Too Short For Words

Not A Hero

The pencil bubbled, slowly melting, crawling down my fingertips down to the base where my palm became a cup.

Ugh. Happened like the ninth time today.

I threw the melted pencil rock into the trash can lying beside me - which was almost filled to the brim with them.

It's been a few weeks since the incident. What incident you ask? Well here, let me imagine it for you.

Imagine a normal, teenage guy, just studying his highschool days away when all of a sudden a bright flash of light appears in front of him and his days of boredom turn into heroic moments of justice and peace. 

Well, I wished there were like that. All I got was some stupid power that melts anything I touched, no bright light, no voice from the heavens, it wasn't heroic at all. And it's not like I had the time either - do you know how hard it is to try do homework when all your pens are melting away? That's what I thought. So there I was, lying on my bed. Nothing ever happened when my hands were touching myself, so for most of the time I slept whenever I was alone. 

Then again, there was a feeling, a consciousness that told me I should be out there doing what I can with the ability that I have - that feeling to just jump out his second floor window and find out what I could do with myself. Maybe I could control my melting, to the point that I would melt the air around me into droplets of water. Or be able to physically 'throw' my liquefaction - that's what I thought it was - forward, maybe melt whatever was in front of I without actually making contact with it...

I dreamed at the possibility, but I never felt like I could make them come true. No, I would never make them come true. Ever. 

Desire, but not the Time.

Want, but not the Feel.

Wish, but not the Star.

He closed his eyes softly to the serene sound of a quiet afternoon. What a bore, he thought. There's nothing, nothing at all.

A scream rung out from outside his window, fluttering in with the rays of sunlight. 

It's time.