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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
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Everyday Canvas
"Failure is unimportant. It takes courage to make a fool of yourself."
CHARLIE CHAPLIN
Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness
to learn
anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive
is too small for you.
David Whyte
This is my supplementary blog in which I will post entries written for prompts.
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Prompt:
Have fun with this prompt: On your birthday, you miraculously survive a deadly car crash without a scratch. Later that week, you watch a small scratch heal and disappear right before your eyes. Where did this new power come from and what will you do with it?
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Reader beware: This is a short story, only in imagination. I have no such powers.
Powers
Oh, my God! All this began happening on my birthday, believe it or not! So, what I am going to tell you I take it as my birthday gift from powers that be. Here it goes:
I blinked, trying to make sense of the world around me. One moment, I had been driving home, singing along to the radio, and the next, I was upside down, hanging by my seatbelt in a mangled car. The airbag had deployed, the dashboard was a crumpled mess, and shards of glass glittered around me like malicious confetti.
Slowly, I unbuckled my seatbelt, landing awkwardly on the car's roof. I crawled out through the shattered window, expecting pain to surge through my body, but there was nothing. Not a single scratch or bruise marred my skin. I stood up, shaking, and saw people running towards me, their faces a mix of horror and relief.
"Are you alright?" a man yelled, his eyes wide with disbelief.
"Yeah," I replied, my voice trembling. "I think so."
Paramedics arrived and insisted on checking me over, finding nothing wrong. So they made me go to the hospital with them for a thorough check up. Guess what? Nothing was wrong. I was a miracle, the doctors and nurses said. A freak accident survivor without a mark. I didn't feel like a miracle. I felt numb and confused.
The days that followed were surreal. Friends and family hovered, their concern was obvious. My son kept fussing, convinced I was in shock and it would all hit me later. But I felt fine. Better than fine, actually. I felt... invincible.
Three days after the crash, I was at home, trying to get back to normal. I was making dinner when I accidentally nicked my finger with a knife. I winced, expecting blood, but what I saw stopped me cold. The cut was shallow, but as I watched, the skin knitted itself back together, the wound vanishing in seconds.
I stared at my finger, then at the knife, then back at my finger. Did that just happen? I cut myself again, just a small slice, and watched in stunned silence as it healed before my eyes.
I dropped the knife, my heart pounding. Was this some delayed reaction to the crash? A hallucination? I ran to the bathroom, searching for any other injuries I might have missed. Nothing. Not a single blemish or scar.
Over the next few days, I tested it repeatedly. Cuts, bruises, even a burn from the stove—all healed in moments. I was invincible. The realization was intoxicating and terrifying. I had survived a crash without a scratch and now, my body could heal itself instantly.
I didn't tell anyone. How could I? "Hey, Son, guess what? I'm like Wolverine now!" No, I kept it to myself, grappling with this new reality alone. But with this power came a sense of dread. Why had this happened to me? What was I supposed to do with this?
One afternoon, as I sat on my La-Z-Boy, staring at the healed scratch on my finger, a thought struck me. Maybe this wasn't just about survival. Maybe I was given this gift for a reason. To help others, to save lives. But first, I needed to understand it. To control it.
I took a deep breath, the weight of this new responsibility settling over me. Whatever this power was, it had chosen me. And I would not waste it.
So I picked up the phone and dialed.
"Could you tell me where I can volunteer to be a rescue worker, like a fireman or a paramedic?"
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