The Words of a Dying Flame

I love superhero movies like I love breathing: they are integral to my life. I love watching people with strange powers flit across the screen, displaying their abilities and using them for the greater good of mankind, as they also struggle to fit in with the same mankind. I also love their villains, albeit cartoonish, because they need a challenge to their supposed superiority. One of these heroes is Superman: THE superhero. almost every young boy out there dreamt of being a superhero just like him, as he stood tall and strong in stature and his ideals.   Now, I wasn’t born in the 70’s or the 80’s, so the only portrayals I knew was that of Tim Daly in the Adventures of Superman, Dean Cain in Lois & Clark, Tom Welling in Smallville and Henry Cavill in Man of Steel. I single out Brandon Routh in Superman Returns because, as I’ve been told, he was meant to mirror Christoper Reeves’ version, which many regard as the template of what Superman should be like. Agreed, h...

The warm orange glow of the street lights complimented the humdrum of the city that had just woken up to flashily dressed youngins that graced every liquor store in sight, trying to find the cheapest happiness they could, all passing disapproving elders that mused on the waywardness of the youth of today, while also visiting the said establishments. Though a usual scene, it never seemed to bore him on his way home from work on Friday. In fact, it almost reminded him of his younger days, when the world ended the tomorrow and you had to make the most of it the night, only to realize that you had to wake up the following day to the memories of a bittersweet thrill in the name of having fun. He sometimes wished he could go back to those days, but life took over, and he had to grow up sometime. He made a left turn at the end of the street, meeting a more morose scene, one that had shops with broken window displays, broken pipes splurging water on the already filthy pavement, only visi...

The rooster ran out of the coop, jumped onto the pole, and puffing its chest out, cried out to the twilight heavens with all its might. Then, it looked down at the sleeping village, looked up, and cried out again just as the group was leaving its gates towards the Ung’ Mountains, where the sun nearly woke. At the front was their leader, an elder dressed in an ornamental robe and a golden, sculptural staff in his right hand supporting him when his shorter right peg failed him. Trailing him were five pre-adolescent children, who were all too eager to see ‘it’. “How does he know of it?” one girl, Shua whispered to her friend Kip. “He said he had taken many people there,” Kip replied. “Did he always dress like that?” another girl, Nanda, asked Shua as they giggled. “Maybe he’s a priest? You know those of the…” “The Old Order,” the elder said, tapping his staff on the ground and turning to address them. “No, I am not one. I am, or was, just a traveler who happened across it.” ...

Ages ago in a forest not far from here lived two butterfly sisters. One was bigger and had brighter colours that used to be admired by her fellow insects while the younger, while just as beautiful was often ignored by all except her parents. Though she wanted others to also admire her like they did her sister, she was ignored and often despised for her pale comparison to her elder sibling. As such, she grew to hate her. The older one, with such love and admiration, didn’t take long to be self-conceited and vain, on top of being mean to her younger sibling. Often when she would see her trying to spread her wings in an attempt to impress others, she would laugh so hard that she attracted the attention of others, who would also join in mocking her. This happened so much that one insect asked, “Was her beauty hidden from her?” From that day on, she was referred to as the ‘Hidden beauty.’ Fed up of her constant comparison and degradation, she asked her sister to help her. “Deare...

The night air was chilly and the moon’s light paled in comparison to the bright orange street lights that illuminated the neighborhood. With no sound of dogs barking, crickets singing, I could have sworn I walked into an episode of the Twilight Zone. Everyone was tucked away in their beds, save for an elderly man seated on the sidewalk, puffing away his cigarette, seemingly in deep thought. For his age, who wouldn’t be? I went to him and asked why he was up so late at night, but he laughed at me and replied. “Boy, it’s quite safe around here.” “What makes you say that?” “I’m sure of it.” “How can you be?” “When was the last time you ever heard of a mugging or even a death in these parts? Hmm?” I thought about it for a while, then shrugged. He stared at me for a while and asked me to have a seat right next to him. So, I did. He continued puffing large quantities of smoke that rose in the yellow glow of the street lights and disappeared into the dark sky, looking ...