusty hooks, I surrender control.  My happiness has scars from the days I have failed.  Yet, scars, when pondered are scribbled wisdom left upon the survived portions of the heart.  I will cling to happiness.

I will not cling to the past.  In the darkness, heavy deeds, done by me, done by them, hang, in a blanketed fog.  A suffocating mass of sorrow falling down in a blur like a felled warplane.  Black smoke swirls and chokes happiness, the fire, burns in my heart.  I try and douse with contemplation, time, and prayer.  I look down, and smell fresh gasoline on my fingers while I hold the black lighter.  I take a deep breath.  I will not cling to the past.

Life quite possibly is a rock face.  Idleness breeds fatigue.  Wind and snow discourage.  If we stay within sight of one another, keep the heart happy, a warm yellow beacon will be lit.  It will rise to the summit.  Perhaps many will follow.  Happiness breeds encouragement.  To climb or fall? It is always my choice.  May I choose to cling to happiness.

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert

Matthew 25:14-30 may offer up a math problem.  It might be suggesting entitlement or preferential treatment.  But, I would like to think it is about a winning ‘can do’ attitude.

https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Matthew+25%3A14-30&version=NCV

I see the master as knowing the workers for a long time before he gives them this task.  He knows who to give each quantity to.  The guy that gets one, I see as the lazy guy, who worries about everything and does nothing.  So the master gives him one last chance.  I wonder if the guy who got the 5 bags was a risk taker, a hard worker, and someone with proven results.

Let’s say your a mom, and you care about your kids.  That is a bag of gold.  You raise your kids well. Congratulations!  Now you have two bags.  Perhaps you are also a writer.  You write everyday.  You can never seem to read enough.  You perfect your craft.  Someone reads something you wrote, and it makes them thing.  Boom!  There is another bag.

I read this story, and I think it is about work ethic, and drive.  It is never about making money, because talents never belonged to the workers in the first place.  It was given.

In this short life, I believe that I owe it to the one who gave me my gifts, to act upon them.  To use my time to benefit someone else.  To take my gifted skill set, and in my masters name, make it grow.  When I die, I will turn in my results.  I understand this story to cover the span of a lifetime, and not just a weekend or a year.

The guy with the one bag, perhaps had time on his hands.  The other two were busy for sure.   I wonder, if the one bag lazy guy, tried to tell the other two that they, “Would get overloaded.  Would lose everything.  Didn’t have what it took.  Wasn’t good enough.”

So I say to you, writers, parents, painters, moms, dads, students, and workers, “If you are in motion, stay in motion.  The reward is on the horizon.   God made you to do great things, don’t give up.  Don’t bury your skills.”

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/uneven/

Could it be possible, that things are uneven?

A winter storm, 10,000 feet high, in a sleepy mountain town,

two different people, two different experiences.

One wears hundreds of dollars worth of gear,

and is sweaty warm.

One clings to a thin ragged sweater, full of holes,

subzero temperatures leak thru.

Wet snow.   Blasting cold wind.

It swirls and tries to bite.

The dull ache of cold,

The teeth of winter,

only feasts upon one.

Could it be possible, that things are uneven?

One looks upon the stores and shops,

the warm scent of bread and candy fills the air.

“Hmm, what shall I buy? I’m not that hungry, but it is dinner time.”

One sees heavy brick, and frozen concrete,

though food and warmth surround,

they are held away tight,

within fortifications,

he lacks the resources to conquer.

Could it be possible, that things are uneven?

Hard work, yes, can produce warm food and clothes.

But, something often starts from something.

A carpenter without hammer and nail,

might not eat.

A painter without brush and pail,

might not have a home.

Where we begin, and where we end,

the numbers used,

to add up our days,

to multiply our wealth,

to divide resources with our family,

to subtract the sorrow,

From one to another,

It could be possible, that things are uneven.

 

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert

 

# Daily Prompt